Sunday, November 14, 2004
Looking back
We were hospitalized by choice a decade ago. Looking back I can see how our experiences paralleled those of people who first discover they’re sharing their bodies with a number of alters. We discovered there were more than the original four of us as terrible secrets cascaded out of hidden places. Some memories we relived as flashbacks. Other events we just remembered. Still more were brought back to us by alters long hidden outside our comfortable system of four.
The shock of these kinds of discovery is sometimes insurmountable. Multiples have a high suicide rate. But so do most childhood abuse survivors.
As our system guardian and defender before this time of change I alone remembered why we hate being held down, why we freak out when a shirt gets stuck as we pull it off over our head. I understood why we kicked a hole through a solid wooden door locked as a joke by a friend. I grasped the significance of Lillie putting both hands crossed at the wrists above her head when making love, a gesture of helpless bondage.
I held the key to our secrets and our rage. Suddenly my key was useless. I sensed we would soon know the worst thing there was to know. Knowledge pursued me in my dreams until I couldn’t sleep. I was a failure. We finally acknowledged our existence was not a natural occurrence on bell curve of human condition. Like other multiples we were born of pain and violence.
Under the pressure of flashbacks and emerging memories Lillie’s marital problems worsened. We used it as an excuse to start therapy. We were desperate to find someone we could trust to guide us through this minefield.
By our third session we knew we couldn’t afford to wait. I leaned forward assessing Dr. Dwon one last time before disclosing. He would have much to do with whether we survived the next few days. But a lifetime of hiding was too strong. I couldn’t speak the words.
“el take ops, I can’t do this,” I said.
el moved restlessly, settling into the body, the place, the need.
“Dr. Dwon, I have something I need to tell you,” he said.
He smiled encouragingly. “All right, go ahead.”
“ummm,” el paused, hoping for help from me or Lillie. “I’m MPD,” he blurted out.
Running a hand over his face as if clearing away cobwebs Dr. Dwon leaned forward. “Who told you that? Who diagnosed you?”
“Uhh, I did. I was in therapy 20 years ago but they didn’t get it back then. We read a lot. We’re MPD, no doubt,” el said.
Still rattled, Dr. Dwon blinked, thought deeply. He began asking cautious questions. We all listened. I don’t remember the questions but I do remember his concern and I remember the moment he believed us.
“I have no experience with MPD,” he said. “But I can refer you.”
I wrested ops back from el and started for the door.
“No. We’re not starting over, it’s too late! If we walk out now we’ll keep going. We can’t go through this again, trusting someone else,” I said.
Dr. Dwon sighed.
“All right, but I’ll need to get support. I need to be able to talk to colleagues about this.”
“No!” I shouted. “I only trust you.”
el wrested ops from me, walked back across the room and sat down calmly.
“Sure,” he said. “Talk to whomever you need. But we’re not starting over. We don’t have time.”
Dr. Dwon looked at us closely.
“Who am I talking to?” he asked. He spoke quietly as if afraid we might bolt for cover. He would ask the same question again and again in the ensuing months. Eventually he learned subtle clues to help identify each of us, but our need to hide was so ingrained he was often reduced to asking who had ops.
el considered his question. Although he used his name as a nickname on IRC, he’d never spoken it aloud to another human being. You can't hide if people know your name.
“el,” he whispered. “My name is el.” Dr. Rising was as fascinated as el was frightened.
“Hello el,” he said softly. Leaning forward he asked, “Who else is there?”
“Shel, Lillie and Baby,” el said. “You’ve already met Shel.” He was trembling all over. Tears threatened to further erode his dignity.
el and I switched frequently as we revealed our inner world and current crisis. I admitted I was suicidal but not that el was too. He'd just taken a frightening leap revealing his existence. It felt wrong to speak for him. We both just wanted to feel peaceful, preferably far from Lillie’s spouse, someplace where flashbacks couldn’t reach us. Death at least sounded peaceful. But we knew firsthand the legacy of pain a parent’s suicide left. None of us wanted to do that to our own kids. We loved them far too much.
“What do you do to stop when you feel suicidal?” Dr. Dwon asked.
“We go online,” I said. In those days mostly geeks and techies frequented chatrooms so I explained about IRC. “We’re safer there than anywhere else.”
el grabbed ops. “A few days ago an IRC friend of ours who lives in Sweden talked Shel out of cutting,” he said.
“I think we should consider hospitalization,” Dr. Dwon said.
“No,” I was up and on my way out the door again.
el took ops from me again. It was really starting to piss me off.
"I promise I’ll call you if it gets bad,” el said. He was hedging, buying time.
“Can I ask Lillie a question?” Dr. Dwon asked.
el nodded and handed ops to Lillie.
“Lillie does your husband know you’re MPD?” Dr. Dwon asked.
I grabbed ops and stood up. “No! And we don’t want him to know,” I snarled.
Dr. Dwon tried reasoning. “But he could be a real asset in your therapy.”
“More like a real ass,” I snapped.
Dr. Dwon couldn’t help smiling.
The next time we saw Dr. Dwon he had us take a test to determine how depressed we were. We all participated answering questions. When we were done he totaled our score and sighed.
I sensed where this was going. I knew he could legally hospitalize us without our consent if he thought we were in danger of harming ourselves.
“I think you would be safer in the hospital,” he said.
“No,” I said. I was gripped by an overwhelming sense of doom.
el took ops. “How long would we be there?” he asked. We all knew it would be better if we went voluntarily.
“It depends. Some people are there just a few days,” Dr. Dwon said.
“It didn’t help last time,” I said grabbing ops back.
“You were hospitalized before?” Dr. Dwon asked.
“A couple of times... it didn’t help”. I felt trapped. We had to face our demons or die. I still thought death might be preferable to knowing our darkest secrets.
“I’m not comfortable with what I’m seeing here. It would just be until you’re safe,” Dr. Dwon said.
“No.”
“Who am I talking to?”
“el,” I lied. (This was during my sixteen-year-old days.)
“Well el, will you call me if things get worse?” He handed us his home number.
Glaring el took ops back from me. “OK,” el agreed. Inside he said, “He really cares what happens to us Shel. It’s a rarity in therapists.”
“NO, NO, NO,” I screamed back at him.
In the end I agreed being in the hospital to work this through was safer than being at home where either Lillie’s husband was going to snap and kill us or push me to do it for him.
Dr. Dwon had no idea just how badly that relationship had deteriorated. In true dissociative fashion we hadn’t talked about that aspect of our life. Nor had we disclosed to Lillie’s husband we were MPD. He only knew we were being hospitalized because we were suicidal. As always he was tenderly concerned.
“This is because of something that happened before you met me right?” he demanded.
“Yes,” Lillie said. Inside she said to el and I, “We should tell him. Dr. Dwon’s right, he should know. It might make things better.”
I’m not telling him anything! I said.
“Maybe Lillie’s right. I think it’s time he knew,” el said.
Outside Lillie’s husband was still talking. “At least it’s not something scary like that movie 'Three Faces of Eve'!” he said.
We kept silent. What was there to say?
The shock of these kinds of discovery is sometimes insurmountable. Multiples have a high suicide rate. But so do most childhood abuse survivors.
As our system guardian and defender before this time of change I alone remembered why we hate being held down, why we freak out when a shirt gets stuck as we pull it off over our head. I understood why we kicked a hole through a solid wooden door locked as a joke by a friend. I grasped the significance of Lillie putting both hands crossed at the wrists above her head when making love, a gesture of helpless bondage.
I held the key to our secrets and our rage. Suddenly my key was useless. I sensed we would soon know the worst thing there was to know. Knowledge pursued me in my dreams until I couldn’t sleep. I was a failure. We finally acknowledged our existence was not a natural occurrence on bell curve of human condition. Like other multiples we were born of pain and violence.
Under the pressure of flashbacks and emerging memories Lillie’s marital problems worsened. We used it as an excuse to start therapy. We were desperate to find someone we could trust to guide us through this minefield.
By our third session we knew we couldn’t afford to wait. I leaned forward assessing Dr. Dwon one last time before disclosing. He would have much to do with whether we survived the next few days. But a lifetime of hiding was too strong. I couldn’t speak the words.
“el take ops, I can’t do this,” I said.
el moved restlessly, settling into the body, the place, the need.
“Dr. Dwon, I have something I need to tell you,” he said.
He smiled encouragingly. “All right, go ahead.”
“ummm,” el paused, hoping for help from me or Lillie. “I’m MPD,” he blurted out.
Running a hand over his face as if clearing away cobwebs Dr. Dwon leaned forward. “Who told you that? Who diagnosed you?”
“Uhh, I did. I was in therapy 20 years ago but they didn’t get it back then. We read a lot. We’re MPD, no doubt,” el said.
Still rattled, Dr. Dwon blinked, thought deeply. He began asking cautious questions. We all listened. I don’t remember the questions but I do remember his concern and I remember the moment he believed us.
“I have no experience with MPD,” he said. “But I can refer you.”
I wrested ops back from el and started for the door.
“No. We’re not starting over, it’s too late! If we walk out now we’ll keep going. We can’t go through this again, trusting someone else,” I said.
Dr. Dwon sighed.
“All right, but I’ll need to get support. I need to be able to talk to colleagues about this.”
“No!” I shouted. “I only trust you.”
el wrested ops from me, walked back across the room and sat down calmly.
“Sure,” he said. “Talk to whomever you need. But we’re not starting over. We don’t have time.”
Dr. Dwon looked at us closely.
“Who am I talking to?” he asked. He spoke quietly as if afraid we might bolt for cover. He would ask the same question again and again in the ensuing months. Eventually he learned subtle clues to help identify each of us, but our need to hide was so ingrained he was often reduced to asking who had ops.
el considered his question. Although he used his name as a nickname on IRC, he’d never spoken it aloud to another human being. You can't hide if people know your name.
“el,” he whispered. “My name is el.” Dr. Rising was as fascinated as el was frightened.
“Hello el,” he said softly. Leaning forward he asked, “Who else is there?”
“Shel, Lillie and Baby,” el said. “You’ve already met Shel.” He was trembling all over. Tears threatened to further erode his dignity.
el and I switched frequently as we revealed our inner world and current crisis. I admitted I was suicidal but not that el was too. He'd just taken a frightening leap revealing his existence. It felt wrong to speak for him. We both just wanted to feel peaceful, preferably far from Lillie’s spouse, someplace where flashbacks couldn’t reach us. Death at least sounded peaceful. But we knew firsthand the legacy of pain a parent’s suicide left. None of us wanted to do that to our own kids. We loved them far too much.
“What do you do to stop when you feel suicidal?” Dr. Dwon asked.
“We go online,” I said. In those days mostly geeks and techies frequented chatrooms so I explained about IRC. “We’re safer there than anywhere else.”
el grabbed ops. “A few days ago an IRC friend of ours who lives in Sweden talked Shel out of cutting,” he said.
“I think we should consider hospitalization,” Dr. Dwon said.
“No,” I was up and on my way out the door again.
el took ops from me again. It was really starting to piss me off.
"I promise I’ll call you if it gets bad,” el said. He was hedging, buying time.
“Can I ask Lillie a question?” Dr. Dwon asked.
el nodded and handed ops to Lillie.
“Lillie does your husband know you’re MPD?” Dr. Dwon asked.
I grabbed ops and stood up. “No! And we don’t want him to know,” I snarled.
Dr. Dwon tried reasoning. “But he could be a real asset in your therapy.”
“More like a real ass,” I snapped.
Dr. Dwon couldn’t help smiling.
The next time we saw Dr. Dwon he had us take a test to determine how depressed we were. We all participated answering questions. When we were done he totaled our score and sighed.
I sensed where this was going. I knew he could legally hospitalize us without our consent if he thought we were in danger of harming ourselves.
“I think you would be safer in the hospital,” he said.
“No,” I said. I was gripped by an overwhelming sense of doom.
el took ops. “How long would we be there?” he asked. We all knew it would be better if we went voluntarily.
“It depends. Some people are there just a few days,” Dr. Dwon said.
“It didn’t help last time,” I said grabbing ops back.
“You were hospitalized before?” Dr. Dwon asked.
“A couple of times... it didn’t help”. I felt trapped. We had to face our demons or die. I still thought death might be preferable to knowing our darkest secrets.
“I’m not comfortable with what I’m seeing here. It would just be until you’re safe,” Dr. Dwon said.
“No.”
“Who am I talking to?”
“el,” I lied. (This was during my sixteen-year-old days.)
“Well el, will you call me if things get worse?” He handed us his home number.
Glaring el took ops back from me. “OK,” el agreed. Inside he said, “He really cares what happens to us Shel. It’s a rarity in therapists.”
“NO, NO, NO,” I screamed back at him.
In the end I agreed being in the hospital to work this through was safer than being at home where either Lillie’s husband was going to snap and kill us or push me to do it for him.
Dr. Dwon had no idea just how badly that relationship had deteriorated. In true dissociative fashion we hadn’t talked about that aspect of our life. Nor had we disclosed to Lillie’s husband we were MPD. He only knew we were being hospitalized because we were suicidal. As always he was tenderly concerned.
“This is because of something that happened before you met me right?” he demanded.
“Yes,” Lillie said. Inside she said to el and I, “We should tell him. Dr. Dwon’s right, he should know. It might make things better.”
I’m not telling him anything! I said.
“Maybe Lillie’s right. I think it’s time he knew,” el said.
Outside Lillie’s husband was still talking. “At least it’s not something scary like that movie 'Three Faces of Eve'!” he said.
We kept silent. What was there to say?
Medicine Song
by el
Circle moon.
Trees reach for sky secrets.
Mountains fold into dark valleys.
I used to sneak out in moonlight,
dark and shadow less scary than my room.
A fey child,
I sat beneath a pine,
its lowered branches my circle of protection.
No one could find me here.
No one knew my secret place.
Pungent dirt.
Pine smell.
Rough bark.
Sap jelled on a branch,
twisted by someone who didn’t know trees bleed too.
Earth, twigs, stones caress my feet.
Safe for now, hidden by medicine things.
Childhood’s magic spread at my feet,
Feathers,
bits of glass worn smooth by the ocean,
stones worn smooth by my hand.
I slept, my cheek against the tree,
bark imprinting my cheek,
tree wisdom imprinting my brain.
Became one, two, three, and me.
A circle of protection no matter what the need.
No more stone heart.
No tears.
Handing off the burden of breathing,
Knowing,
needing,
caring.
The world contracts
A child is abused in dark moments stolen from daylight.
Inside, sunlight and laughter, a child never seen.
“I just don’t know what’s wrong with her!
She’s so shy, quiet, backward.....”
Whispered conferences, worried looks, hasty assurances.
A conspiracy of pretended concern deflects guilt.
I sat silent in the grass watching
sunlight on my arms,
ants on my toes.
There was no language for it,
only silence,
only yearning.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
Circle moon.
Trees reach for sky secrets.
Mountains fold into dark valleys.
I used to sneak out in moonlight,
dark and shadow less scary than my room.
A fey child,
I sat beneath a pine,
its lowered branches my circle of protection.
No one could find me here.
No one knew my secret place.
Pungent dirt.
Pine smell.
Rough bark.
Sap jelled on a branch,
twisted by someone who didn’t know trees bleed too.
Earth, twigs, stones caress my feet.
Safe for now, hidden by medicine things.
Childhood’s magic spread at my feet,
Feathers,
bits of glass worn smooth by the ocean,
stones worn smooth by my hand.
I slept, my cheek against the tree,
bark imprinting my cheek,
tree wisdom imprinting my brain.
Became one, two, three, and me.
A circle of protection no matter what the need.
No more stone heart.
No tears.
Handing off the burden of breathing,
Knowing,
needing,
caring.
The world contracts
A child is abused in dark moments stolen from daylight.
Inside, sunlight and laughter, a child never seen.
“I just don’t know what’s wrong with her!
She’s so shy, quiet, backward.....”
Whispered conferences, worried looks, hasty assurances.
A conspiracy of pretended concern deflects guilt.
I sat silent in the grass watching
sunlight on my arms,
ants on my toes.
There was no language for it,
only silence,
only yearning.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
A week in the life of
Thursday.
Eyvonne and I went to my Clanmother’s house to help replace a leaking roof on an addition. We figured the job would take four or five hours. It took seven. We were exhausted when we finally got home. Because it was a warm day for mid November I’d left a note telling the kids to let the fire in the stove go out so I could clean the chimney.
When we finally got home it was dark and turning colder. Owl had worked overtime and just arrived himself. Sarah, who’d only been living with us a month or so, had no idea what to do. She’d been trying to work up the courage to start a fire because the house was getting cold. Eyvonne and I gathered up brushes and took the stovepipe apart as Owl started supper. We were pathetically grateful to smell food cooking.
Friday.
el and I were developing a project for a client. We swapped off every hour or so to check each other’s work. We’re both dyslexic. Neither of us can even spell that word. Have you ever tried to look up a word you can’t spell? At a local flea market I was attracted by a sign that read “Equana.” It was a moth-eaten taxidermied Iguana. It sat next to a stuffed armadillo. There was no sign for that. I wasn’t sure if the spelling of armadillo totally defeated them or if they just didn’t know what it was.
I wanted to buy it for Thunder for Christmas but Eyvonne came as close to throwing a fit in public as any of us Qs had ever seen, much to the amusement of the vendors. I backed off but when I told Thunder about it he groaned. It would have been a boon for his dorm room.
Anyway, I thank the geek deities for spellcheckers. Without one I too might be led as far astray as Equana. When we taught creative writing seminars for sixth graders their classroom teachers wouldn’t allow them to use spellcheckers. I argued about it with them. I’d gone through school getting those big red ‘Ds’ on my paper. I figured teaching a kid to use a tool to avoid that kind of humiliation was pretty empowering.
“If your students were learning to dig ditches would you hand them a shovel when you could teach them to run a backhoe?” I argued.
“It’s not the same,” the teachers. “Anyway those kids are just lazy.”
I had to control an urge to commit mayhem. These were professional people with big time college degrees. Kids were supposed to be their vocational call but they didn’t understand basic stuff about how the brain works. If they confused dyslexia with lack of effort they shouldn’t be teaching.
“These kids have real problems. I know, I’m dyslexic,” I said.
“They’re hopeless. They know something one day and the next it’s all new to them,” the reading specialist complained.
Alarm bells sounded in my head. That pattern was ‘way too familiar. It’s one of the drawbacks of being multiple. Sometimes information just doesn’t get shared efficiently.
Once while teaching a creative writing series at an elementary school I’d opened my eyes knowing I had just lost time. It wasn’t long. The kids were still focused on me but with quizzical expressions. I had no idea what we were presenting. Neither did el or Lillie. Baby was quietly amusing herself inside. I covered my confusion with just enough honesty to be believable.
I grinned sheepishly and said, “Uhh, middle age rots. Anybody wanna tell me what I just said?”
Even the other teachers laughed. It took a minute to get my stride but the kids didn’t care. Losing your place is human. Students enjoyed our classes. We encouraged them be themselves. Most worked hard. Some were really talented. With effort some could become writers. The ones with lots of talent already knew it. It was the quiet ones and the ones who acted out who intrigued us. A little praise at the right time might convince them they had something important to say.
The first time Sam wrote a full page I was ecstatic. That’s a big risk for a sixth grader still reversing a third of his letters. Sam’s teacher pegged him as a kid with an attitude problem. Competent one day, the next he refused to even try. I suspected his attitude hid a battered self-esteem. He seemed dissociative. But how was I to prompt help from a group of adults entrenched in prejudice?
I told my boss I suspected Sam had serious problems.
“Yeah he’s got problems, he’s brilliant but unmotivated. He knew this stuff yesterday. What the hell happened overnight?” he said.
Maybe Sam was molested. Maybe his dad hit him or beat up his mom, I thought. But saying that aloud risked revealing my own pain. It was a risk I wasn’t ready to take back then.
“People like him shouldn’t be teachers,” I shouted inside.
“He’s burned out,” Lillie said.
“Then he should quit!”
I was angry with the adults in Sams life, including myself. But I was also angry with all the teachers, ministers and other adults who’d made similar judgements sealing my childhood fate. Looking at Sam was like looking in a mirror. I was very bright but mostly disinterested in school. Sometimes I got so bored I walked out. I flashed a square of white paper at any teacher who raised an eyebrow. It was my ticket to our salvation. I walked out of the school into the fields beyond where I stripped off offending dresses and revealing jeans and T-shirts hidden beneath. I stole precious days in sunlit fields and woods. Cradled in the roots of trees we read Mitchner, Walt Whitman, Shelley, and Masefield, their words soothing our collective soul. We never once got caught. I was adept at forging our father’s signature on excuse notes and report cards.
Columbine assured skipping school was almost impossible for my students.
Some of my students were so conditioned to being labeled “bad” they didn’t how to handle our casual acceptance. Their unruly behavior dissipated when I met their gaze, making sure I spoke directly to them.
“Hey it’s uncool to do that,” I’d say, and then go right on teaching. I never got angry with them. I always insisted on nothing but their best. Every one of my students wrote something, even those labeled learning disabled or behavioral problems. At the end of class they gave us gifts, tears in their eyes. Years later they still slip into easy conversation when we meet.
“At least we’ve maybe helped a little,” I said to Eyvonne.
But I feel like it’s not enough when I know there are children being raped right now. This minute. Totally disconnecting from what is happening to them. It makes me want to scream. I weep instead. Eyvonne holds me close and lets me cry. I hate crying. It feels like the ultimate defeat.
“It’s time to tell our story. For all the Sams,” I whisper.
“And for us,” el agreed.
Still Friday.
Our closest friend stopped to drop his dog off for us to puppy sit. Undergoing chemo in an attempt to force Hepatitis C into remission he was on his way to a liver care clinic in Pittsburgh the next morning.
“You look really tired,” I said. “Want me to go along?”
“I’ll be all right. I’ll drive till I can’t anymore and then get a motel room.”
Eyvonne and I exchanged glances.
“You sure you don’t want company?” I said.
“Nah….” But I could see he was wavering.
“It would take me like two minutes to grab my backpack and be ready.”
“OK, I guess so.”
Friday night was about driving. It was windy and after a certain point the road was unfamiliar. el and I kept swapping off driving. We found a motel a half hour from the city and crashed for the night. Our friend sleeps with the TV on. When I woke up at 3 a.m. Stargate was on. I watched it. I looked at him curled up in the other bed. He wasn’t even snoring.
Saturday.
We made it to the hospital a half hour early. We needn’t have bothered. His doctor, who flew in from Chicago once a month to run this experimental clinic, was already two hours behind. We went outside walked around the city, sat in a park soaking up sun, called Eyvonne to see how the dogs were getting along and split a fish sandwich at locally famous Armond’s. When he finally saw his doctor it was good news, his blood levels were great. If things continued to go well he might be a transplant candidate. It was a happy ride home.
Sunday.
We tried catching up on this book. We are perpetually behind our self-mandated word count production goal. In other words I was freaking out because I really want to finish this on deadline with at least 50,0000 words. Part of freaking out involved tons of ice cream and coffee.
Monday.
Eyvonne and I finished a complex project for a client and then had lunch with my former counselor at a new restaurant nearby. The three of us spent two hours laughing before we realized the day was slipping away. I still needed to drive an hour to Williamsport to pick up printer cartridges to complete a different project for another client. Eyvonne went to work. She has a 3-hour-a-day cleaning job at a nursing home nearby.
Tuesday.
Eyvonne and I dropped the complex project off at the printer’s over an hour away. I love rural life. Everything is at least an hour away. We stopped for groceries on the way home. Lillie took ops for grocery shopping. If I do it we end up with junk food. If el does it we get stuff like apples and carrots. Since Eyvonne thinks chocolate is a food group she’s a wild card. Lillie figures the best strategy is for her to take charge. We end up driving across town for Feta cheese salad dressing to satisfy Eyvonne’s latest craving.
“It’s almost as good as chocolate,” she says.
“Yeah it is,” Lillie agrees. “Make sure our little ones don’t get mesmerized by the lobster tank OK?”
Eyvonne nods. “Sure.”
Sometimes even with the best planning shopping is still Q-hazardous. Young alters are attracted to the sights and sounds. Just like outside kids they plead for things like cookies and candy. “Can’t we have this?”
“No,” Lillie says. “We’ve already got ice cream for a treat.”
“But we want Twix bars too.” They line up all cute and bat their eyes. They also know I love Twix bars and may be persuaded to throw in with them.
“No,” Lillie says firmly glaring at me to defy her.
“Awww,” I start. “Look how cute they are Lil.”
“Shel, you’re blocking progress.”
Shopping can take us a long time. But even so we don’t hold a candle to Eyvonne. She’s legendary. She can spend fifteen minutes comparing bath soaps.
Wednesday.
None of us remembers Wednesday. No one. Not one single blessed solitary minute. At least they’re not talking about it if they do. Maybe documenting an entire week wasn’t such a great idea.
“Shit, what’s up now?” I groan.
“Whatever it is we’ll deal with it,” Lillie says.
el nods but he has little worry lines next to his eyes.
The lost day could mean someone is hiding something. It could mean we have a new alter who stole a day. It could just mean the day was so unremarkable no one remembers it. But I have this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
Eyvonne and I went to my Clanmother’s house to help replace a leaking roof on an addition. We figured the job would take four or five hours. It took seven. We were exhausted when we finally got home. Because it was a warm day for mid November I’d left a note telling the kids to let the fire in the stove go out so I could clean the chimney.
When we finally got home it was dark and turning colder. Owl had worked overtime and just arrived himself. Sarah, who’d only been living with us a month or so, had no idea what to do. She’d been trying to work up the courage to start a fire because the house was getting cold. Eyvonne and I gathered up brushes and took the stovepipe apart as Owl started supper. We were pathetically grateful to smell food cooking.
Friday.
el and I were developing a project for a client. We swapped off every hour or so to check each other’s work. We’re both dyslexic. Neither of us can even spell that word. Have you ever tried to look up a word you can’t spell? At a local flea market I was attracted by a sign that read “Equana.” It was a moth-eaten taxidermied Iguana. It sat next to a stuffed armadillo. There was no sign for that. I wasn’t sure if the spelling of armadillo totally defeated them or if they just didn’t know what it was.
I wanted to buy it for Thunder for Christmas but Eyvonne came as close to throwing a fit in public as any of us Qs had ever seen, much to the amusement of the vendors. I backed off but when I told Thunder about it he groaned. It would have been a boon for his dorm room.
Anyway, I thank the geek deities for spellcheckers. Without one I too might be led as far astray as Equana. When we taught creative writing seminars for sixth graders their classroom teachers wouldn’t allow them to use spellcheckers. I argued about it with them. I’d gone through school getting those big red ‘Ds’ on my paper. I figured teaching a kid to use a tool to avoid that kind of humiliation was pretty empowering.
“If your students were learning to dig ditches would you hand them a shovel when you could teach them to run a backhoe?” I argued.
“It’s not the same,” the teachers. “Anyway those kids are just lazy.”
I had to control an urge to commit mayhem. These were professional people with big time college degrees. Kids were supposed to be their vocational call but they didn’t understand basic stuff about how the brain works. If they confused dyslexia with lack of effort they shouldn’t be teaching.
“These kids have real problems. I know, I’m dyslexic,” I said.
“They’re hopeless. They know something one day and the next it’s all new to them,” the reading specialist complained.
Alarm bells sounded in my head. That pattern was ‘way too familiar. It’s one of the drawbacks of being multiple. Sometimes information just doesn’t get shared efficiently.
Once while teaching a creative writing series at an elementary school I’d opened my eyes knowing I had just lost time. It wasn’t long. The kids were still focused on me but with quizzical expressions. I had no idea what we were presenting. Neither did el or Lillie. Baby was quietly amusing herself inside. I covered my confusion with just enough honesty to be believable.
I grinned sheepishly and said, “Uhh, middle age rots. Anybody wanna tell me what I just said?”
Even the other teachers laughed. It took a minute to get my stride but the kids didn’t care. Losing your place is human. Students enjoyed our classes. We encouraged them be themselves. Most worked hard. Some were really talented. With effort some could become writers. The ones with lots of talent already knew it. It was the quiet ones and the ones who acted out who intrigued us. A little praise at the right time might convince them they had something important to say.
The first time Sam wrote a full page I was ecstatic. That’s a big risk for a sixth grader still reversing a third of his letters. Sam’s teacher pegged him as a kid with an attitude problem. Competent one day, the next he refused to even try. I suspected his attitude hid a battered self-esteem. He seemed dissociative. But how was I to prompt help from a group of adults entrenched in prejudice?
I told my boss I suspected Sam had serious problems.
“Yeah he’s got problems, he’s brilliant but unmotivated. He knew this stuff yesterday. What the hell happened overnight?” he said.
Maybe Sam was molested. Maybe his dad hit him or beat up his mom, I thought. But saying that aloud risked revealing my own pain. It was a risk I wasn’t ready to take back then.
“People like him shouldn’t be teachers,” I shouted inside.
“He’s burned out,” Lillie said.
“Then he should quit!”
I was angry with the adults in Sams life, including myself. But I was also angry with all the teachers, ministers and other adults who’d made similar judgements sealing my childhood fate. Looking at Sam was like looking in a mirror. I was very bright but mostly disinterested in school. Sometimes I got so bored I walked out. I flashed a square of white paper at any teacher who raised an eyebrow. It was my ticket to our salvation. I walked out of the school into the fields beyond where I stripped off offending dresses and revealing jeans and T-shirts hidden beneath. I stole precious days in sunlit fields and woods. Cradled in the roots of trees we read Mitchner, Walt Whitman, Shelley, and Masefield, their words soothing our collective soul. We never once got caught. I was adept at forging our father’s signature on excuse notes and report cards.
Columbine assured skipping school was almost impossible for my students.
Some of my students were so conditioned to being labeled “bad” they didn’t how to handle our casual acceptance. Their unruly behavior dissipated when I met their gaze, making sure I spoke directly to them.
“Hey it’s uncool to do that,” I’d say, and then go right on teaching. I never got angry with them. I always insisted on nothing but their best. Every one of my students wrote something, even those labeled learning disabled or behavioral problems. At the end of class they gave us gifts, tears in their eyes. Years later they still slip into easy conversation when we meet.
“At least we’ve maybe helped a little,” I said to Eyvonne.
But I feel like it’s not enough when I know there are children being raped right now. This minute. Totally disconnecting from what is happening to them. It makes me want to scream. I weep instead. Eyvonne holds me close and lets me cry. I hate crying. It feels like the ultimate defeat.
“It’s time to tell our story. For all the Sams,” I whisper.
“And for us,” el agreed.
Still Friday.
Our closest friend stopped to drop his dog off for us to puppy sit. Undergoing chemo in an attempt to force Hepatitis C into remission he was on his way to a liver care clinic in Pittsburgh the next morning.
“You look really tired,” I said. “Want me to go along?”
“I’ll be all right. I’ll drive till I can’t anymore and then get a motel room.”
Eyvonne and I exchanged glances.
“You sure you don’t want company?” I said.
“Nah….” But I could see he was wavering.
“It would take me like two minutes to grab my backpack and be ready.”
“OK, I guess so.”
Friday night was about driving. It was windy and after a certain point the road was unfamiliar. el and I kept swapping off driving. We found a motel a half hour from the city and crashed for the night. Our friend sleeps with the TV on. When I woke up at 3 a.m. Stargate was on. I watched it. I looked at him curled up in the other bed. He wasn’t even snoring.
Saturday.
We made it to the hospital a half hour early. We needn’t have bothered. His doctor, who flew in from Chicago once a month to run this experimental clinic, was already two hours behind. We went outside walked around the city, sat in a park soaking up sun, called Eyvonne to see how the dogs were getting along and split a fish sandwich at locally famous Armond’s. When he finally saw his doctor it was good news, his blood levels were great. If things continued to go well he might be a transplant candidate. It was a happy ride home.
Sunday.
We tried catching up on this book. We are perpetually behind our self-mandated word count production goal. In other words I was freaking out because I really want to finish this on deadline with at least 50,0000 words. Part of freaking out involved tons of ice cream and coffee.
Monday.
Eyvonne and I finished a complex project for a client and then had lunch with my former counselor at a new restaurant nearby. The three of us spent two hours laughing before we realized the day was slipping away. I still needed to drive an hour to Williamsport to pick up printer cartridges to complete a different project for another client. Eyvonne went to work. She has a 3-hour-a-day cleaning job at a nursing home nearby.
Tuesday.
Eyvonne and I dropped the complex project off at the printer’s over an hour away. I love rural life. Everything is at least an hour away. We stopped for groceries on the way home. Lillie took ops for grocery shopping. If I do it we end up with junk food. If el does it we get stuff like apples and carrots. Since Eyvonne thinks chocolate is a food group she’s a wild card. Lillie figures the best strategy is for her to take charge. We end up driving across town for Feta cheese salad dressing to satisfy Eyvonne’s latest craving.
“It’s almost as good as chocolate,” she says.
“Yeah it is,” Lillie agrees. “Make sure our little ones don’t get mesmerized by the lobster tank OK?”
Eyvonne nods. “Sure.”
Sometimes even with the best planning shopping is still Q-hazardous. Young alters are attracted to the sights and sounds. Just like outside kids they plead for things like cookies and candy. “Can’t we have this?”
“No,” Lillie says. “We’ve already got ice cream for a treat.”
“But we want Twix bars too.” They line up all cute and bat their eyes. They also know I love Twix bars and may be persuaded to throw in with them.
“No,” Lillie says firmly glaring at me to defy her.
“Awww,” I start. “Look how cute they are Lil.”
“Shel, you’re blocking progress.”
Shopping can take us a long time. But even so we don’t hold a candle to Eyvonne. She’s legendary. She can spend fifteen minutes comparing bath soaps.
Wednesday.
None of us remembers Wednesday. No one. Not one single blessed solitary minute. At least they’re not talking about it if they do. Maybe documenting an entire week wasn’t such a great idea.
“Shit, what’s up now?” I groan.
“Whatever it is we’ll deal with it,” Lillie says.
el nods but he has little worry lines next to his eyes.
The lost day could mean someone is hiding something. It could mean we have a new alter who stole a day. It could just mean the day was so unremarkable no one remembers it. But I have this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
