The Magic Bus

Nathaniel's Birth Story

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 22:48:00 +0000

I found this accounting while searching posts on LiveJournal today. Just felt like reposting my 2nd kid's birth story for posterity. :)

Sorry, Nate!

I was one week overdue when my doctor decided to induce labor. I had gestational diabetes, and as he was going out of town in a few days, he didn't want to leave me to a back-up doctor.

Jack and I went to the hospital at 12:00 midnight on 8/22/90. They were very busy, so we had to wait until 2:00 a.m. to get a room.

I changed into a gown and a nurse (Debbie) put the EFM (external fetal monitor) on me. After taking some info and goinf over my birth plan (we discussed how things had to be different due to the induction), she tried to start an IV for the Pitocin. On the fourth try, she made it. In actuality, she realized she had been successful the first 3 times, but she kept expecting blood to come out, and it didn't. The whole procedure was excruciatingly painful.

An internal exam showed me at 3 cm dilation.

From 2 am to 8 am, despite contractions off and on, which were painless, nothing appeared to be happening.

When the shift changed, our new nurse, Gloria, checked me and found I was almost 4 cm. She changed Pit bags, which I inadvertently pulled it out of connection 1/2 hour later. She came back and checked the Pitocin and discovered the problem. I had no contractions forororororororort he time it was off. She said that was probably good, and she was going to suggest I be unplugged and walk some to give the uterus a rest, but that was already done.

She hooked me back up and decided to break my water and attach an internal monitor.

Again, nothing much happened, so she was in at 10:30 and upped the Pitocin. Right away, contractions began that I had to breath through. Not really painful though (except for when she had to reattach the internal monitor and her hand was caught inside during one.)

I only had a few when I was up to 5 cm and decided an epidural. The anesthetis came in and gave it to me at 11:30 and I had no more pain. Dr. Milgram and nurse Lila came in and checked me.

Things progressed with another check at 1:00 showing me at 8 cm dilation. At 1:30 I felt pressure, and Lila came in to check before Dr. Milgram went to do a C-section. She felt I was fully dilated and went to get Dr. Milgram. He came in, checked, and said I could push now.

With Lila pushing on my abdomen (unwelcomed) and me semi-sitting, I pushed. Dr. Milgram did a late episitiotomy and at 1:45 pm Nathaniel Taylor Martin was born.

I recall looking down and seeing his head and then his body slide out. It was a wierd feeling.

The nursery people in attendance cleaned him up and brought him to me. We had 15 minutes or so to bond and I nursed him some.

Then he went to the nursery and I was taken to recovery. At about 5 pm I went to a regular room. I was starving, as I had missed all meals for 24 hours. Dinner was at 5:30 and they finally brought Nathaniel to me at 6:00.

He was taken back at 7:00 to be circumcised, and as soon as I could walk, about 8:30 pm, we went home!

--------------
Addendums after the fact, on 12/17/02

Dr. Milgram looked at Jack once and said "Hard to believe that's the same thing you kiss, isn't it?" (Referring to my bloody and gaping vagina)

When Dr. Milgram took off his gloves he accidently snapped me "there" with one. The nurse gasped and he said "What? She can't feel it anyway..."

(While you may think those horrid for a doctor to do, his humor was one thing that really made us like him. A lot.)

Going home, I didn't have the right sanitary napkins so we stopped at a store. Jack would not go in for me and buy those things. So, having just had my kid that day, I went shopping for supplies. The checkout lady asked when my baby was due. I said I'd just had him. Heh.

Menopause!

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 23:46:00 +0000

I've been in perimenopause for a few years now. That means my body has been winding down some, but not a whole lot. In fact, I'd learned about my status when I went to my doctor complaining of very heavy periods for the first time in "forever" - at least since I had kids. Yeah, I was soaking my pjs at night.

Anyways.

Right on time this month, my period started. They've been really regular since I had children (the youngest is now 18 and I'm 46), though prior they'd been very irregular.

Except ... light flow. Every. Day. Four days only.

IT'S ABOUT FRACKING TIME, BODY!!!!!!!

This indicates that The Change is coming upon me more now, and I am so dang glad, I could cuss all over this blog.

I want to be DONE with my periods forEVER.

Of course, the guys in my head will be very relieved and have loathed it from the start, naturally. (It's bad enough that this body lacks the proper sexual characteristics for them - it has to bleed, too?)

Yeah, baby. Bring it on.

Hot flashes and all.

Acts of Love

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 01:04:00 +0000

Can I love someone whom I feel is a terrible person?

After reading this article and some of the featured responses, I posted on G+:

I believe ...

If you are [insert name of religion here because ALL religions have as a basic tenet 'love each other' - without excluding anyone], it is your responsibility to love everyone, including [gays, whites, blacks, oranges, soldiers, addicts, prostitutes, lawyers, haters, everyone.].

I admit the above is difficult for me in certain respects. I have a terribly hard time loving any haters, particularly those of the Westboro Baptist Church. However, though it's a stretch for me to feel anything but animosity toward them, I still must strive to accept and achieve the statement above. It's my responsibility to love everyone, including the haters.

At the end of the article, the author suggests:

My request today is simple. Today. Tomorrow. Next week. Find somebody, anybody, that’s different than you. Somebody that has made you feel ill-will or even [gulp...] hateful. Somebody whose life decisions have made you uncomfortable. Somebody who practices a different religion than you do. Somebody who has been lost to addiction. Somebody with a criminal past. Somebody who dresses “below” you. Somebody with disabilities. Somebody who lives an alternative lifestyle. Somebody without a home.

Somebody that you, until now, would always avoid, always look down on, and always be disgusted by.

Reach your arm out and put it around them.

And then, tell them they’re all right. Tell them they have a friend. Tell them you lovethem.

If you or I wanna make a change in this world, that’s where we’re gonna be able to do it. That’s where we’ll start.

Every. Single. Time.

But here's the thing.

I don't want to love everyone. I'm not ready to love everyone.

I wonder - could it be enough to act lovingly?

What if, when faced with someone whose hatred boils over and disgusts me, and who is speaking to me, I do pretty much nothing. I withhold reaction. I do not condemn, I do not try to convert or "fix". I just smile sadly (because how horrible it is to be so hateful) and let it go.

Oh yes, if they were actively bullying someone else in my presence, I would feel obliged to speak up to them; however, perhaps I could do that lovingly as well. Whatever words I used, I would try to separate the bully from the bullied, and attend to the victim. That would be acting with love, wouldn't it?

I admit, there are people who, when I think of them even now, cause my lip to curl in disdain involuntarily. I'm not at a place where I could look at them, speak to them, and do what the article's author suggests.

But maybe someone else can. Maybe it's enough that I keep an open heart for those who don't set me off quite so much.

Almost as an aside, because of my spotty memory, a few years ago I found myself wondering if I'd ever bullied one of my classmates who was not a small person. So, I asked him. He told me that I was the only one in school who never made fun of him at all.

I say that not to toot my own horn. I've certainly done things I'm not happy about to people, but this gave me hope that maybe I've been a pretty tolerant and kind person through my life. Maybe I've brought some love to some people, in spite of what I've been through.

So that's all I can do, I suppose. Continue to speak out against others talking/bringing others down, strive to do no harm, myself, and lead by example.

My request, then, is for readers to smile at one more person tomorrow whom you might normally not smile at. That's an act of love, and it might be enough to start.

Baby got a new pair of shoes!

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 16:05:00 +0000

There's this humongous shoe store in Asheville (Discount Shoes 1266 Brevard Road, Asheville, NC 28806) that has a giant selection of shoe brands and styles and sizes. It's where my sister bought for me a pair of Alegria clogs (http://www.zappos.com/alegria-seville-brown-nappa) which are some of the best shoes I've ever worn.

See, usually I'm a WalMart shoe shopper. If it's comfortable "enough" and I like the look, I'll get them. But I'm not a shoesie. I have a pair of brown boots, a pair of running shoes, two pair of slipons (one black, one tan, got the tan ones at Goodwill), a few pair of sandals, all from WalMart but one slipon pair. From Goodwill I've also bought a pair of Dansko clogs (regularly about $120, $3.50 at Goodwill) that are okay, and a pair of blue suede clogs of unknown brand. Basically, the less expensive they are, the more inclined I am to buy them.

This became a problem, however, when I began a job where I'm on my feet 8 hours a day. Even with padding to stand on (thankfully) my feet and legs were stuck with firey nails by the end of the day. Since my good Coleman hiking boots (that I had for almost 20 years) were cast aside after being (cat) sprayed on, I had nothing but my sneakers that came close to useable.

So, as a gift, my sister took me shoe shopping.

We first went to a couple of local shops, which had good quality shoes. While some of the styles were good, we quickly recognized a problem.

I needed extra-wide shoes.

I have wide toes, and narrow heels. This presents difficulty finding shoes with a back that fit, because if they fit in the toes, they slip up and down on my heels. This causes blisters and is very annoying, as well.

Thus, we ended up at Discount Shoes with my sister and her daughter, myself and my daughter, and our mother/grammy dozing in the van outside.

It was more than an hour later that we were down to one pair of possible shoes that annoyed me still, because of the heel issue. We'd tried clogs, lace-ups (didn't really want those), and others. Any brand. We weren't stuck on any brand, we just went by what we'd researched to have the best reviews and the best comfort.

We ended up finally at the Alegria section, for the 2nd time. My sister found this pair, the Seville, and it was *almost* okay. Almost, because my toes were still a bit scrunched. With my fibromyalgia and peripheral neuropathy, that wasn't okay.

But, this time (unlike our first slog through), a salesperson was there. "Oh, I can put in wider inserts." Huh? Really? No way!

Indeed, the insert for the Alegria clog comes out *entirely* and she put a new one in. One that made the shoe just that little bit wider that made the shoe perfect. Or as near-perfect as wearing shoes can be. The part over the top of my foot is snug enough that I don't have to curl my toes to keep the shoes on, the toes are wide enough that my foot lays flat, there is arch support, and a strap that can go behind the heel or over the top of the shoe.

When my sister offered me my old shoes back so we could put the new ones in the box to pay for them I said, "Do we have to?"

Of course we didn't! I love the feeling of stuffing my old shoes in the box new shoes were in, and wearing my new shoes out of the store. It's a pleasure I hadn't had since, wow, I can't remember the last time. It happened a lot as a child, when the family had money and I was spoiled, and I got good shoes every time, and often. But as an adult? Not so much.

I wonder if I ever gave my kids that pleasure?

Anyway, with the good shoes there is no break-in period. My legs and feet are very happy with the new, good shoes. Although the fibro and diabetic problems are still evident, they are not exacerbated by my shoes.

Maybe someday I'll save up some money and get another pair of these, in a different color. Or maybe do some shopping around to get a different style.

So here's the bottom line, readers: save your money and get yourself a good pair of shoes. Your feet will thank you!

Depression is not the only cause of exhaustion.

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 20:34:00 +0000

During my time unemployed and my deep depression, I was exhausted. Tremendous fatigue. Some days it was all I could do to care for my temporarily out-of-commission mother, forget about caring for myself. Other days, I had a little more energy, at least physically.

Now that I am employed again, I realize something that should not have surprised me. I still have fibromyalgia. A lifted mood does not necessarily give me more energy, less pain, or a sharper mind.

I worry about my job. About being on my feet for 8 hours a day, even finding great shoes. My body has to remain upright, I have to use my arms and my mind, and can't take a nap in the middle of the day.

Where is the line? Does everyone have to deal with this at work? When waitresses get home, and their feet hurt, does their whole body hurt as well? When they lay down at night does every position hurt as if they were laying on rows of golfballs against bruises?

I'm not trying to be melodramatic, but that's part of my problem. What is melodrama and exaggeration, and what is valid? How brave should I be? Is this going to be the rest of my life; waking up in pain, gritting my teeth and medicating through my day so I'm a "responsible" person, then barely able to fix dinner and going to sleep in pain? Waking through the night from pain?

What is the alternative? Working less, being able to go to the pool for stretching and exercise, taking a 3-hour nap during the early afternoon, managing pain through eating, exercise, natural methods, and medications. Waking each day knowing that I will be able to accomplish something. The problem there is that I"d be dependent on money from elsewhere to survive, even if working some.

There really is no answer for me.

Triggers

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 20:51:00 +0000

Things during the day that cause me to have a memory, image, physical negative response or flashback from the abuse I suffered during my life:

Getting dressed (must be like armor)
Accidentally touching my chest myself
Taking a shower
Cleaning the litter box
Washing clothes
Messy kitchen
Food, particularly comfort foods, and candy
TV shows (including news) that bring up missing or abused or killed children, spousal abuse, and custody battles.
Sports on TV, particularly football and golf.
The woods
The creek
Summer
Coke
Talking on the telephone, or just the telephone ringing
Being at the airport/on an airplane
School busses
Greyhound-type buses
Weight-loss shows
Diets
Children
Brushing my teeth
Washing my hair

Do you see some activities of daily living, here? This means that every day the residual effects from the abuse I suffered interferes with my daily life. First thing I have to do in the morning when I wake up is steel myself to deal with the inevitable triggers.

These are not all of the things that trigger me. I don't want to get into too many more, because it's a struggle just to write this.

And guess where I live? Surrounded by woods, with a creek. I really hate summer.

Drugs and me ...

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 01:22:00 +0000

The other night I took an oxycodone. I rarely take narcotics, for a few reasons. When I woke up in the morning, though, I remembered why I wished I took them more often. I had almost no pain or stiffness at waking. Of course, the pain returned later in the morning, as did the stiffness, but I'd been moving by then so it wasn't as bad as it can get first thing upon waking.

I don't get addicted to anything, I'm fortunate with that, so fear of addiction isn't one of the reasons I don't take narcotics. Hydrocodone and lesser meds don't work for my pain very much, but oxycodone does.

Thing is, there are a few things that come along with narcotics that irritate me. I understand the reasons for them, but it's annoying and up until now, not worth bothering with.

One is that you have to have a really good argument for your doctor to prescribe them.

Two, you instantly get labeled a drug-seeker by the doctor, the nurses, the pharmacy, etc.

Three, there are no refills, so you have to beg each month to get more.

However, I'm considering it now. It'd be good to be able to take one at night at bedtime so that I can get to sleep. Pain keeps me awake, even with sleep meds. Less pain allows me to get to sleep. Sleep is very much in need at this time.

Tomorrow, though, I have an appointment for psychiatric services. Perhaps they will change my meds. Lyrica is a possibility, but that's also a narcotic and a pain in the ass to get.

We shall see.

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 16:59:00 +0000

I was asked recently what my Disability is. I'll tell you.

Imagine you have a job shared by 4 people. A job that requires some training. All 4 people have been trained appropriately, and all 4 people are diligent about professional work and ethics. That should go pretty well, right?

Imagine now that with those 4 people:

- Only 2 are fully trained, leaving 2 untrained.
- Only 2 have professional ethics (not necessarily the same two who are trained). One couldn't care less and 1 has other things on their mind (The Protector).
- One of them likes the job, not necessarily one of the trained people. One dislikes the job. One couldn't care less about having a job. One is only considering the emotional health of the others and trying to make sure the other 3 aren't stressed (The Protector).
- One is conscientious about being on-time, but this causes stress. The Protector tries to diminish stress by attempting to convince this one that being on-time is overrated. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
- One is having terrible personal issues with her boss, but is attempting to work things out in a professional manner. The Protector doesn't care about working things out and is instead trying to "take down" the boss emotionally and even professionally to "correct" the situation. No boss = no trauma.
- One is being stressed by paperwork that is piling up and a supervisor who doesn't care enough to pay enough attention to correct the issue. The Protector convinces this one, most of the time, that the paperwork can wait. And wait. For months even. The billing is being done, right? That's "all" that matters. Less paperwork = less stress.

How do you think this would work out? For me, it hasn't worked out very well in all the jobs I've ever had other than the first, which was working for my father. I'd thought I had this beat as I worked at the last job for 3 years, only to discover at the end that The Protector effectively got me fired by ensuring I had less stress.

These four people are in my head, as part of the Dissociative Identity Disorder. I cannot control them. In fact, the only one with true control is The Protector.

This served "us" (I will use us to indicate the whole Magic Bus system) very well growing up. The Protector ensured that he could take over the body and mind whenever he needed to protect us from trauma. He was and is able to suppress any memory he chooses, as it's happening. He was, and is, very capable of protecting us in many ways.

This protection is largely unneeded at this point; however, I am not capable myself of adjusting the behavior of The Protector. That will take a trained and skilled psychologist. (That will be interesting, because there is only one person The Protector trusts in the world (and can tell The Protector point-blank safely to shut up or back off, and he's the boyfriend and not a psychologist.)

So, that is my Disability. Dissociative Identity Disorder. Might it be '"fixed' at least to the point of good functioning in a workplace at some time in the future? Possibly, but we're talking 46 years of training for protection, and counseling a minimum of 8 different people in my head, all with different mental afflictions of their own. (Not everyone has PTSD, or depression, or anxiety, etc.)

I'm terrified of trying to get another job, especially one with any amount of responsibility for a person, like in the health or mental health field. Stress causes The Protector to come out and I can't stop him. (Ever tried to impose your will on another person so they behave as you want them to, move as you want them to, etc.? Let me know if you've ever been successful at that, truly.) He can stop me. He can Front or drive whenever he wants. His agenda is protection, not compliance.

This make work difficult. Compound that with my inability to pay for a psychologist, and you may see why this is a complicated issue.

If you don't believe in DID, join the club. There are certainly people who don't believe it exists. I just love the argument of it being rare, therefore I can't have it. Uh, rare means SOMEONE has it, so why am I not one of those someone's? Yeah.

All I know is that it's real to me. Conversations still occur that the person typing this has no idea have occurred. (That alone is very disturbing.) It's kind of like getting drunk and blacking out, I guess, though I've never done that (to my knowledge). And that's all I can say about most things. "I've never done/said that, to my knowledge." I don't know what's going on, what I'm doing in life, and that is nerve-wracking.

Is this Disabling? To me, it is very much. Do I think I deserve public assistance when I "should" be working like a good citizen? I don't know about deserve, but I know I need help. The government right now is able to provide that help more than my family is able, and I've put money into the system, so I think I should be able to get some back when I need some help.

And that's why I'm applying for Disability.

Gender dysphoria

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 19:54:00 +0000

Gender dysphoria is basically feeling like you were born with the wrong biological sex. (Don't get me started on the interchangeable usage of gender/sex.)

Sometimes, I'm okay being female. Sometimes, I'm not. But it's not as clear-cut as someone who is transgendered.

I have had an interest in gender for as long as I can remember. At college (the time i graduated at 42) I concentrated on gender, particularly gender expression. I always felt vaguely guilty though, as if I was a voyeur, interested for the strangeness of it, the sideshow qualities. I hadn't understood why until, actually, a few minutes ago.

I realize now it's a personal issue because of my dissociation. One of the dominant people in my head is male. I have some gender-fluid folks inside, as well as more males.

When the dominant male is in possession of the body (Fronting) I get this disgust for my female characteristics and a definite feeling of "something missing" ... phantom limb sort of thing. It's in those moments I understand transgendering.

But I won't transgender, because that's as transient as everything else in my system. Minutes later I'm a female Front again.

No, surgery would not be a good idea. Acceptance is, however.

I can now accept that having an interest in gender concerns is appropriate and not perverse.

I'm okay.

Psychiatric difficulties versus laziness.

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Tue, 23 Aug 2011 20:05:00 +0000

I'm still struggling with the idea of character flaws versus PTSD effects on my life. Where is the line between using PTSD as an excuse and just getting over it and not being lazy?

I made it 3 years in a job, but over the last year because the situation was so triggering for me, I sabotaged myself and ended up getting fired.

I have a long, very long, history of losing jobs via sabotage or one-thing-or-another.

Does history mean it's a good chance it's PTSD-related? Or am I really just a lazy motherf***er?

If I'm lazy, what do I do about it?

Considering I'm broke, if it's PTSD, what do I do about it?

I suppose there's nothing any reader can answer for me, but I'm stumped and frustrated.

Some things to read ...

From , http://www.carrotofhope.org/ptsd_research_grant.html something to which I can totally relate and might help my family understand a bit more (emphasis mine):

"Surveyed PTSD victims describe themselves as feeling overwhelmed and frustrated. They fear symptoms of their illness and note that new triggers are easily created. Struggling to cope with day-to-day concerns, victims eventually find themselves stuck in survival mode, going from one crisis to another. Those without a strongly supportive family are left to struggle to find healthcare, mental care and financial support structures. Frustrated PTSD victims, despite their intelligence, extensive coping skills and problem-solving abilities, find themselves overwhelmed by the mounting problems. They watch as their lives tumble from success to a period of immobility. Unless someone becomes a caretaker, victims trying to get a grip on their illness watch as their homes fill with trash, dirty dishes and complete disorder. They withdraw from society in an attempt to regain control over their volatile emotions. Given enough time without conflict, these victims do rebound to some extent. However, as they attempt to regain control over their physical surroundings and financial stability, they are once again overwhelmed and confronted with conflict, which causes symptoms to reoccur. This leads to continuous cycles of progression and setbacks."

Something specific for families, but the other entries on the site are worth visiting also: http://www.forests.com/ptsdfam.html

Regarding physical brain changes in PTSD:

http://tinyurl.com/3zf773e

And finally, one last read:

http://www.ptsd.ne.gov/what-is-ptsd.html

My Personal Dissociation

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 18:59:00 +0000

Notice:

The "f" word is used a few times. This post may not be safe for work. It is personal, yet not. That may not make sense.

I will not identify the cause of or explain the trauma that I endured. The involved parties are either dead or long gone, and it would serve no purpose. I will say it was sexual abuse and rape. For more we would have to talk individually and even then, you may not get answers you seek.

That said, questions about what I say in the post and DID in general are welcome. :)

THE POST:

Imagine a bus where the headlights are my eyes. (The difference between imagination and multiple is that you can control your imagination, so can i. but i can’t control the others on the bus, most of the time.) The others in my system are in the back of the bus, most of them. usually I'm the driver, where “I” right now is Carolyn, the one who Fronts/drives most of the time in polite company, at work, etc. Lyn is a protector and he hangs out at the front of the bus near the door always looking, watching, wary. sometimes he will yank me out of the driver’s seat and take over when he sees a threat, and he puts a bubble around himself and all I can do is bang on it and watch while he speeds, wrecks, tailgates, rams another vehicle (person on the outside), whatever. Then he’ll relinquish the wheel and I get back to driving and have to deal with whatever carnage he has caused. Other times I won’t even know something has occurred, and he will blink into the driver’s seat, black the rest of us out into suspended animation so we don’t know what’s going on, and then just as suddenly (it seems, though it might be minutes, hours or days later) I’m back in the saddle again … er, driver’s seat again (couldn’t resist!), none the wiser that I’ve just lost time. Usually this is when I find out later, where later may be hours, days, weeks, years, that the time has been lost. Lyn isn’t the only one who can make me lose time; however, I don’t know right now who else has that capability.

Sometimes there is Lynnie, or the Little One (we hate that name, Lynnie, we want to change it) who is between 8 or 12 years old, depending on the time of noticing. Sometimes she’ll catch a glimpse of something neat and she’ll run up to the front and jump on my lap to steer/play. Usually I’ll let her steer and I’ll keep my feet on the pedals, just in case I need to jump in. She’s harmless though she can have temper tantrums, eat a lot of sweets, and has the attention span of a gnat.

Lyn is not harmless. He has protected me most of my life, very very well. I credit him for my survival, actually. This can be a problem at times, though, when his coping skills and fighting skills are still geared toward the past needs, that’s the PTSD he has. He’s come far, though, in learning new ways to protect effectively without doing so much (or any, at times) damage. I’m proud of him!

Many on the bus never come to the front at all, but I can almost hear them talking. It’s like background chatter, as if it’s a “real” physical bus. If I pay real close attention to that chatter sometimes I can make out conversations - but that comes at the risk of not paying attention to the outside. So, if I’m trying to listen to a conversation with someone on the outside, and people are talking inside, I have to pay attention to one or the other, but can’t hear both. Who hasn’t had a situation where a room full of people are talking and you’re trying to listen to one person speak, and the others have to be quiet or you can’t hear the speaker?

I have non humans too. A couple of wolves, a couple of big cats, other things. Some folks have aliens, vampires, leprechauns, angels, and so forth. Different genders/biological sexes. Some inside have their own pets. Almost all multiples have systems, a scenario or world in which their inside people live. For me it’s the bus, I call it The Magic Bus. It’s white with peace signs, hearts, the words peace and love and such all over it like graffiti. It’s like a converted school bus, and has velvet fringed curtains inside for privacy. The bus “imagination” I started with isn’t just an analogy.

Other people have castles, planets, a room, a house, it could be anything.

It can be hard to look in a mirror because what we see doesn’t match who we have inside, particularly the guys. Hearing our voice/talking can be odd as well, for similar reason - we don’t sound like we ought to, in our opinion. Dressing can be annoying because what we wear depends on who is in Front at the time, which may change during the day and put me wearing Lynnie’s clothes, or her in mine, etc. What 8-yo wants to wear old people’s clothes unless they’re playing dress-up?

Inside people often have their own styles of speech, styles of grammar, mannerisms, behaviors, likes and dislikes, etc. One may like chocolate, another may not. In some people, though not me, one might have diabetes, another might not! One may have depression, another PTSD, and so forth. It makes therapy difficult.

Therapy is about breaking down the walls so that the people trapped inside can go about a happier life, not disordered, either merging their talents, skills, beings with another person/people inside or fading away into another soul, perhaps, happy and safe.

If something Big happens though, the walls can go up instantly as Protection Mode is engaged, and this can cause huge problems.

It’s not like they’ve said sometimes where one holds anger, one holds sadness, etc. It’s not emotions that are kept separate. It’s entire minds.

This is my layman’s experience theory:

So there’s this kid, and trauma happens. The brain takes a little and then says NOPE, I’m outta here, and that mind (#1, which was developing as expected) walls itself off, along with the memories it holds. But there’s still the kid’s body. If the trauma is such that the kid is Done For, maybe they’re catatonic at that point and no mind takes over. However for multiples, another mind takes over to operate the body and get on with life, because survival is at stake.

That new mind carries with it pre-programmed instructions on how to do everything up until that point like tie shoes maybe, or talk. Maybe the first mind lets the new mind in on some things like who the friends are, who is the enemy/are the enemies, what the body’s name is, etc. Or maybe it’s an “obvious” shift (if someone were looking) and none of that is known other than the basics of walking and talking (and eating, etc.).

Whatever the case, this new mind (#2) takes over from there and resumes development.

Another trauma happens, or maybe the continuing trauma has reached a point where mind #2 says “GAH! I’M OUTTA HERE!” and the brain cordons it off into another room. What to do with the kid’s body now? Yep. Mind #3 is “born”.

This can go on until there are (on average) anywhere from 3 to 12, to hundreds of minds in the same body. Some of them actually ran the body (Fronted) at some point. Others were developed as companions, as pets, as workers (file clerks for memories, skills, etc.) and so forth. Some of the minds may know how to cook well, others may not. Some may be able to play baseball, if physically capable, and some may not. One may be good at math, another may not. One may be an artist, another may not. And so on.

Consistency in behavior can be a problem, if you get what I’m saying.

Switches usually happen when situations arise that a particular mind is adept at handling. Sometimes these are obvious, sometimes not at all noticed. Sometimes it can come across just like singletons do when they’re wearing different “hats” for different occasions. But instead of being a “lamb in the kitchen and a lion in the bedroom” in actions and attitude alone, we’re actually a lamb in the kitchen, then the lamb goes away and we’re a lion in the bedroom. Put the lion in the kitchen and they’d have no idea how to cook! (how is that for a messed-up metaphor?)

Things get disordered when we’re switching too frequently, or in inappropriate situations, or when, like with Lyn, former coping skills don’t match current situations and some things in our lives are damaged. This can be destructive in all areas of our life from work to relationships to physical and mental health.

There are no guarantees. I don’t know why i had to say that but I did. Type that, that is.

Now I'll free-form for awhile and I don’t know if anyone will identify themselves but they might. i close my eyes and just let someone type through my fingers, whatever they want to say. this is an internal dialogue manifesting in the cloud.

-----------

sometimes i don’t believe we’re multiple but there i go, using we. it’s hard to say i, because i don’t feel alone. and it’s not just me in here, but that still doesn’t make sense.

who cares if it makes sense? boyfriend says ‘a difference which doesn’t make a difference isn’t a difference.’ or something like that. i don’t know why i trust him, but I do. (lyn)

but he’s very nice and he buys me things (little one) and likes to let me color and he smiles at me and makes me feel happy and safe all the time.

he yelled at me once and didn’t know it was me. he apologized when we figured it out. i hadn’t known, either. i’m not the little one but i don’t know who i am at this moment.

fuck.

that was an ‘angry’ fuck not a sexual fuck.

yeah, whatever. it doesn’t matter, does it?

be nice. (v.)

(smirk - lyn)

crying, whimpering, being held, calming

can go to sleep now, don’t need to say any more.

well, i’d like to but i don’t have anything i can think of to type right now but i could go on and on like this and drive everyone crazy

shut up!

goodnight

you guys are weird.

----------------------------

On my mental board are the notes “Forgetfulness” and “Boobs”. Boobs refers to the fact that Lyn would just as soon cut the things off because they’re not his, they’re annoying, and they invite trouble. Also, the body is missing an important male feature that sometimes I can feel like a phantom limb. Weird.

As for forgetfulness, that comes with switching, and it’s not really forgetfulness so much as the inside person not leaving a note for anyone else of something that has occurred: a conversation, a voice mail, a purchase. We’re getting better at that with the acquisition of the mental board. It’s one of those clear things you see in movies/tv that are written on with bright markers. It’s worked well this one day we’ve tried it, hopefully it will be a nice solution for communication among the inside people and the body.

“The body” … that’s basically the skin and water unit that keeps the inside people inside. :)

From a journal entry made on Halloween 2007:

Carolyn wears Eddie Bauer (work casual)
Maggie is tats, piercings, Buddhist, pagan, skirts.
Lyn is leather and motorcycle.
Lynnie is bright colors and Pooh, no skirts.
? is t-shirt sloppy.
Angel gives us elements of each in most of our daily wear:
Lynnie gets colorful socks.
Carolyn gets nifty shoes.
Maggie gets the tattoo and earrings.
Lyn gets t-shirts and jeans (as armor)

How it feels when the Little One comes out.

Imagine you're sitting in a comfortable room chatting with another adult and your child is playing happily and quietly nearby. Suddenly, your child finds a toy that excites her so much she runs up to the other adult to jabber about it excitedly. For a minute or so, all attention and interaction from the other adult is focused on the happy child and all you can do is sit there quietly, watching in amusement. Soon enough the child is bored, or her mind flits to something else, and she runs off once more. Attention and interaction returns to the adults.

That sometimes happens with me, only not in a physical way. Someone talking to me, if they really know me well, might notice the switch when it occurs. From my point of view, I became quiet, sat back, and watched as the little girl interacted with the other adult. I could see and hear what she was doing, even feel it (in particular parts of my body, face and chest) and remember it when she was done. If I really wanted or needed to, I could have retaken focus, but usually I don't because it's safe enough to let her express herself, if she's coming out in the first place. If it's online, it's as if I pick my fingers up off the keyboard, and she does the typing while I wait.

Most people don't even notice the switch, and even if they did, well doesn't everyone have moments of childishness?

----------------------------

Journal entry, unknown date:

She is Wolf. She does not speak human. You know what she looks like. Call me Darkness, if you wish.

What am I? Job and identity.

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 14:52:00 +0000

Once, in a class I was facilitating, I reminded someone that just because they weren't currently working, they were still a software engineer (for example) and can maintain that identity and pride about their skills. That isn't a job title, it's something they earned through schooling and hard work and experience. It made them feel better.

My last job title was Peer Support Specialist/Recovery Educator. But those are job titles. True, I am still a certified Peer Support Specialist, but that is "just" a certification that says, basically, that I've got mental health diagnoses and I know how to use them to help others. I don't consider PSS to be what I am.

My bachelor's degree is in sociology, but I've never actually worked specifically in that field, so I'm not really a sociologist.

So, if someone were to ask, "What do you do?" what do I say? Like in tha Google+ profile. I have, as employment: Former ISP owner, now artist, educator, human, mother, musician, and seeker.

All those are former ... or are they?

I haven't drawn in awhile or sold any artwork lately, but am I not still an artist? The skill is still there, as is the heart, even though I haven't put pencil to paper in awhile.

Musician is harder. I haven't really played since the Baltimore Ravens marching band. And the last time I played with them was in a parade and I had to bow out and get a ride in the trailing van due to heat exhaustion. Inauspicious ending of that episode of my life. My tenor sax and flute and electronic keyboard sit gathering dust.

I am, of course, still human, a mother, and a seeker.

I do enjoy educating people, and I try to do that in many venues, including Google+ and here on my blog. It may be about personal stuff, but hopefully telling my stories could impact someone else.

Perhaps, then, at heart I'm an artist and educator, with a deep interest in sociology.

That'll do.

Touch - and Loving ourselves

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 21:15:00 +0000

How often do we touch ourselves sensually? (Not sexually.)

Today as I was going to take a shower I ended up rubbing my thighs and suddenly realized that it felt good. With no judgement I felt the fine hairs, the lumps from cellulite, the smoothness of my skin. I went from firm touch to light, almost tickling.

Then I moved on to my arms, my lower legs, my face, my belly, etc.

I don't get this kind of touch without paying $50-$100/hour for a massage. My boyfriend lives many states away.

I have a story within a story.

For the Love Your Body program at Western Carolina University when I was 40 (and most students were in their late teens/twenties, of course) I volunteered to be videotaped for a presentation on loving your body. I talked about how I love my skin, and this is why:

Once upon a time I was in my late 30s and was dating a very gorgeous man. Like model-gorgeous. I was self-conscious, couldn't understand why he'd want to be seen with me much less "see" me, but that's beside the point. Kinda.

Now, this man is also infatuated, as I am, with tigers and other wild animals. Learning about them, visiting them, working with them, etc.

As we were getting dressed for the day one morning I was whining about my stretch marks. I have three kids, you see. I could point out where each pregnancy began and ended in terms of stretch marks, because the spots were visible.

He stopped me and said something to the effect (can't remember exactly) that I should be proud of them.

Huh?

He said to think of them as tiger stripes. I've earned them. I have three kids, and I appear "cute and cuddly" (a term used by others to describe me often) like a tiger, but if someone threatens my kids/cubs my teeth and claws come out and I protect them fiercely.

I don't know if he knows how that changed my life. I will tell him someday, or point him to this post. Promise.

I think that was one of the most wonderful things anyone has ever said to me, or done for me.

Now when I look at my body, or think about my body, my feelings are either neutral or good. Yes, I'm heavy and have some health problems that could be assuaged if I lose weight. Yes, I want to lose weight for my health.

But my body? I love it. I love my skin, I love how my body either works, or shows me with pain and stiffness that something is wrong that needs to be addressed. Yes, I am even amazed at how my body dysfunctions.

So here's an exercise for you to try, if you wish:

Touch yourself sensually, non-sexually.
Feel your skin, the heat, the hairs, the lumps, the bumps.
Feel your fingers against your skin with firm touch, with soft touch.
Let thoughts pass without judgement.
Let love feel your touch.
Enjoy.

Finding Passion

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Sun, 07 Aug 2011 20:33:00 +0000

I've been trying to find my passions lately. After viewing some websites, these were the questions I ended up with:

1. What am I good at?
2. What excites me?
3. What do I spend time reading about?
4. What makes me smile?
5. What seems to come easy to me?
6. When/in what situations do I seem most creative?
7. What do I like to talk about?
8. What would I do for free?

But then I was left with: How do I find out this information? Particularly in the face of one of my psychiatric diagnoses: dissociative identity disorder. (More on this in another post.)

I remembered yesterday that someone once told me to look in my closet to figure out my favorite color. That would be what color most of my clothes are. I came up with deep purple, ruby red, and sapphire blue. Dark jewel tones. I translated this to my quest for passion.

Looking around my room, which is the only environment I can control right now, I recognized some things

about myself.

The first is that I like doing crafts, and they don't have to be perfect or sophisticated. Hanging, I have a "strength stick" with an image of a wolf as one of the dangly things; leaves cut from soda cans, hanging on ribbon; an angel made from scraps of glass and material, I didn't make the angel, it was a gift; a crocheted angel also given to me; a candle holder I didn't make (but in jewel tones); a handblown glass christmas ornament (a gift); a piece of clay art of Washington State made by my son (who accidentally/on purpose "forgot" to take it with him to college, even though he said he was going to, because I liked it so much); a wall piece hanging from a "sword" my son carved from wood when he was younger; a dreamcatcher I made.

I have a bookshelf neatly arranged with books, from Laurell K. Hamilton to Clive Cussler, Steve Hamilton, and a variety of vampire/werewolf/supernatural paperbacks. I have books on drawing, anatomy, wild animals, and more.

The walls are a pale green, good for calming. I have my ceiling fan on for all four+ seasons. And, I hate dust.

Trouble is, I'm not sure what this says about me with regard to the questions above.

1. What am I good at? Supporting people through tough mental/emotional times. Simple crafts. Drawing.
2. What excites me? Um. Well, I got excited when my retractable vampire fangs came in the mail the other day. Google+ excites me still.
3. What do I spend time reading about? Vampires, werewolves, animals.
4. What makes me smile? Animals, play, watching people, helping someone.
5. What seems to come easy to me? Supporting people, smiling.
6. When/in what situations do I seem most creative? I don't know.
7. What do I like to talk about? Animals.
8. What would I do for free? Foster animals, draw, write.

So we have animals and helping people as a couple of themes. That fits in with the room exploration, considering that there's a big theme in my room, and that is Recovery. Specifically to me, mental health recovery.

~~Next post.~~ Another post. I don't feel like writing about that just yet. Edit: 8/14/11

Thinking about a bird.

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Sat, 06 Aug 2011 02:51:00 +0000

I was in my recliner the other day, with my laptop and my cat, and we heard a "thump" against the plate glass window. Of course, we both look, and as I do, I see three more cats react very quickly. I knew it was probably a bird had flown into the window.

I go out and sure enough, it was a bird. Head/neck cocked a little funny, but I picked it up and was glad to see it moved it's head and latched onto my fingers.

So, I waited. I cupped it gently, sat down on the porch swing, and waited. I looked the bird over, yellow belly and throat, grey or olive back and head. White circles around the eyes. Straight beak. It was (I would find out later) a common yellowthroat.

It settled down so it's belly was on my fingers. It closed one eye slowly, and I thought it was dying. It opened that eye, and the closed the other one slowly. Then that eye opened.

It then began turning its head from side to side slowly, checking things out. Then its movements got sharper. Finally, it spread it's wings out and jumped to the arm of the porch swing ... and pooped while looking at me. (Hey, I took that as a thank you!)

One of my cats had been watching me, and when the bird flew a bit, but was still disoriented, I had to chase the cat away. After about 10 seconds, it flew away into the dusk. I like to think it went on about its life, free and healthy.

It was wonderful.

I can dance if I want to!

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Fri, 05 Aug 2011 02:44:00 +0000

I grew up with music.

I sang and danced in talent competitions (beauty pageants). I was a majorette in marching band, and I played oboe, flute, tenor and baritone sax. I was in a few community musicals. I went to college on a partial music scholarship, with oboe.

While in college, I danced in a jazz and tap group at the dance studio my sister owned. I was in the group on my own merit, though. I wasn't thin, but I was far from overweight ... yet I keep hearing in my head (from someone else) when I look at those pictures of me in a unitard "You're gaining weight ..."

I quit college. Moved back to Florida. Met a sailor. Got married. Moved to Idaho. Had a kid. Moved to San Diego. Had two more kids. Moved to Virginia. Got divorced. Got remarried.

Do you see a distinct lack of musicality?

My second marriage, excruciating as it was in most aspects, gifted me with a tenor saxophone, an electric piano, and support enough to join the Baltimore Ravens Marching Band. I only participated a few months, but I was back into music. For a little while.

When that marriage failed, I fled home to mother and again, no music. I still have the sax, and the piano (though it hasn't had a power supply in 6 years and is a perch for the cats now) and I even have a flute. I have played them twice, perhaps, in all this time.

Now and then I toy with the idea of picking up an instrument to play, but then I whine to myself about having to keep my inhaler nearby for the "inevitable" asthma attack.

I often go days without listening to music, even.

Dance? Forget it. I'm fat, and fat people can't dance. Right?

So I Googled "fat dancers". Of course, most of what came up were scathing articles and discussions on how so-and-so on Dancing with the Stars is fat, or this ballerina gained weight, or "should fat people be allowed to dance professionally" even. (That last one appalls me.)

Then I found this: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4196579

Danza Voluminosa, from Cuba.

Some of the criticism comes from "fat positive" bloggers, who believe that fat can be healthy, and we should love our fat bodies. They're annoyed because the leader of the troupe says they're not glorifying fat, they just want people who are larger to be able to have freedom of expression in movement just as smaller people do (paraphrased).

But it got me thinking. Now, I've never liked ballet, particularly, though I've done it. I prefer jazz and above that, I love tap. What I like best about these folks is that they are moving - expressing and getting into it totally. They are /graceful/ even at their sizes.

It will take some work to psych up to it, but I'm going to dance again. I don't know how, or where, but I'm going to do it.

Because I want to!

Redesign (mostly) complete.

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 23:48:00 +0000

Until I decide to change something, again.

I've noticed that I see much less "Under Construction" lately all over the web. That's a Good Thing, in my opinion.

I figured that if I'm going to call myself a blogger, I should blog. I don't want to make inane posts like this, however. So you can look for posts with more substance from here on out, usually.

Then again, G+ is becoming a really nifty tool, almost a blog in itself. I wonder if G+ will make "regular" blogs obsolete?

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 03:31:00 +0000

find me on G+!

The Only Sci-Fi Explanation of Hominid Aliens that Makes Scientific Sense

noreply@blogger.com (Carolyn Martin) — Thu, 21 Jul 2011 22:08:00 +0000

The Only Sci-Fi Explanation of Hominid Aliens that Makes Scientific Sense

Science fiction has a problem: everyone looks the same. I know there are a few series that have aliens that look unimaginably different from human beings. But those are the exception, not the rule. Most major sci-fi series – Star Wars, Babylon 5, Mass Effect, Star Trek, Farscape, Stargate – have alien species that are hominid.

Consider the above image. Of the twenty visible species, only five are visibly not hominid. That’s right, I count the prawn, xenomorph, predator, Cthulhu and A.L.F. as being hominid. I grant that it’s a bit of a stretch. A more conservative evaluation would be that only two of the twenty are truly hominid. The others, which we’ll call pseudo-hominids, still share the following with humans: bipedal locomotion; bilateral symmetry; a morphology of head, trunk, two arms, and two legs;upright posture; and forward-facing, stereoscopic eyes. I grant they don’t look precisely human, but the similarities are too striking to be swept into the nearest black hole.

Even the most strident supporter of parallel evolution would laugh in the face of anyone who claimed that the most intelligent species on nearly every planet in the universe just happened to evolve the exact same physiology. In series like Star Trek and Mass Effect, where interspeciesrelationships are possible, this cross-species compatibility is made even more preposterous. We all suspend our scientific disbelief to enjoy the story and the characters. No one believes for a second that the first species we meet in the cosmos is going to look just like us save for some pointy ears and a bowl haircut.

But what if many species in the universe do look like humans? How in Carl Sagan’s cosmos could we explain parallel evolution of that magnitude? Star Trek: The Next Generation, manages to give a scientifically plausible answer to the question of hominid and biologically compatible alien species in an episode entitled “The Chase.” Which lead me to develop the Hominid Panspermia Theory of Science Fiction Aliens.

My guess is that the writers of ST:TNG didn’t intend to plug a genre-spanning plot hole in “The Chase” given that it is, on its own, a pretty goofy episode. But, intentional or not, they gave me enough fuel to come up with a theory that would explain away a lot of sci-fi alien species similarity without resorting to a “that’s just how it is” answer. That said, I’m going to ignore the plot and jump right to the meaty conclusion. At the end of a string of clues, the crew of the Enterprise, along with a begrudging team of Klingons, Cardassians, and Romulans, activate a message from a past species.Star Trek lore is mixed as to what the nature of this species actually is, so I’m going to leverage some creative license and summarize it as I see fit. In short, an ancient hominid species sends a message to all future hominid species. That message is as follows:

Intelligent life evolved in the universe – once. The First Intelligent Species becamespacefaring but, unlike the adventures depicted in most science fiction, they found an uninhabited universe. Non-intelligent species were too rudimentary or too far away to be detected. Thus, as both a memorial to themselves and to enliven the universe, the First Intelligent Species seeded the necessary DNA for the eventual evolution of intelligent life in the primordial oceans of every planet that could support life. The First Intelligent Species did not only design the DNA to evolve intelligently, but to parallel their own evolution. An application of the idea that “ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny” on the scale of life itself. Our corner of the universe thereby became the home of Vulcans, Romulans, Cardassians, Humans, Betazoids, and other hominid species which are all decedents of the First Intelligent Species. Therefore, in the eyes of the universe, the many hominid species are closely related despite their disparate home planets.

The Hominid Panspermia Theory, as I call it, explains a lot. Why are most hominid species variations only cosmetic and cultural? Because their genetics are designed to prevent significant deviation from the First Intelligent Species’ mold. How can species interbreed? They share a distant ancestor the way lions and tigers do. How are there so many species at nearly the same level of technological development? Life was seeded on many planets at approximately the same time. These nagging, infuriating questions that take me out of the story can be set aside because I have a plausible scientific explanation. The Hominid Panspermia Theory also titillates my need to believe we are neither the only nor the first intelligent species in the universe.

The Hominid Panspermia Theory also helps explain how there are so many bizarre life-forms throughout the universe without invoking near-deity races like the Q. One could argue that in the time that it took the seeded planets to evolve spacefaring hominid species, many other forms of life, intelligent and otherwise, evolved as well. The result is a near-universe that is largely populated by hominid alien species and a far-universe populated by inconceivably strange alien species. Furthermore, unintentional forward-contamination from the First Intelligent Species would have allowed unguided panspermia to trigger life in unexpected and unanticipated ways. Thus, many alien first contacts with Humanity were with hominid aliens. As exploration continued outward from the seeded galaxies, stranger and more truly alien species were encountered.

Finally, the Hominid Panspermia Theory still requires abiogenesis at some point and allows for multiple occurrences. That is, human beings could theoretically be the First Intelligent Species. Or among some of the only life in the universe. You don’t have to presume humanity is the product of some previous species to believe the Hominid Panspermia Theory is a scientific possibility, nor does Hominid Panspermia Theory fall prey to the “well who seeded the seeders?” reductio.

I apply the Hominid Panspermia Theory theory to pretty much every sci-fi series I encounter that involves multiple alien species that are hominid. For series in which the species are distinctly hominid but not mammalian, such as Mass Effect, I just modify the theory so that the First Intelligent Species was arbitrarily dumping seed genetic code into every splash of primordial soup they could find with no intent to reproduce themselves and/or that their explorations recklessly forward-contaminated the universe. Life with a very similar genetic base still gets scattered about, but less planning leads to much less parallel evolution.

Thanks to the Hominid Panspermia Theory of Science Fiction Aliens, my neurotic need to explain the similarity among spacefaring species is sated and I can go back to enjoying the photon blasts and spaceship explosions.