Warning: this narrative contains recollections of child abuse and torture. If you are uncomfortable with reading this content, please hit the “back” button now.
As an Alter, most of my childhood memory seems distant and sort of third-person. But the parts that I do remember have some fairly bleak moments. There are, of course, people with MPD whose life experiences are much worse than mine. So I suppose I should feel grateful that things were not worse than they actually were.
My father (or, more accurately, the original personality’s father) was a monster. He brought us into being for the sole purpose of dodging the Viet Nam draft. Once we were born and the Draft was discontinued, he resented our presence but could not be rid of us. He made us regret being born nearly every day of our lives.
My first verified instance of abuse occurred when we were 3 years old. My father took us into our grandfather’s basement and beat us unconscious. How many times he got away with that, we do not know. He stopped beating us in the basement when my grandfather found out about it. My regret is that our grandfather didn’t beat him up.
While I, as Indigo, have no memory of these beatings, it is corroborated by several other relatives. The result of the beatings is that we have had nightmares almost every night for 35 years. I did not overcome my abject fear of basements until age 27. I did not overcome my fear of the dark until age 29. I don’t think it is coincidental that Willow is 3 years old and carries a lightstick.
Our father’s hatred of us did not dissipate with time. He did, however, change his modus operandi. When I was diagnosed with astigmatism at age five, he completely flew into a rage over the fact that he would have to buy us glasses. We also had a severe speech impediment that made life hard for us, but caused “shame” for my father. He would never pass up a chance to ridicule us for the way we talked. His derision can only be described as savage. It was also ongoing and daily.
He also called us ugly. When my sister was born, he went out of his way to say on an ongoing basis how repulsive he thought I was versus how “perfect” he thought my sister was. He also equated my speech impediment with stupidity. I would not be until years later that I learned he crushed my sister’s spirit in a completely different way. Abuse is abuse, regardless of the method.
The normal person may not think of emotional abuse as being as “bad” as physical abuse, but it is bad. Physical abuse certainly hurts the body, but emotional abuse hurts the mind and spirit. It’s definitely an injury – just a different kind of injury.
My mother was an alcoholic who never stood up to my father. She let him berate us. She let him publicly humiliate us. She let him call us stupid, ugly, and worthless.
Another hallmark of my father’s parenting style was his cheapness towards my sister and me. He never owned less than 30 suits and never had less than a dozen pairs of shoes. He was one of the first people to own an electronic watch. He never bought cheap cars for himself. And yet, my sister and I would be forced to wear shoes we had outgrown, despite the fact that it hurt our feet. We had to wear clothes that fit poorly and had holes and stains. We seemed to never have socks. Personally, I never owned a spare pair of shoes until I was 19. At age 8, I accidentally broke my glasses (easy to do, since lenses were actually made of glass back then!) My father’s cheapness dictated that I would have to go through the entire third grade school year not being able to see properly. Our uncorrected vision is 20/200, which is rated as legally blind. I cannot stress enough that money was not the reason he didn’t get us glasses. His cheapness was just another form of displaying his abject contempt for us.
He was always cheap towards my sister and me when it came to anything medical. He wouldn’t take us to a dentist until the problem was very advanced. My sister almost lost a finger because he refused to take her to a physician concerning an infection from a minor injury; he waited until her finger had swollen to the size of a sausage and was turning black. My mom almost lost a leg in a motorcycling accident because he wouldn’t take her to a doctor. Anytime my sister or I got sick, he ignored it until we needed to go to a hospital emergency room. The thing to know is that the company he worked for offered health insurance, but he was simply too cheap to purchase it for anyone other than himself. He valued his money and his possessions. He considered my sister and I to be nothing more than parasites. He said as much in words – repeatedly.
Because of my severe speech impediment, I was frequently bullied at school. My monstrous father actually sided with the bullies. Even when I would get bullied with 5:1 odds, my father would castigate me as a “wimp” and praise the physical prowess of the thugs who harassed me. In short, my father never once backed me up, offered emotional support, or gave me an ounce of praise for anything I ever did. He loathed my presence and resented my existence. He made me pay for every day I lived.
Another thing that my father did to torture me was to never stop the car for restroom breaks when taking a long drive. I could be in absolute agony and he would not stop at a gas station or anywhere private. When I would reach the limit of my endurance, he would make me urinate on the side of the road where other people could see me. He would curse at us the entire time.
He had a vasectomy because he didn’t want any more “filthy animals”, in his words. Personally, I’m glad that he did.
Things really went to hell in a hand basket. My father and mother engaged in a ruthlessly vile divorce. Dad sent mom packing because of her alcoholism, while mom sued for divorce over the fact that dad was having an adulterous affair with a co-worker. They both used my sister and me as weapons against the other. The courts eventually “awarded” my sister to mom and me to my dad.
During the divorce proceedings, my mother met another man that she would later marry. He was a good man, and an honest blue collar worker. His daughter, unfortunately, was very ill with schizophrenia. I was sexually molested by his daughter, who was two years older than me and a good deal more aggressive. She was unstable and violent. In the end, my mother’s new boyfriend (who would later be her husband) had to have his daughter committed to a psychiatric hospital. By that time, the damage was done. I have no animosity towards the daughter. she was ill and could not control her actions. Likewise, her father was unaware of what she had done to me. I never told anyone. It did have the side effect of making me somewhat afraid of women.
When the courts put me in my father’s custody, I had thought that I would be at least taken out of a violent situation. I knew my father was hateful and cheap. He had not beaten me since we were three years old. But what I did not know then was just how bad things could get. I found out, however.
My father started shacking up full time with the woman he left my mother for. He then moved us about thousand miles away after taking a higher paying job out of state. He then left the woman he left my mother for.
After a two-month courtship, he married a dangerously disturbed woman who had already been married eight times before marrying my father. Even as a ten-year-old child, we could see that it was a disaster for my father to marry someone who drank, was violent, and had already been married so many times. She already had two children who were also deeply emotionally disturbed. I never blamed them for what they did to me; they were already damaged by her terrifying abuse. I did, however, blame my dad’s second wife for what she did to us. She really made me believe in the tangible existence of evil.
For the next 21 months, my life was a living hell. To this day, I am still missing huge chunks of memory of that time period. But what memory I can access is bad enough.
His second wife, whom we’ll refer to as “T”, had a totally different approach to humiliating her children and us (when compared to how dad would usually humiliate me.) To begin with, she had an odd obsession with food. Whoever ate the last of something would get beaten. It could be anything -- potato chips, cereal, bread, whatever. She would ration food for her two children and us. She called us “fat” and “greedy” consistently. We were hungry all the time because she just wouldn't give us as much food as we needed in order to be healthy. And yet to take more food than was rationed would result in getting slapped or punched in the face. To this day, I have a hard time throwing out empty boxes of food – especially cereal – because of the memories of being punched in the face for eating the last of something.
“T” would try to trick us sometimes. She would put food out for us and if we ate any of it, we would be hit or slapped. After a while, I learned how to steal for food from convenience stores. I hated being a thief. It was degrading and made me feel evil. I really felt worthless. I couldn't steal very much at once, so even with the petty shoplifting I was hungry most of the time. Fear and hunger -- these were the two sensations that dominated my existence for those two years.
I cannot overstate how much "T" hated me. She would even go so far as to drag me out onto the balcony of our third-floor flat, push me towards the railing, and scream, “Jump, you goddamned piece of shit!” She would often say how much happier she and dad would be if I were dead. I did actually want to be dead. I was just too cowardly to commit suicide. I knew I was a coward then -- I still am in some ways.
The thing to know about the beatings and humiliations is that my father knew it was going on. He liked to watch me be beaten and humiliated. I sometimes suspect that he got some sort of sexual arousal in seeing me beaten and humiliated. He took a genuine joy in my suffering. I can’t put into words how worthless I felt. I had nobody who gave a damn about me – nobody.
"T" had other ways to make us feel worthless as well. For example, would not let us sit on chairs or on the sofa. She considered us “dirty”. She let the dog sit on the couch, however – a hateful little beast named Bobo. She made a big deal over how "precious" the nasty little monster was in her estimation.
Another way she would humiliate us with food would be this: she would cook dinner for herself and for my father. They would eat at the dinner table while we would have to sit on the floor watching them eat. Then, when they would finish eating, they would hand the table scraps to “T”s two children. Whatever was left over from those two I would have. Sometimes her children would spit on the plate before handing it to me.
Dad encouraged “T”s emotionally disturbed children to hate me. He directly instructed them that I was a “wimp” and that I was “easy pickins”. So, not only did I get beaten by “T”, I also got tormented and beaten up by her two children. Again, I do not place any direct blame on them. They needed someone to hurt. They were, if anything, more emotionally damaged than I was. At the time, however, I lived every waking moment in fear.
I don't think I got more than six hours sleep for two years straight. Because I would fear attack by "T"s two children, I would lie awake until 1:00am most nights until I was sure they had gone to sleep. I would set the alarm for 6:00am so that I could shower and dress before they awakened. I made the mistake of not staying up late once. They took advantage of it by pissing on me.
I can’t say strongly enough that I had no “safe place” in my life. Because of my speech impediment, I was ruthlessly bullied at school. By this time, I had no physical prowess whatsoever. I did not know how to defend myself from bullies, and I lacked the stamina to do so even if I did have the skills to do so. At home, I was underfed, tortured, beaten, and humiliated. There was no one who loved me or cared about me. There was no one who wanted to protect me from harm. There was no one who valued my life. There was no one who would miss me when I was dead. The problem is that, in some important way, I did actually die. The original version of this body’s psyche died this year. From the wreckage, I, as Indigo, emerged. I was granted Thistle as a companion.
I do not know what happened on July 25, 1982. But that is the day that Thistle was given to this psyche and the day that the original personality died. I, as Indigo, became the dominant being.
The marriage between "T" and dad did finally end. He did not divorce her because of how she was treating me. Indeed, he approved of her parenting style. He left her because she emptied the checking account and then tried to stab him to death. I saw the stabbing take place. For better or worse, dad was not mortally wounded. There was a part of me that wished she had killed him. I blamed dad as much as I blamed her for what happened to me. By this time, I, as Indigo, existed and the original personality was gone. With the help of Thistle, I survived. I had become a living ghost, however.
So... how bad was it? When my father married this psychopath, this body weighed 112 pounds. By the time he divorced her, this body weighed 79 pounds. The body grew ¼ of one inch in height over the two year period.
Because of what happened in that two-year period of absolute hell, I have health problems at age 35 that most people don't get until their 50's. I've had to spend close to $10,000 on getting my teeth repaired thanks to the malnutrition.
May my father die horribly, in agony, and die alone. May it take a long time to die.
After the end of dad's second marriage, dad lost his job and became a useless drunk. He met up with a useless girlfriend with room-temperature I.Q. with two useless young kids. He collected unemployment until it ran out and then sponged off his parents (my grandparents) for another six months before he got his act together. The highlights of this particular year was getting an ear infection that dad was too cheap to get treated until I had to go to the hospital emergency room (for which dad castigated me for days because of the expense); the other "highlight" was when he tried to fondle my penis after asking whether I was developing pubic hair in a timely fashion. That memory still revolts me to this day.
He married another psychopath soon after jettisoning the intermediate bimbo. We'll call wife #3 simply "A". The difference with "A" was that she wasn't naturally mean and crazy; she had an undiagnosed brain tumour that slowly drove her mad. Still, I can tell you it was frightening to live with someone who was a registered nurse and who used to brag about how she could kill me in my sleep using drugs that would be undetectable in an autopsy. I spent many, many nights staying awake until I was sure she was asleep.
I think one long-running feature of my upbringing is that of fatigue. I was always tired because dad kept marrying people who threatened to harm me while I was asleep. So... I stayed awake late at night for years.
Like "T", she had a nasty, vicious dog that she adored more than life itself. This dog had the delightful habit of taking a dump on the carpet right after I took the damnable animal out for a 10-20 minute walk. I would get blamed for the animal's behaviour. Thankfully, this dog was old and died of natural causes two years into dad's third marriage.
During this time, I actually spent as little time as possible at home. I entered the work force at age 13. By working, I was able to afford new shoes and clothes. I worked at International House of Pancakes, which guaranteed that I would at least eat regularly. When I was 15, I got a job in a pharmacy (which paid better). My grades in high school were very poor because I had to work if I wanted to eat, and I had no desire to be at home. I think it was this period of disciplined, Spartan living that Ashen developed. I saved my money for two years and bought a motorcycle. I had a much greater degree of freedom after that.
Dad, being the classy individual that he was, chose this era to start haranguing me about my sexuality. Personally, I wasn't interested in women. I was in love with my best friend. I knew that it probably meant that I was gay, but I never dared act upon it until I was age 25. Meanwhile, as "A's" health deteriorated, dad took this opportunity to cheat on his sick wife with a 21-year-old bimbo from Hair Cuttery. After using her for a couple of months, he publicly threw her away, saying to all of his friends, "she's just lousy between the sheets!" Meanwhile, his wife was in the hospital facing a life-threatening brain tumour surgery. "A" did actually survive the surgery and promptly divorced dad after she recovered. I didn't blame her. I actually helped her move out so that she could start her new life as quickly as possible.
In high school, I had very few friends. I didn't actually want a lot of friends. I wanted to be emotionless. To a moderate extent, I was successful in crushing out my emotions.
A strange thing happened in 12th grade. Dad's attitude towards me changed. He started treating me like I was worth something. Although he never said that he loved me, he at least was non-hostile for the first time in my reckoning. I think it was because I had become something that he could understand: I spoke little, worked hard, spent little time at home, never asked him for money, got at least passing grades in school, and projected an appropriately "manly" aura thanks to my motorcycle and riding leathers. Maybe he had a smidgeon of guilt for what he had put me through, since he made me an offer that I lived to regret. He said that he would pay for my college if only I would work for him for three years after graduation. Like a fool, I agreed. But then, what choice did I have? I was nearly 18, and didn't make nearly enough money to live on my own. I felt that a college degree was the only way to go.
When I began college, dad married an emotionally, morally, and spiritually vacant woman whom we will call "W". She was cold, calculating, and shrewd. Unfortunately, she was also an alcoholic. Under her influence, dad started drinking again.
Halfway through my college years, I made the ghastly mistake of getting bad grades once. Of my eight semesters, I made a solid-B average for seven of those. In one semester, I just had a hard time and got mostly C's. "W" had the brilliant idea that dad should return the three birthday presents he was going to give me -- as a means of punishment for bad grades. My grades weren't even that bad. I wasn't put on academic probation because of them. They were simply lower that what I knew I could do.
The problem I was having in college is that my defence mechanisms were starting to break down. I had an incredibly difficult time sleeping. When I did sleep, I had nightmares. I could hear screaming within my mind. I could hardly concentrate. And my emotional deadness that I prided myself on had begun to erode. Ironically, it was the peace and safety of the college environment that probably triggered the beginning of the dissolution of my defences. But that was the first step in becoming integrated.
From the "bad grade" incident, dad's cold and sadistic demeanour returned. He also started drinking more heavily. By the time I graduated, I really didn't want to work for him for three years straight, but he had no intention of releasing me from our agreement, even through he made no effort to disguise how much he hated me.
My punishment was to live in abject poverty for three years. He calculated how much money I needed to pay my rent and eat. That's all I got paid -- period. I was worked 50-60 hours per week. I called in sick one time in three years and was reminded of that fact weekly for the next two years. As dad's drinking increased, the business began to fail. He blamed me for the failure of his business. His employees stopped tolerating his emotional outbursts, his paranoia, and his cheapness. When I begun working for him, he had a staff of fourteen. When I left, he had a staff of two (me, him, and one draftsman). What completed the ruination of his business was when he simply didn't show up for work for three months straight.
When dad closed the business, he stole every asset that the company still had and retired outside the country.
When my three years were up, I placed my two-weeks notice and left. I had only a part time job at first. I quickly learned about hunger and poverty. I also learned the hard way how phony the religious fundamentalists could be.
When I left my father's company (in both respects -- we haven't spoken to one another in over ten years), I had to juggle two part time jobs to make ends meet. They didn't really meet. In a very short time, my credit cards were maxed out. Then I got laid off from one of my two part time jobs. My father arranged to get my car stolen as part of his "revenge" before he left the country. There wasn't enough proof to press charges, but I know he did it. He told everyone who would listen that I was fired for incompetence. I couldn't get a job in the industry with which I was skilled because my father was relatively powerful -- financially and politically -- in the area of the state in which I lived.
I learned the hard way about the falseness and hypocrisy of the Religious "Right". I was working hard on trying to find a full-time job, but I was just about to lose my apartment for not being able to pay the rent. I had "friends" in the church who wouldn't give me a thin dime to keep afloat. My aunt and uncle said they'd rather me be homeless rather than let me move in with them until I got back on my feet. One friend of ten years disavowed me because he found out I was gay. Another friend disavowed me for three years because his new wife didn't like me. Another religious friend had previously offered to sell me their old car for $1,000 when I didn't need to buy it. After my car got stolen, they raised their price to $4,500. When I said that I couldn't afford it, they basically said, "that's too bad, but we have to get the best deal we can." My priest was dismissive, simply saying that God is "testing" me because I have a "lifestyle" problem. Most of my friends from college stopped talking to me (and to this day, they still don't -- but the feeling is at least mutual now).
My mom's second husband eventually gave me his spare car (for which I am greatful to this day) so that I could get to work at my part-time job. It was a terrible wreck of a vehicle. It had 250,000 miles on it, leaked oil, gas, and break fluid. But it was all he had to give. It was against my mom's wishes, since she disapproved of my "lifestyle". But then, it didn't surprise me that I wouldn't get help from family.
When I was a week from being cast out into the street, I decided to try to kill myself. I hadn't eaten anything in three days. I had lost about twenty pounds over a three month period because I simply didn't have enough to eat. My telephone had been cut off. My electricity was going to be cut off in a matter of days, and it was January.
This was the closest I ever came to succeeding. I took two aspirin so that my blood wouldn't clot well, ran my arms under warm water for a while, and cut my wrists with a pair of scissors. I bled for a while, but then cowarded-out. I still hate myself for being to cowardly to see the attempt through. Instead of letting myself die, I drove to the hospital to get the wounds repaired.
I tried to tell them it was an accident, but they didn't believe me. They detained me for psychiatric evaluation. It was then that a miracle happened. The evaluator was the mother of one of my childhood friends. She remembered me. Over the next hour or so, she asked how it could be that I was in such a sorry state of affairs. She got me out of the hospital, bought me groceries so that I could eat, and paid for my medicine. She is a lesbian; she and her partner got my phone turned back on and worked out a payment plan with the power company. Then the second miracle happened. A friend who had moved out-of-state sent me $500 so that I could pay my rent. He demanded that I never pay him back.
The ironic thing is that the my lesbian friends and my friend from New Jersey aren't Christians. And yet they exemplified everything good about the Christian ethos. The people who turned their back on me that touted their Christianity did nothing that exemplified the Christian ethos. The lesson I learned from this is that the Religious Right is composed of phoney, self-absorbed bigots that talk a great deal but fall painfully short when it comes to actions. The Religious "Right" have no problem in calling for others to make sacrifices, but won't part with a dime of their cash, a minute of their time, or an ounce of their food for the sake of someone in true need. The Religious "Right" is about hate and control, and nothing else. I learned that the Spirit of Christ can shine through people who don't know that they believe in Him, and frequently does. I learned that the more someone touts their Christianity, the less Christ-like they are likely to be.
I learned that God (YHVH) is a distant deity that isn't moved whatsoever by the suffering of His worshippers. The Christian God favors who He feels like favoring, but will treat others like a mean child treats his toys. I learned the hard way that YHVH isn't moved by my pleas for help.
A month later, my part-time job went full-time. I gradually got back on my feet with the help of my three friends. I literally owe them my life. From the phony Christian zealots, I never got so much as an apology. Oh, and I held that job for ten years. It was a grueling retail sales job with hard work and long hours, but I did it and I did it well. It wasn't until 2005 that I changed careers and got into law enforcement (which is actually LESS stressful than sales, har har).
By the next January, I was in counseling with a really good social worker that I could actually afford.
The amazing thing is that I found a counselor at a non-profit agency that actually had experience in dealing with dissociative disorders. For the price of $19/session, I saw a qualified counselor for five years. At first, I saw her twice a week. Then as I grew more stable, I saw her once per week, then once every other week. The last year I was in counseling, I saw her once once per month.
I think a big part of the healing process was just being able to talk about what happened and to actually be believed. She also used hypnosis on occasion to better enable the alters to speak. She didn't use that technique too often. Mostly, it was just talking to someone safe, in a safe environment. She helped me develop new ways of thinking and new mental disciplines.
The interesting thing about the integration process is that the Alters don't die. As the five years of therapy progressed, my core personality (or, in my case, the ghost core, as the original is deceased or missing) became a new whole that was built using the psychic energy of the Alters. But they still exist. Their thought processes function on a more subconscious level now, but the energy that makes them real still exists.
A good way of understanding the result of integration is to consider a brick wall that supports a house. The individual bricks are what gives strength to the wall. The wall exists because the bricks exists. The bricks, in my case, are the Alters, and the wall is the integrated super-personality that resulted from the integration process.
So... What are the benefits of integration?
I stopped stuttering. I used to have a bad speech impediment that decreased about 95% during the integration process. I only occasionally have trouble speaking now.
I stopped injuring myself on purpose. I used to take scissors and cut bloody lines into my arms -- sometimes every few days. I use a lancet now and it draws only a single drop of blood.
My nightmares have decreased. I have nightmares about once per week now instead of every night.
I have more willpower. While this is hard to quantify, I know that the psychic strength of the integrated super-personality is much greater than the sum of the Alters' psychic energy.
My creativity has increased. I've written a role-playing game and gotten two books published since the beginning of the integration process.
I can maintain a loving relationship. I was never able to maintain a long-term relationship prior to being integrated. My partner knows my past and is not afraid of me or the Alters that forms the integrated super-personality.
I don't lose time. I dissociate only a few times per year instead of a few times per week. I almost never wind up in places in which I have now idea how I got there.
I need less medicine. I used to be on a very strong anti-depressant and had to take it all year long. Now I take the minimal dose of a mid-level drug and that seems to work just fine.
I have a meaningful faith. Wicca is a loving faith and the Goddess is a loving deity. I recently got accepted as a member of a Wiccan Circle. Blessed Be!
Any drawbacks? There is only one. I used to have the ability to dissociate pain. Now if something hurts, I feel it. If I'm hungry, I have to eat. All in all, it's not a bad trade-off.
Some of my less-religious friends have returned now that I am whole. The religious zealots who abandoned me in my time of need never accepted me after my recovery. That's okay, since what good is a friend you can't trust? And I certainly will never trust someone who speaks in tongues and owns ten Bibles placed strategically around their home.
I still believe in God (in this case, the Goddess), but in my opinion the Church is just a non-profit political agency that espouses hate and fear. Does God believe in me? Well, YHVH still resents the fact that we didn't commit suicide. But when I pray to the Goddess, I feel loved.
But I have a home. I have a partner that I love very much, and who loves me very much. I have a core group of friends who like me and respect me. My body is reasonably healthy. I've gotten most of my teeth fixed. I have a steady job (in law enforcement, believe it or not!)
All in all, life is pretty good.