Attribution Error

Healing comes from the inside, born of love and forgiveness.

On Silence and Threats
I can do a decade standing on my head.
But we both know that’s a lie.
I’ll be standing on my feet the entire time,
slowly snowed over with Kleenex’s.

Finely solved the whole dream issue of why it hurts so much to not have a Master…
because I had not stopped to look at what I have and to appreciate what I do have. Instead I stared long into the past and let that pain eat me instead of looking forward to building my future.

And I’m weird. I have everything I need to keep and enforce boundaries yet I step aside to allow Isa to be what she is, soft hearted. But I am the core of steel that protects her. A Master must be my equal or better for anything less will continue to cause Isa damage. There are a few odd rules involved. I’m not interested in changing the person. I will deliver a hearty smack down to idiots that cause harm but that’s punishment. If the person is to change, they must do it on their and for their own reasons. I’m not buying the idea that we change because we want the other person to love us more. Just, no.

I don’t tend to peep up and ask questions. I prefer to record and observe. This leads to many interesting observations and unusual conclusions. Which means I need more communication that normal, openness given results in openness returned.

And from now, that have to be able to deal with me. On my level. Isa might/may be their slave but I am not. I’m not always out because I am cleaning up another mess. I am capable of playing nice and acting as support role for Isa. But if I keep getting dragged out on clean up duty, then something is Fucking Wrong! Sense I am not going, I get to take the garbage out. Just don’t be garbage. Easy.

And I’m tired. Tired of prying Isa’s fingers off time and again. Tired of what I know comes after. Tired of being the bad guy, every time. Tried of doing what I know is right. She makes it hard to stay in the front. And today is one of those days where I wish I could just separate from her, like conjoined twins having surgery. There is nothing I know of that can do that. And stop right there, integration is not the answer.

It’s funny, the more I get to look at all of this, I just want to slap her. It’s so obvious that he doesn’t love her like she feels for him. She’s probably nothing more than Replacement Object #4,635; just another voice assigned with the same name, same duties. So she lied. Yup, she lied big time. No, we are not all in. It’s just her. Me, I’m tired of the cycle. I’m tired of being monkey in the middle. We gave integration a shot a long time ago and when it broke, things were worse than before. He has failed to prove he knows how to deal with all of us. All I can say to that is this; there are easier fish in the sea.

Owning a slave that has DID is a pain in the ass. I know because we are a lovable pain in the ass to our husband and boy. Twenty plus years with both of them, they’ve been there from before knowing and stayed and supported us after knowing. They did the work to gain a relationship with me. They did the work to earn a measure of trust, with me.

The buck stops with me, no matter how many times I am willing and happy to step back to let Isa just be. I don’t have her innocence or joy. I don’t have her starry eyed enthusiasm. I don’t have her child like wonder. I don’t have her sensuality. I don’t have the depth of her emotions. I don’t even have her laughter. What I do have, is an appreciation of everything she is and the will and strength to protect her. Even when it’s gonna cut her heart out again.

HaHa!! I got here First.

Autumn, you are such a dunderhead! Ha! I’m getting to this before you so suck it.  God, you already figured this out but I’m breakin’ the news here. The other day with the headphones, THAT was PTSD, a misplaced memory and emotion.

Yeah, I know! I didn’t know PTSD could come across like that. Or oh holy shit, shove me back to when I was a freeking kid! It bugged the hell out of me too because that kid…that kid isn’t supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be grown, right? Yeah, yeah, let’s not scare everyone with that tidbit. Oh, okay, yeah only one of us headmates has an age tag attached and it’s not us. We just kinda figured that we were the age the Ghost kept repeating, well till she woke up. Blah, blah, blah from 12 to 37 overnight. Yeah, I know, growing up sucks.

Anywho, what happened was a triggered emotion memory thingy. Why it hurt so blasted much? Looks so tame on the surface, doesn’t it? It’s deep. My father had a habit of giving me things that I cherished just to nitpick at them and take them away. Headphones were one of those things I was given after my mother died. Except he started nitpicking anytime I was using them. It always started soft, “you got your head in those headphones again” and tone would be one of admonishment. Then it escalated to articles about how kids lost their hearing from using headphones. Next was the rules of when I could wear them and how loud I could play them. Later, I wasn’t allowed to wear them over my ears, they had to be on the side of the head instead. I quit at that point. I got it. To make him ‘happy’ I simply stop using my headphones and I stopped listening to music when he was home. I stopped being me and that was the pain I re-experienced.

It sucks.

One Hour at the Kitchen Table

“Autumn, I still don’t want to do this. You still have this place flicking between the kitchen and that leather sofa.”

“Isa, I believe this is worth the effort. This place hasn’t been solid since the void after the space station. I’m glad that it’s still functioning at all. I was worried we lost it for good. Which do you prefer?”

“I like the kitchen. The sun shines through the window. I know it’s small but it’s just the two of us for now. It feels like there could be more. I can see grass and trees beyond the window. It’s peaceful just to look out there.”

“Alright. I’ll do my best to focus on staying in the kitchen.”

“Thank you. You just flickered it to the sofa again, I know you are trying.”

I make an effort to think back to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. Square table, hard chairs; it is a tiny kitchen, more of what I’d expect in a cottage. I pull out the chair and sit. She’s sitting down with her fingers interlaced looking out the window. Why are we here in this place; what does it represent? “Better?”

“Yes.”

“I want to explore your relationship with being a slave.” I pause. I really want to explore what I suspect, that it is a role she’s used to keep from having meaningful and intimate relationships. I see puzzle pieces in her journal and she’s the only one who can explain them. “Can you remember the first time you embraced the word ‘slave’?”

She frowns at me and shakes her head. “It wasn’t with Aries. I mean that was the core impulse but it wasn’t slave-like. It was, I wanted to please him. It was desperate and happiness and it made me feel good like I was worth something. ”

Isa stands up and sets the kettle to boil. As she leans against the counter, I watch the emotions cross her face, confusion, sadness, and avoidance. “It was with my husband before we married. You know the fights we had. You caused most of them. And I was left trying to figure out how to be better, to be what he wanted. All that was left for me was to become what it was he wanted. And it didn’t work. He didn’t want a slave at all!”

I nod and look down. I don’t want to face my own role in that, not yet anyway. The truth is I abandoned her too many times and left her on her own. Cradling my cup I sip, contemplating what to say. “What does it mean to be a slave to you?” A heartbeat of time passes “I mean, is being a slave the same as being in a relationship to you?

“What? No. Of course, it’s not the same as being in a relationship. How could it be? I get told what to do, what to think, how to be. None of that has any meaning in a relationship. ‘I’ don’t matter, you know. It’s what I can do, what I provide that matters.”

The whistle shrieks and Isa turns off the stove. She pours the water into her cup and comes back to the table and sits down. “Being a slave, Autumn, it gave me a place where I belonged. I was safe as long as I was good and obedient. It was a role I thought I knew the rules too.” Stirring her tea for a long moment before she looks at me, “I want to make people happy and take care of them. That way I am taken care of and kept safe. It just didn’t work out that way. Every time I got upset, you came out and kicked the world apart. All I was trying to do was box up the pain and keep it inside. It didn’t matter that I was hurt. They were happy. If they knew I was hurt, they would be hurt and I didn’t want that. If they knew I was hurt, they would use that against me. They could find have found a way to hurt me more.”

I want to hug her and I sit there holding my cup. What had she said ‘they would hurt her,’ hmm, there is something deeper here. It’s a distracting tangent. “Isa, what is a relationship to you?”

She sticks her finger in her tea and grimaces. “Autumn, a relationship is a lot of give and take. I give and they take. But when it’s my turn to take, it goes crazy. I know what I want. I want to be able to be me and still loved for it. I want to be able to devote everything I am but on my own terms. I want it to be acceptable that I have needs and not have to do everything on my own. I want to be able to show my soft belly and know I won’t be hurt for it. I want to be able to say ‘that hurts. can you help fix this with me.’ Is it so wrong to want a partner, an equal, a playmate in life? Isn’t that what a relationship is all about?”

 

A Hidden History

There is another blog that we own that I tend to ignore its existence, Formely Aries’ slave. Isa wrote in it from July 2007 till June 2015. It’s a raw and rough record of two D/s / M/s relationships. It’s an incomplete record of chaos, pain and heartbreak. Isa moved it to private at some point. I know parts of it was here and then removed. I’ve been looking it over, seeking clues to the past. I want to say it’s enlighting but it’s not. It is a bitter pill to swallow actually. This was us at that point in time.

But a lot is recorded, even the day our heart broke so badly that the body physical spiralled out of control with rising high blood pressure. I look back now and suspect something rather sinister was at play. Everything Isa was, was tied so deeply to an identity of a slave that walking away meant death. Fighting an unconscious death wish isn’t fun.

Somewhere in those years, I came out again to fill in for her as she collapsed internally. I’m talking about this because I’ve got a problem I’m still trying to solve. What do I do with Isa? What do I do with her desires and her natural inclination to submit, or rather to revolve around a single person as her all?

If anything that blog is proof Isa can recover and love and trust again. If anything that blog shows how much she’s grown. Dreamwalker’s tale isn’t included in that blog and not much of it is here on this one. But it’s all over her poetry, the whole story is written in every line of her poetry. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I know she was thinking ‘third times’ a charm’. I’m not sure she ever asked, what kind of charm.

And it occurs to me that I could be asking a different question: what to do with Me? Considering it is me that prevents Isa from being herself as she sees herself. Only one of has a choice, oddly. Isa is what she is, it’s not a matter of choice. But, me, I have a choice. Choice also means having responsibility. What do I do with the part of us that I feel is still unhealthy?

You know, it’s too ingrained, Isa as a submissive/slave. It’s too much a part of her foundational identity. So how do I nurture her towards a proper and healthy expression of her submission, safely without destroying the integrity of the identities in the rest of our system? How do I do that while keeping us safe?

An excerpt from Formely Aries’ slave

First Collar
Posted on September 17, 2010 by Isabella LeCour

While reading a posting about D/s lifestyle and collaring I had a flash back to my first experience of a collar. It happened back in high school. Me and my boyfriend at the time were holed up in my bedroom. We were talking and going through my stuff, for something, needle and thread I think. He reached out and grabbed a black velvet ribbon, deftly wrapped it around my neck and admired it. He told me he liked to see me that way. So simple the words he used, the eloquent expression of desire. I was so moved by his desire that I turned that ribbon into a choker style necklace and wore it proudly the next day. I remember taking it off when we broke up. It had become the symbol of our relationship and I never wore it again once we broke up. But I have never forgotten the experience nor have I been able to shake a preference for chokers. Every choker I wear, I remember him and that velvet ribbon.

It may not be a first collar in a traditional sense in the lifestyle. We were just teenagers with no sense of BDSM, at least I was not and I was the one more sexually experienced. It is instead the first time I submitted to another’s will with a passion. It does strike me as ironic that this memory would be enshrined in myself. I wanted to give everything I was or ever would have to him. Those were my first stirrings of my deep dark submissive passions.

Those feeling were unleashed. I sought them out and like-minded people. I have wore collars for other’s since then. The feeling of belonging is similar yet nowhere near as strong. The shear rightness of it, of my submission has never changed. Kink has been in my soul for a long time.

 

Emotional Detonation

I didn’t realize she had been riding on my shoulder, listening to the music the same as I, until she screamed in pain, revolting against my efforts to calm her down. She tried to solve the pain like a puzzle, surely he didn’t mean it the way it was taken. Surely this was a misunderstanding. None of this stopped the screaming pain flying out of her. All the walls I built up to contain her kept collapsing. How the hell did she get out?

She can hear His words even if it is I who reads them. I didn’t realize she was right there under the surface, waiting. But it took both of us off guard that our husband somehow was responded to as if, well as if he was Dreamwalker, an ultimate authority.

I’m still working it out. We had gotten headphones for Christmas and we were listening to music another headmate pulled up. I think most of us were just enjoying the peace that comes from listening and being able to listen when everyone is home. But these headphones are really good. I don’t hear the rest of the world around me and we were zoned out. Our husband came in talking to us and after pulling the headphones said..”blah blah blah…had left to go to the store and you’ve had your head stuck in the headphones. blah blah blah”.

It’s just innocent banter. Nothing mean meant by it but that’s not how it was taken. I know now that our reactions are more about us than the other person, most of the time. She responded as if she had been admonished for enjoying something, as if she should have known better than to sit around enjoying something as simple as music, as if he was the authority she should look towards to determine how she should act. In short she respond similarly to Dreamwalker, which sadly is how she had often responded to her parents and particularity her father mostly when I wasn’t out front fighting these battles.

I took her outside to calm down. Didn’t work. I took her to lay down for a quick nap. Didn’t work. She wasn’t having anything to do with being placated. She couldn’t speak. I wouldn’t let her. All she would have done was screech. So she cleaned and got frustrated cleaning as if to scrub away her sins. She wouldn’t go back into the box and I couldn’t leave her be. It took forever to convince her she just might be wrong and that she needed to talk to him, to explain. She’d already screamed twice “Leave me alone!” and shut down from talking to our husband.

I felt like a mother hand holding a child that’s handling a ball of hot pain. I’m left wondering how old she is to be so incapable of handling hurt feelings. Why striking out is instinctual and why does it come with such expectations of retaliation? Our husband had no idea what was going on. She masked all the pain as long as she didn’t speak. But to open her lips, it was like the flood waters rushing out.

I know there are a couple different kids inside. I know who this one is but this isn’t the same one I’m used to dealing with. This was a younger version, a much younger version, a far more rebellious version full of pain. I’ve got clues now, clues on how to go about working on things to help us cope better. I’ve an a area of investigation. I need to find a way to unhook her reliance on an outside authority. But how do I do that to a child? I know how dangerous this behavior is to our relationships with others. It almost destroyed our marriage before and it did fully destroy our relationship with Dreamwalker.

I know suppressing her isn’t good in the long term. She’ll learn ways to get around me like she did today. I understand now why she has a hard time letting go of Him. She’s not seeing though adult eyes on this. Just a child’s view with all the expectations and feelings and now dealing with abandonment that still screams ‘you promised.’

No wonder we’ve been sleeping with the stuffed doggie lately.

I did get her to talk to our husband. And she explained as best she could. She at least did turn to him, in a measured way. I could feel she didn’t fully trust him and couldn’t fully accept that everything was really okay. She didn’t like being forced to talk and told him. But she did calm down and to calm down enough to go back inside even though she radiated her sadness for quite a bit.

All in all, I think today was a success. I have enough past history to show me how this would have blow up in my face. This time I could see what was going on. This time, I’m rather thankful of my loose connection to emotions as I wasn’t swapped down in them. Hell, I’m even thankful on working to let go of my tight grip on anger as my go to emotion. I’m thankful the lessons I’ve been learning have proven worth it.

Still so much more to do. I know we can. We can do this. All of us, we can do this, together.

Where did the time go?

Yesterday. It was yesterday. I’m sure of it. At least it was my yesterday. I blinked out. Three times. I had been fighting off the fuzz for a few hours and then, blink. The clock tattles on me. 15 mins here, a half hour there and later an hour and a half. The last one really bothered me. I was sitting in my chair and debating about a growling belly. And I blinked. The belly was fine.

Who, what, I have no idea. It’s still unnerving, like the old days where I’d lie to myself and cover this all up and make up something to fill in the time. I know better now. I blinked. What did I do? Hell, what did I eat? No, seriously, what did I eat? I looked and couldn’t find anything. Did I drink something instead? I have no idea. None. I don’t want a sneak eater. That will lead everyone into revolt again. Revolt means no one eats which means I starve and not even know it.

I can’t even baby cam the house. But I want too. What did I do?

Blink.

More thoughts about DID

A discussion group I’m in for DID, a member posted the video below about DID. I think this is an amazing find and one of the closest I’ve ever seen that describes me. I’m sharing this here so folks can get a better idea as to what it is and mostly, what it is not.

It took a bit to get through that video. The best explanation I’ve seen in a very long time. The more I related to what she was saying the harder it became for me to stay awake. It’s hard to face up to it.

But a couple of things I’d like to address, I think of all of this as being on a spectrum, with PTSD being one point and DID another point further on the line. Yet, CPTSD is somewhere before DID on this spectrum or crossroads of disassociative traumas. I believe that CPTSD is a part of DID or at least I feel they go hand in hand or one before the other. And the older we get, additional traumas have a chance to morph into CPTSD because it also reinsures due to past traumas.

I really appreciate that she mentioned the rules. I think that is an under-awareness of how much DID is actually built on rules. At least it is for me. Keeping hidden and keeping silent were the top two most important rules. But there are so many other rules, all designed to keep us safe and staying safe was the point of all of this. There is an order to the chaos.

About the whole bag thing, I recall a time before I could interact with the other parts of me. There wasn’t a wall or a bag or a car. It was just empty missing time, the vagueness of emotions, headaches, troubles and lots of confusions with other people and fighting with others. I was on the defensive near constantly. I hadn’t done or said something someone else said I did and I was sure I hadn’t and they were sure I had.

Maybe I’m weird but the bag thing doesn’t quite work for me. I think of myself like a giant with people inside who want control of the giant so we’ve gotten into body fights rather severe enough to land us into the floor because it became a free for all. And switching is rather sudden with massive headaches, sneaky as in waking up different, blinking – yeah literally blink and that’s all it takes- those tend to produce the worse headaches when switching out again or most recently, chair riders, having another ridding on your shoulder, sharing your mental space, eyes and ears.

I think there isn’t going to be a one size fits all sort of answer to what fits and what doesn’t in DID. I feel there is a sort of healing progression as well. I went from not having a clue to getting a clue to massive fights to settling down, to communicating and learning what we need as a system, to working on individual issues and problems.