Ever wonder about HOPE? What is it? How do we get it? How do we revive it, if it is lost? On April 3, 2011, I was the speaker at the Georgia Mountains Unitarian Universalist Church in Dahlonega, GA. Before leading the meditation and giving my presentation on my book, ALL TOGETHER NOW, A MULTIPLE'S STORY OF HOPE & HEALING, I read a quote sent to me by a friend who is a gardener: "April is about getting out of the house and on to the land. It is about sewing seeds of new dreams, hopes and promises of seasons yet to come. April is for Hope!"
My experiences during childhood caused me to lose hope many times. I hoped for a better family; I hoped that the God of my understanding would realize he'd made a mistake and come to get me and put me in the right family. It was a child's plea. But it symbolizes the vast level of hope with which I was born.
It is innate in me to survive and ultimately thrive. But I had to make a commitment to myself. I promised I would do whatever it took - go wherever I had to go - to find sanity and serenity out of the madness I experienced within my family's walls. I promised my inner children that I would protect them from harm, love them and help them grow in healthy ways.
Many times during my recovery, I have doubted my progress, but I followed the encouragement of support people, therapists and that deep sense of hope that things would be better. Sometimes life seemed bleak. Sometimes painful. But hope lead me out of the darkness.
All Together Now, A Multiple's Story of Hope & Healing
$
27.00
In All Together Now, A Multiple’s Story of Hope & Healing, you
will read about the experiences deJoly had as a captive in a dysfunctional Marine Corps family… a family that was bound together by abuse, secrecy and mistrust. See, as has never before been disclosed, the details of ritual murder and satanic chants. Undergo the courageous healing journey deJoly struck out on in order to come to a sense of wholeness, forgiveness and joy. Take examples of methods deJoly used allowing her fifty-plus alter personalities to tell their stories. Marvel at the care and nurturing deJoly gave to each of them in order to develop trust and closure.
You will be moved to shout “Hur-rah!” for deJoly’s recovery of her Self and to take action regarding the care of all the children in your life.
will read about the experiences deJoly had as a captive in a dysfunctional Marine Corps family… a family that was bound together by abuse, secrecy and mistrust. See, as has never before been disclosed, the details of ritual murder and satanic chants. Undergo the courageous healing journey deJoly struck out on in order to come to a sense of wholeness, forgiveness and joy. Take examples of methods deJoly used allowing her fifty-plus alter personalities to tell their stories. Marvel at the care and nurturing deJoly gave to each of them in order to develop trust and closure.
You will be moved to shout “Hur-rah!” for deJoly’s recovery of her Self and to take action regarding the care of all the children in your life.
Diary of a Survivor in Art & Poetry
$
15.00
Diary of a Survivor in Art and Poetry is the result of many of deJoly’s alter perrsonalities writings.They expressed themselves in a variety of ways during the discovery and recovery part of her process.Some drew pictures with crayons and others were more sophisticated, using acrylics and watercolors.
It tells the story of horrid and vicious crimes perpetrated against a young child…from being passed around among the Marine Corps servicemen with whom my father associated, to satanic rituals where murder was a common event.
Diary of a Survivor in Art and Poetry was compiled and written after I attended a Ritual Abuse Conference in Atlanta, Georgia in 1997. Speakers at the conference urged those of us who had direct experience with these crimes to come forward and write our stories.
Now you can come into the sordid world of cult ritual abuse and child prostitution. Understand that the pictures and poems you see are strictly the experiences of a child split into multiple personalities, and cannot be generalized to be the experience of everyone who splits.
This book is only available as a downloadable file in pdf format on a CD.
It tells the story of horrid and vicious crimes perpetrated against a young child…from being passed around among the Marine Corps servicemen with whom my father associated, to satanic rituals where murder was a common event.
Diary of a Survivor in Art and Poetry was compiled and written after I attended a Ritual Abuse Conference in Atlanta, Georgia in 1997. Speakers at the conference urged those of us who had direct experience with these crimes to come forward and write our stories.
Now you can come into the sordid world of cult ritual abuse and child prostitution. Understand that the pictures and poems you see are strictly the experiences of a child split into multiple personalities, and cannot be generalized to be the experience of everyone who splits.
This book is only available as a downloadable file in pdf format on a CD.
Excerpt from All Together Now
Following is an excerpt from my All Together Now. Please note that italics are used for inside conversations that can't be heard by outsiders, and BOLD is used to indicate the name of an alter personality
CHAPTER 1
Checking In To River Oaks Psychiatric Hospital
The first night, my body bled. When the heavy glass door of the psych ward closed behind me that evening, I actually wanted to check in. The attendant, who seemed to
float in a fishbowl behind a thick glass window, pushed a small red button and the lock clicked. I was in. They were out. I was safe. This was the first time I’d been to a psychiatric hospital, let alone checked myself in. I wanted Tim to leave. I wanted him to stay. I wanted to get on with it, but I felt an undertow, as well. I feared they’d tell me I couldn’t leave – that this was a “special place” for people like me.
**********
The quiet room is calming – pastel floral paintings hang on the walls, fresh gardenias rest in a clear glass bowl on the smoky glass table. I slump into a plush velour chair (“not the cold vinyl and chrome chairs of the doctors’ offices,” I think). The clerk is expecting us this beautiful fall after-noon. Tim brought me here to New Orleans from Florida where we were married two years earlier on the white, sandy beach of Anna Maria Island. He protects me. I know that’s why he brought me here. I know my therapist, Lisa, wants me to be safe.
“Welcome to River Oaks Psychiatric Hospital,” the social worker says. She asks me to sign a stack of admission forms. She says they’ll check with Lisa on the history of my therapy. “Do you give us permission for us to treat you?”
“Yes,” I mumble. “Of course I do,” a part says. “But no drugs. That’s my rule. No drugs.[1]
The faded red brick buildings are set amid lofty live oaks draped with Spanish moss. Not far from the hospital, a swamp lurks, steamy, home for alligators, snakes and birds. Beyond the swamp, a river carries noisy ships to the ports of New Orleans.
“We hope you’ll feel safe here,” she continues. “We’ll do all we can to help you feel comfortable. Do you have any questions?”
“This is voluntary, you know,” I say. “You aren’t going to throw away the key on me, are you? I can leave anytime I want to, right?”
“Sure you can.” The intake worker ushers me to the wing of the hospital where patients with a history of sexual abuse are treated. “They’ll want to ask you some questions,” she says. “We’ll show you to your room. You can put your things in there. No sharps though. No electrical appliances or belts. It’s for your safety and the safety of
others. You understand, don’t you? Other than that, you’re free to have whatever you need.”
Shit, she’s looking through my bathroom bag. It’s hard to concentrate on what they’re saying.[2]My mind keeps switching to different parts of me. Everyone be quiet! says Competent One. She just wants to look in our bag.
Well, we don’t have any razors anymore, says deJo’Lee. Nope, not since you caught me cutting my legs.
That’s right, Competent One continues. Now, see, she isn’t hurting anything. I give them my hair dryer and a belt, and they’re finally sure I have nothing that could be used to harm myself or anyone else on the unit.
It’s a short walk to where I’m staying. The intake worker, psychiatric nurse, and support staff hover around me. Do they treat everyone this way? Butch says. Do they think I’m really weird? Who cares! They can all go to hell if they think they’re better than me.
“You’re OK,” an attendant says. “Now you can go to your room. Dinner’s just an hour from now. But your husband will have to leave.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Tim cry. It’s because of our relationship that I sought therapy in the first place. I feel disconnected from him – unable to be intimate and share my deepest secrets, unable to tell him what’s going on inside me. I’m disconnected from myself, from my feelings. I want to feel the love I say I have for him. I want passion in my life. The closer I get to this intimacy, the more flashbacks I have of my father raping me. When I began to break under the stress of keeping my secrets, I found Lisa,
a perceptive, loving and nurturing therapist. She sees how depressed I am, even when I don’t. Lisa helped get me admitted into River Oaks.
“I’m so sorry I have to leave you here,” Tim says as he holds me tight. “I wish I could make it all better right now. I wish they’d never done those awful things to you.”
“It’s all right. I have to do this on my own,” I say. “Just come and get me when it’s over, will you?” Tim hugs and kisses me, and I turn toward the nurses’ station.
For the past month or so, I’ve been losing where I am in time again. I use all my willpower and concentration to put hours – days – back into place, to know where I’ve been or what I’ve done. I’m usually successful, but each day I fear that this day I won’t remember anything. I feel safe here. They can’t get me here. No one can get me here.
I slide into the chair outside the unit nurses’ station. The nurse loops the blood pressure cuff around my arm. As it tightens, I feel my pressure rise. She sticks a thermometer in my mouth and talks to divert my attention from what she’s doing.
“You have an appointment with the doctor tomorrow for a physical,” she says. “We’ll be sure you know where and when.”
“He won’t be taking any blood or doing a pelvic, will he?” I ask, jerking the thermometer from my mouth. Why does it have to be a man anyway?
“You’ll be fine. We promise we aren’t here to hurt you,” the gentle middle-aged woman says peering over her glasses. “You’re safe.”
That’s reassuring! If I don’t feel safe for some reason, I’ll be my own advocate and leave if I want to.
The intake worker hands me a sheaf of questionnaires and tests: “We need for you to answer these questions and finish these tests before your appointment with your therapist tomorrow, okay? Can we have a contract with you that you won’t hurt yourself with the pencil?”
“Sure,” I nod.
“Okay, then you can find a spot in the great room to fill them out.”
People are milling around in the great room. Where can I go? Wish it was time for supper. Hope they tell me where to get something to eat. Sure is a long test. No wonder they said it would take several hours to complete, it’s really three tests.
We sit at a large rectangular wooden table near a wall, out of the way. Well, is everyone ready to fill this thing out? I ask my inside parts who wants to help with this task. Go for it! Who’s going to answer this one on interests? What about mechanical stuff? What do we like to read? Shit! This is fucked! You only get one chance here gang. I’m not sitting here all day while you make up your minds. Who wants the pencil first?
"I do!” says Competent One. I shift the pencil to my left hand.[3] “Let’s see, I know it’s October 1990, and I know what state I’m in.”
"Yeah, the state of confusion!” blurts Butch.
That’s enough! I can’t concentrate if you all don’t take turns like you usually do. We can do this. I know we can. You’ll all get your chance. So let’s go. We only have an hour before dinner. Maybe we can get a good start on all this before we eat.
The forms ask my age, place of birth, where I live, my purpose in coming to River Oaks, and my health history. One of the tests wants me to choose between two occupations in a long list of categories. Guess they’re going to tell me what I want to be when we grow up. We can all answer this one! The last test is a blur. My inside parts take over and answer it for me because I’m tired and we just want to get it done.
All right! It’s time for dinner. Just follow the crowd to the cafeteria. They look like they know what they’re doing.
“You can have anything you want – as much as you want. You have to eat,” says the woman sitting across from me. “It isn’t good to not eat. We watch out for each other here.”
Sitting in the cafeteria is like sitting in a foreign land. They talk about stuff I can’t relate to. That’s nothing new . . .
Well, dinner was pretty good. And we got chocolate milk. That was good. The servers were pretty nice…kept trying to get me to eat more. Now we have to finish this test. But I’m so tired. It was a long drive from Florida. I need to lie down. There’s a meeting tonight though. I hope I can go to bed right after the meeting.
“Sure, you can go to bed anytime you want,” the staff nurse assures me. “Are you feeling all right? Do you need anything? If you need anything in the night, there’s always staff available to talk.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.” I make my way to my bedroom on the west wing. My roommate is already in bed. She’s had a rough day.
Good, the bed is small. Safe. No one can slip in with me. There isn’t room. The staff will be watching out for me too. They won’t let anyone get me. I can sleep now.
1:12 AM. Gotta pee. What’s this? Blood? I must have accidentally cut myself on something. Maybe a pimple on my butt. I can’t get back to sleep. I’ll go to the great room and take a closer look at this blood. I tiptoe out of the room so as not to wake my roommate. I make my way to the great room. If patients can’t sleep, the path around the outside perimeter of the room is for walking.
My God! Shit! What happened? Where did all this blood come from? I can’t be bleeding from my vagina! I’ve had a hysterectomy! There shouldn’t be blood down there.
I’ll get a nurse to check me out.
“Is there a pimple on my butt that looks like it popped on my nightgown?” I ask.
“No,” the nurse searches for the source of the blood.
“Shit. How could this happen?” I ask, disbelieving.
“It happens all the time,” she assures me. “When you truly feel safe, your body sometimes reacts at a very deep level to the pain that was inflicted on you as a child. It releases blood or tears or screams from cells that were scared and closed down when the trauma occurred. They’re called body memories. They’re real. You’re not crazy. It looks like your work here has already started. Let’s clean you up and change your sheets. Maybe you’ll be able to go back to sleep in a while. Do you have another nightgown? Do you think you’d like something to help you sleep?”
“No,” I say.
“OK. But if you need anything, let me know,” she says as she looks at my chart.
No drugs. That’s my rule. “I’m sure I’ll sleep fine...” I say as I walk toward my room. They don’t know what it’s like inside me. No drugs.
**********
I heard a patient screaming in the quiet room last night. Her name is Tara. They keep her there because she can’t be reached. She screams all night. So much abuse. She can’t be touched. Can’t take drugs. Several mattresses cover the floor. The staff takes shifts sitting in the doorway of a darkened room, watching Tara toss and turn and scream. River Oaks treats patients other hospitals aren’t skilled to treat. Maybe soon she’ll be able to go see her therapist. Maybe her therapist will come to her. I hope so. Listening to her is so painful. She’s helplessly tossing and turning with all the pain she’s re-experiencing.
**********
Today I see Tracey. Nice name. They say she’s really good too. Hope so. I need some relief. Can’t sleep. I keep waking up around midnight. No drugs. It’s a rule for me. I have to be in control of my body and mind at all times. No drugs.
Tracey says I’m chronically depressed and that I have a chemical imbalance because of it. Or was it the other way around? Another case of the chicken or the egg. She suggests I start taking Prozac. She says it isn’t addictive. I have to trust Tracey. Guess I’ll do it. Ginger needs it. Hypo wants it.
My switching speeds up within the first twenty-four hours of getting to River Oaks. Since early childhood, I’ve worked hard to make my switching unnoticeable to other people. While my outside world has been lonely and empty, relationships developed among some of my parts, forming a “system” of alter personalities. Each new painful experience created new parts more real than the people I knew outside of me. Personalities were forced into being – some exploded into my life. Each has a name and a specific job, and some have missions. having a reason for existing is how we cope.
**********
The session with Tracey leaves us needing to vent emotions and tell the story. We look for crayons and drawing paper, a familiar method we’ve used in the past to tell what happened to us at home.
“Sure we have crayons,” says the staff attendant. “Here’s some paper too. Do you need to talk?”
“No.” Just leave me alone. I just want to be alone.
I sit in a small room just off the great room at a table with drawing paper and some art supplies. My insides like drawing and coloring.
Okay. We have lots of work to do. No one should bother us here. Okay, I’ve got the crayons in both hands. What colors do you need, Little Jody? We have them all... The crayons are too small in my hands…Why are you drawing that, Chosen One? What kind of sword is that? My throat throbs and my hands shake as my parts continue drawing. I’m feeling anxious and fearful. We can tell Tracey about this tomorrow. She’s safe. We like her. She has a nice Southern voice. I know I’m safe with Tracey.
I brought the watercolors from Florida too, if you need those, Nature Girl… Why don’t you paint your favorite place, Sweetie Pie? Yeah, you feel safe in that candy shop don’t you? Now you all can draw your safe places. Somewhere to go when you’re feeling scared. Where no one will get you. Why do you draw eyes in everything, Little
One?
‘Cause they’re always watching me. They know what we think. They’re everywhere.
Who’s everywhere?
You know… Them…
Yeah, this is the first time I haven’t felt like they were watching us. There must be some sort of electronic device around this building that’s keeping them from getting through. I’ll bet they’re mad that they can’t get to us. Hope it’s strong enough to last the whole thirty days we’re going to be here.
Where’d that knife come from? Why are you drawing something like that, Jody (cult)? Looks kind of military. Like in those survival movies, ‘Rambo’ style.
Yeah. They used it on me. But I don’t remember why, said Jody (cult). Anyone remember?
"It’s something about the cave. Firelight," says Druggie.
I want to paint my safe place, says Nature Girl (25).[4]These knife things give me the willies. Too violent. My safe place is on a clearing above a beautiful deep canyon. My long black hair blows in the wind, as I look out over the canyon at dawn. There are flowers all around and TuTu is sitting on the rocks near me, his soft polyester belly just waiting to be held in my arms. He feels safe with me in the clearing too.
"That stuffed animal goes everywhere with you,” the Social Worker’s voice breaks the silence from behind me. “Is he your favorite?
“His name is TuTu. I’ve had him for a long time.”
Who said you could interrupt me? Us? Go away!! Time to close up shop, Gang. Maybe we’ll do this again later, when no one is around.
“My, what an interesting painting,” the Social Worker continues, unaware of the shock to our system she has created. “And that one is so pretty. Are you an artist?”
We quickly fold up the paper, grab the crayons and head for the safety of our room.
**********
Affirmation: I chose this path of Discovery and Recovery. I am doing the work I need to do in order to heal. I must always keep in mind that there are people in the world who will not harm me. In fact, they want to aid my healing process.
***********
1 Italics signify inside voices or parts, my “insides.” The use of italics indicates “switching,” a term used to describe the unconscious process of changing my physical appearance, my emotional make-up, my mental capacity, my sex, and/or my sexual orientation. While this part is not named, I have indicated all others in bold. Quotation
marks indicate voices others can hear.
2 Internal “switching” speeds up under stress and frequently gets very loud and chaotic inside.
3 During the early stages of my personal search, I learned from a self-help book that in order to by-pass the censors in the brain which act as monitors of what is revealed, I could write with my non-dominant hand. This process allows alters to write unimpeded by my logical mind.
4 My system identifies this alter as Nature Girl (25). The (25) indicates how old she is in comparison to another alter named Nature Girl (3). If the (25) or the (3) is removed these alters don’t know who you’re talking to.
CHAPTER 1
Checking In To River Oaks Psychiatric Hospital
The first night, my body bled. When the heavy glass door of the psych ward closed behind me that evening, I actually wanted to check in. The attendant, who seemed to
float in a fishbowl behind a thick glass window, pushed a small red button and the lock clicked. I was in. They were out. I was safe. This was the first time I’d been to a psychiatric hospital, let alone checked myself in. I wanted Tim to leave. I wanted him to stay. I wanted to get on with it, but I felt an undertow, as well. I feared they’d tell me I couldn’t leave – that this was a “special place” for people like me.
**********
The quiet room is calming – pastel floral paintings hang on the walls, fresh gardenias rest in a clear glass bowl on the smoky glass table. I slump into a plush velour chair (“not the cold vinyl and chrome chairs of the doctors’ offices,” I think). The clerk is expecting us this beautiful fall after-noon. Tim brought me here to New Orleans from Florida where we were married two years earlier on the white, sandy beach of Anna Maria Island. He protects me. I know that’s why he brought me here. I know my therapist, Lisa, wants me to be safe.
“Welcome to River Oaks Psychiatric Hospital,” the social worker says. She asks me to sign a stack of admission forms. She says they’ll check with Lisa on the history of my therapy. “Do you give us permission for us to treat you?”
“Yes,” I mumble. “Of course I do,” a part says. “But no drugs. That’s my rule. No drugs.[1]
The faded red brick buildings are set amid lofty live oaks draped with Spanish moss. Not far from the hospital, a swamp lurks, steamy, home for alligators, snakes and birds. Beyond the swamp, a river carries noisy ships to the ports of New Orleans.
“We hope you’ll feel safe here,” she continues. “We’ll do all we can to help you feel comfortable. Do you have any questions?”
“This is voluntary, you know,” I say. “You aren’t going to throw away the key on me, are you? I can leave anytime I want to, right?”
“Sure you can.” The intake worker ushers me to the wing of the hospital where patients with a history of sexual abuse are treated. “They’ll want to ask you some questions,” she says. “We’ll show you to your room. You can put your things in there. No sharps though. No electrical appliances or belts. It’s for your safety and the safety of
others. You understand, don’t you? Other than that, you’re free to have whatever you need.”
Shit, she’s looking through my bathroom bag. It’s hard to concentrate on what they’re saying.[2]My mind keeps switching to different parts of me. Everyone be quiet! says Competent One. She just wants to look in our bag.
Well, we don’t have any razors anymore, says deJo’Lee. Nope, not since you caught me cutting my legs.
That’s right, Competent One continues. Now, see, she isn’t hurting anything. I give them my hair dryer and a belt, and they’re finally sure I have nothing that could be used to harm myself or anyone else on the unit.
It’s a short walk to where I’m staying. The intake worker, psychiatric nurse, and support staff hover around me. Do they treat everyone this way? Butch says. Do they think I’m really weird? Who cares! They can all go to hell if they think they’re better than me.
“You’re OK,” an attendant says. “Now you can go to your room. Dinner’s just an hour from now. But your husband will have to leave.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Tim cry. It’s because of our relationship that I sought therapy in the first place. I feel disconnected from him – unable to be intimate and share my deepest secrets, unable to tell him what’s going on inside me. I’m disconnected from myself, from my feelings. I want to feel the love I say I have for him. I want passion in my life. The closer I get to this intimacy, the more flashbacks I have of my father raping me. When I began to break under the stress of keeping my secrets, I found Lisa,
a perceptive, loving and nurturing therapist. She sees how depressed I am, even when I don’t. Lisa helped get me admitted into River Oaks.
“I’m so sorry I have to leave you here,” Tim says as he holds me tight. “I wish I could make it all better right now. I wish they’d never done those awful things to you.”
“It’s all right. I have to do this on my own,” I say. “Just come and get me when it’s over, will you?” Tim hugs and kisses me, and I turn toward the nurses’ station.
For the past month or so, I’ve been losing where I am in time again. I use all my willpower and concentration to put hours – days – back into place, to know where I’ve been or what I’ve done. I’m usually successful, but each day I fear that this day I won’t remember anything. I feel safe here. They can’t get me here. No one can get me here.
I slide into the chair outside the unit nurses’ station. The nurse loops the blood pressure cuff around my arm. As it tightens, I feel my pressure rise. She sticks a thermometer in my mouth and talks to divert my attention from what she’s doing.
“You have an appointment with the doctor tomorrow for a physical,” she says. “We’ll be sure you know where and when.”
“He won’t be taking any blood or doing a pelvic, will he?” I ask, jerking the thermometer from my mouth. Why does it have to be a man anyway?
“You’ll be fine. We promise we aren’t here to hurt you,” the gentle middle-aged woman says peering over her glasses. “You’re safe.”
That’s reassuring! If I don’t feel safe for some reason, I’ll be my own advocate and leave if I want to.
The intake worker hands me a sheaf of questionnaires and tests: “We need for you to answer these questions and finish these tests before your appointment with your therapist tomorrow, okay? Can we have a contract with you that you won’t hurt yourself with the pencil?”
“Sure,” I nod.
“Okay, then you can find a spot in the great room to fill them out.”
People are milling around in the great room. Where can I go? Wish it was time for supper. Hope they tell me where to get something to eat. Sure is a long test. No wonder they said it would take several hours to complete, it’s really three tests.
We sit at a large rectangular wooden table near a wall, out of the way. Well, is everyone ready to fill this thing out? I ask my inside parts who wants to help with this task. Go for it! Who’s going to answer this one on interests? What about mechanical stuff? What do we like to read? Shit! This is fucked! You only get one chance here gang. I’m not sitting here all day while you make up your minds. Who wants the pencil first?
"I do!” says Competent One. I shift the pencil to my left hand.[3] “Let’s see, I know it’s October 1990, and I know what state I’m in.”
"Yeah, the state of confusion!” blurts Butch.
That’s enough! I can’t concentrate if you all don’t take turns like you usually do. We can do this. I know we can. You’ll all get your chance. So let’s go. We only have an hour before dinner. Maybe we can get a good start on all this before we eat.
The forms ask my age, place of birth, where I live, my purpose in coming to River Oaks, and my health history. One of the tests wants me to choose between two occupations in a long list of categories. Guess they’re going to tell me what I want to be when we grow up. We can all answer this one! The last test is a blur. My inside parts take over and answer it for me because I’m tired and we just want to get it done.
All right! It’s time for dinner. Just follow the crowd to the cafeteria. They look like they know what they’re doing.
“You can have anything you want – as much as you want. You have to eat,” says the woman sitting across from me. “It isn’t good to not eat. We watch out for each other here.”
Sitting in the cafeteria is like sitting in a foreign land. They talk about stuff I can’t relate to. That’s nothing new . . .
Well, dinner was pretty good. And we got chocolate milk. That was good. The servers were pretty nice…kept trying to get me to eat more. Now we have to finish this test. But I’m so tired. It was a long drive from Florida. I need to lie down. There’s a meeting tonight though. I hope I can go to bed right after the meeting.
“Sure, you can go to bed anytime you want,” the staff nurse assures me. “Are you feeling all right? Do you need anything? If you need anything in the night, there’s always staff available to talk.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.” I make my way to my bedroom on the west wing. My roommate is already in bed. She’s had a rough day.
Good, the bed is small. Safe. No one can slip in with me. There isn’t room. The staff will be watching out for me too. They won’t let anyone get me. I can sleep now.
1:12 AM. Gotta pee. What’s this? Blood? I must have accidentally cut myself on something. Maybe a pimple on my butt. I can’t get back to sleep. I’ll go to the great room and take a closer look at this blood. I tiptoe out of the room so as not to wake my roommate. I make my way to the great room. If patients can’t sleep, the path around the outside perimeter of the room is for walking.
My God! Shit! What happened? Where did all this blood come from? I can’t be bleeding from my vagina! I’ve had a hysterectomy! There shouldn’t be blood down there.
I’ll get a nurse to check me out.
“Is there a pimple on my butt that looks like it popped on my nightgown?” I ask.
“No,” the nurse searches for the source of the blood.
“Shit. How could this happen?” I ask, disbelieving.
“It happens all the time,” she assures me. “When you truly feel safe, your body sometimes reacts at a very deep level to the pain that was inflicted on you as a child. It releases blood or tears or screams from cells that were scared and closed down when the trauma occurred. They’re called body memories. They’re real. You’re not crazy. It looks like your work here has already started. Let’s clean you up and change your sheets. Maybe you’ll be able to go back to sleep in a while. Do you have another nightgown? Do you think you’d like something to help you sleep?”
“No,” I say.
“OK. But if you need anything, let me know,” she says as she looks at my chart.
No drugs. That’s my rule. “I’m sure I’ll sleep fine...” I say as I walk toward my room. They don’t know what it’s like inside me. No drugs.
**********
I heard a patient screaming in the quiet room last night. Her name is Tara. They keep her there because she can’t be reached. She screams all night. So much abuse. She can’t be touched. Can’t take drugs. Several mattresses cover the floor. The staff takes shifts sitting in the doorway of a darkened room, watching Tara toss and turn and scream. River Oaks treats patients other hospitals aren’t skilled to treat. Maybe soon she’ll be able to go see her therapist. Maybe her therapist will come to her. I hope so. Listening to her is so painful. She’s helplessly tossing and turning with all the pain she’s re-experiencing.
**********
Today I see Tracey. Nice name. They say she’s really good too. Hope so. I need some relief. Can’t sleep. I keep waking up around midnight. No drugs. It’s a rule for me. I have to be in control of my body and mind at all times. No drugs.
Tracey says I’m chronically depressed and that I have a chemical imbalance because of it. Or was it the other way around? Another case of the chicken or the egg. She suggests I start taking Prozac. She says it isn’t addictive. I have to trust Tracey. Guess I’ll do it. Ginger needs it. Hypo wants it.
My switching speeds up within the first twenty-four hours of getting to River Oaks. Since early childhood, I’ve worked hard to make my switching unnoticeable to other people. While my outside world has been lonely and empty, relationships developed among some of my parts, forming a “system” of alter personalities. Each new painful experience created new parts more real than the people I knew outside of me. Personalities were forced into being – some exploded into my life. Each has a name and a specific job, and some have missions. having a reason for existing is how we cope.
**********
The session with Tracey leaves us needing to vent emotions and tell the story. We look for crayons and drawing paper, a familiar method we’ve used in the past to tell what happened to us at home.
“Sure we have crayons,” says the staff attendant. “Here’s some paper too. Do you need to talk?”
“No.” Just leave me alone. I just want to be alone.
I sit in a small room just off the great room at a table with drawing paper and some art supplies. My insides like drawing and coloring.
Okay. We have lots of work to do. No one should bother us here. Okay, I’ve got the crayons in both hands. What colors do you need, Little Jody? We have them all... The crayons are too small in my hands…Why are you drawing that, Chosen One? What kind of sword is that? My throat throbs and my hands shake as my parts continue drawing. I’m feeling anxious and fearful. We can tell Tracey about this tomorrow. She’s safe. We like her. She has a nice Southern voice. I know I’m safe with Tracey.
I brought the watercolors from Florida too, if you need those, Nature Girl… Why don’t you paint your favorite place, Sweetie Pie? Yeah, you feel safe in that candy shop don’t you? Now you all can draw your safe places. Somewhere to go when you’re feeling scared. Where no one will get you. Why do you draw eyes in everything, Little
One?
‘Cause they’re always watching me. They know what we think. They’re everywhere.
Who’s everywhere?
You know… Them…
Yeah, this is the first time I haven’t felt like they were watching us. There must be some sort of electronic device around this building that’s keeping them from getting through. I’ll bet they’re mad that they can’t get to us. Hope it’s strong enough to last the whole thirty days we’re going to be here.
Where’d that knife come from? Why are you drawing something like that, Jody (cult)? Looks kind of military. Like in those survival movies, ‘Rambo’ style.
Yeah. They used it on me. But I don’t remember why, said Jody (cult). Anyone remember?
"It’s something about the cave. Firelight," says Druggie.
I want to paint my safe place, says Nature Girl (25).[4]These knife things give me the willies. Too violent. My safe place is on a clearing above a beautiful deep canyon. My long black hair blows in the wind, as I look out over the canyon at dawn. There are flowers all around and TuTu is sitting on the rocks near me, his soft polyester belly just waiting to be held in my arms. He feels safe with me in the clearing too.
"That stuffed animal goes everywhere with you,” the Social Worker’s voice breaks the silence from behind me. “Is he your favorite?
“His name is TuTu. I’ve had him for a long time.”
Who said you could interrupt me? Us? Go away!! Time to close up shop, Gang. Maybe we’ll do this again later, when no one is around.
“My, what an interesting painting,” the Social Worker continues, unaware of the shock to our system she has created. “And that one is so pretty. Are you an artist?”
We quickly fold up the paper, grab the crayons and head for the safety of our room.
**********
Affirmation: I chose this path of Discovery and Recovery. I am doing the work I need to do in order to heal. I must always keep in mind that there are people in the world who will not harm me. In fact, they want to aid my healing process.
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1 Italics signify inside voices or parts, my “insides.” The use of italics indicates “switching,” a term used to describe the unconscious process of changing my physical appearance, my emotional make-up, my mental capacity, my sex, and/or my sexual orientation. While this part is not named, I have indicated all others in bold. Quotation
marks indicate voices others can hear.
2 Internal “switching” speeds up under stress and frequently gets very loud and chaotic inside.
3 During the early stages of my personal search, I learned from a self-help book that in order to by-pass the censors in the brain which act as monitors of what is revealed, I could write with my non-dominant hand. This process allows alters to write unimpeded by my logical mind.
4 My system identifies this alter as Nature Girl (25). The (25) indicates how old she is in comparison to another alter named Nature Girl (3). If the (25) or the (3) is removed these alters don’t know who you’re talking to.