nanowrimo madness

Normal people dissociate. It’s part of the human condition. It may even be a mammalian response to long stretches of time spent doing something like sitting in a tree waiting for a deer to walk by below. Or maybe it’s more to do with becoming prey. Once a rabbit is in a fox’s jaws it goes perfectly still.
Normal dissociation is daydreaming in a boring class or zoning out during commercials. Normal people often dissociate during things they do every day, like driving to work over the same route. I’ll bet if someone studied it they’d discover the number of accidents near people’s homes is disproportionately high compared to the amount of time they actually spend driving there. It’s because people veg when they’re covering overly familiar ground. Their brain actually fills in more of their visual field than usual.
Did you know what you see is actually determined more by your brain than your eyes? Your eyes provide raw data but your brain interprets it. If you’re looking at a housecat but your brain’s pattern recognition is skewed at that moment the interpretation might be ‘Cougar alert! Cougar alert!’
In much the same way your brain can interpret a clear road when in fact someone in a BMW is making a U turn right in front of you. After an accident when people say, “I didn’t see him officer” they aren’t lying.
It’s what makes people such lousy eyewitnesses. After a traumatic event five eyewitnesses will describe what they saw five different ways. Cops pick the ones that sound most alike to testify in court.
So, if daydreaming and zoning out are normal dissociative experiences when does the strategy become abnormal? An experience a bit higher on the dissociative scale is forgetting where you parked your car at the mall. The bell rings at the top when the reason you can’t find your car is because another person sharing your body drove it there and parked it.
In that case to find it you must: A. Connect with that person and elicit their help; B. Wander aimlessly until you spot your car; C. Call security and claim Alzheimer’s.
Choice A only works if you know you’re multiple and have established some sort of inner communication system. Choice B is a royal pain. Choice C is iffy unless you’re old enough to be plausible.
Those who are unaware that various personalities share their body and steal their consciousness may dismiss missing time and confusing circumstances as confusion spawned by hectic lives. Others live in constant chaos and fear. It really depends on how often it happens and how disinterested or outright sadistic the alters are. Some might enjoy planning little scenarios to play out later, when they can watch safely while lurking hidden inside. Like maybe messing up the house, or rearranging a closet, or spending the grocery money on a day out.
When lives spin out of control dissociation can reach epic proportions even for those who are not multiple. Victims of childhood abuse, sexual assault, domestic violence, violent crimes and trauma nearly always exhibit higher than normal degrees of dissociation.
We’ve helped train people training working with victims in crisis. It is vitally important they understand the dissociative response. People in crisis are driven to normalize their lives. Remember those pictures of people sipping tea at a sidewalk café in New York with smoke from the towers billowing in the background?
The need to normalize life drives people to return again and again to abusive partners. Many survivors of childhood abuse and domestic violence believe they caused the problem. Because they blame themselves they believe they deserve abuse. It’s what they know, what they believe life is always like. It causes them to forget the bad stuff so they can go on with life. It’s a strong survival tool.
In the midst telling Victim Services staff she’d fled her home with her children while being threatened with a pellet gun, Lillie checked her watch and started to rise. “I should get home and start supper,” she said.
If you didn’t understand how dissociation works you might be tempted to assume she was either lying or in denial. Denial is just another word for dissociative.
It can be nearly as difficult listening to a survivor’s story as it is telling it. Dissociative responses can sidestep events or details and mask emotion. Listeners sometimes think if a victim’s story can be related with little emotion the victim must be lying, confused about what occurred, or mentally disturbed. Bingo.
Being the victim of a crime is so mentally disturbing dissociation can save your sanity. Just like zoning out during commercials, not remembering details of domestic violence, abuse, assault or other crime is a basic dissociative response; it’s just at a high level. At the highest end of the scale victims repress all memory of events, sometimes by dividing the personality into fragments who hold various experiences, memories or emotions. Becoming multiple is a survival strategy, a last-ditch effort to deal with a reality too awful to know. It can saves and disturb a victim’s sanity.
Untrained listeners tend to blame victims rather than perpetrators. Remember Lillie’s friends who asked her what she’d done to make her husband angry? Or the minister who said she needed to be more submissive? How about the doctor who intimated her defensive bruises weren’t ‘real’ injuries? These response and other like them are common in our society.
We’re taught to mind our own business from an early age. Neighbors, ministers, storekeepers, teachers fail to see patterns screaming of victimization. Doctors dismiss bruises on a toddler’s head as age appropriate; toddlers fall down a lot don’t they?
And women all across the country walk into a lot of doors on a regular basis. I’ve actually seen Eyvonne walk into a door, her arms full, looking back over her shoulder talking to one of the kids or yelling at the dog. She didn’t end up with a black eye and bruising on half her face, but I suppose it’s possible.
Untrained listeners blame victims because of their own need to normalize situations. It’s more comfortable for them to believe a child falls down a lot than his dad hits him frequently with malice.
There is an almost natural response to the sexual or physical assault of a child that something so heinous can’t possibly be true. Start reading the newspaper. Keep track of each article about such crimes. You won’t want to believe the numbers after a week or two. Not wanting to believe it can happen is the first step toward our society’s collective dissociation from the ugly truth.
Remember, the first rule of multiplicity is: Don’t talk about multiplicity.
Current research indicates MPD, now referred to in the medical community as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), is not as rare as once believed. Remember some doctors, psychiatrists and psychologists don’t believe it exists. In their opinion people who claim to be multiples are fakers.
They want to ignore the body of information documenting some commonalities. Most multiples have histories of repetitive, overwhelming early childhood abuse or trauma. Research indicates people with MPD/DID constitute about one percent of the general population. Some researchers put the number higher, between three and ten percent depending on where a person falls on the dissociative scale.
One of the commonalities about multiples is they often hold highly responsible jobs in public service, as professionals or in the arts. Outwardly they appear no different than anyone else. Most live inner lives undetected even by those closest to them, spouses, children, co-workers.
Among medical professionals who believe in it MPD rates as one of the top four major mental health problems in our society along with schizophrenia, depression, and anxiety. MPD is traditionally recognized among females but new research indicates it may be equally as prevalent among men. Anyone with a history of early, repeated childhood abuse could be multiple: your neighbor, boss, co-worker, spouse, or parent.
There are some documented cases of multiples formed in response to the trauma of war or medical procedures. But by far the most common recipe to make a multiple is frequent profound abuse in early childhood. It helps if the child has a natural talent for dissociating.
I suspect most multiples are of above average intelligence. Most of those I’ve met, either in person or over the Internet are extremely talented writers, actors, visual artists or musicians. Some, like us, have alters proficient in many fields or professions.
I’ve never met a multiple with an alter who was a serial killer. I met a cop who said he’s never met a real multiple but knows plenty of people who claim the honor after they lawyer up. It’s viewed as one way to get slammed into a mental institution rather than prison.
A decade ago multiplicity was popular with the media. There was at least one article published about a multiple who had a ferret alter. That was one of my personal favorites. I just hope to hell there isn’t a ferret hiding outside the Q system waiting to come in. Considering my current anxiety about someone grabbing a whole day from us maybe I should have a bit more reverence. I can’t help it ferrets make me laugh.
Other multiples were on TV demonstrating for the camera how drastically different they were when they switched ops. This boggled my mind. We spent most of our lifetime keeping a low profile. So low in fact it’s still difficult sometimes for Eyvonne to peg who’s up. There were multiples on talk shows with their kids and spouses. It was apparently a national craze. We missed the whole thing because we didn’t have TV. We still don’t. Don’t tell Oprah OK?
We were interviewed a few years ago by a filmmaker from Japan making a TV documentary about the brain. He wanted to include a portion on how the chemistry of the brain stores memories, and how people can dissociate from events in a way that hides memories from their conscious mind. We spent an afternoon together, talking mostly through an interpreter. He met several of us, including some of our young alters. He filmed us as we talked. He was surprised to learn when we switched it was barely noticeable. We missed our day of fame because his company dropped the project. At least it wasn’t a talk show. But overall it wasn’t a fun experience. We have a deep-seated dislike of being ‘tested’ or proving we’re multiple. You can either take us at face value or forget it.
The only thing we hate more than proving our existence is movies and TV shows with multiples are cast as villains. It’s bad PR and not very factual. I’m sure there are some multiples with dangerous or criminal alters. Maybe it’s just fate that we’re not among them. Or maybe it’s that we have the steadfast love of Eyvonne. Without her love ‘rion might have turned his rage on the world instead of learning to understand why he was so angry. Understanding is the key. It’s not about keeping things locked away; it’s about learning how to live even when you know the truth.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot

Losing an entire day is pretty high up on the dissociative scale. It has us worried. The implication is that someone outside the Q system is taking ops. Alters who have hidden a long time can be curious, but are they are often extremely secretive. Most lurk around grabbing blinks of time until they understand who the major players in our outside life are, what we do and how things work. They generally start coming out around Eyvonne. By that time we’ve usually noticed enough clues to be suspicious that something is up. We’re alert and ready for it.
This recent stealing of a whole day feels slightly more hostile. It has me watching over my shoulder inside which makes me a little less attentive outside. It ups the anty for weirdness to happen.
I’ve started examining the last few weeks in more detail and keeping a better eye on who/what/where/when as each day progresses. I can’t shake suspicions about our new sleep pattern. For the first time in our lives we’re sleeping six hours or more a night on a regular basis. But are we really in bed snoring all night? There is precedence. Several emerging alters explored the outside world while the rest of us slept. Usually it doesn’t matter but in one case it nearly got us killed.
It started when with whispers of laughter and singing. We could all hear it. We got glimpses of a young girl dancing in what we perceive inside as sunlight. Blink and you missed her. I started watching, just as now I’m watching now, for some one to tip their hand.
My sleep was haunted by her laughter. Finally, after weeks of assessing our trustworthiness, Jamie Lee danced into full view and stayed there. I realized she wasn’t really dancing but her motions were so graceful she appeared to be. She was a young, slender, dark-haired beauty with snapping blue eyes. But her impishness concealed strength no one dared challenge. I recognized the demeanor of a Protector. But who does she protect, I wondered. When I asked Jamie Lee stared as if I were totally mad.
“You are Guardian of all, Protector of all. How could you not know?” She asked.
I blushed and turned away. She grasped my arm.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really thought you knew. The babes. I protect our sleeping babies. There are a lot of them.”
I drew her close. The tenderness of the moment drew everyone in. Lillie and el appeared together. Gwen and the l’ilones stepped out of the forest like a doe and her fawns, ‘rion following. We each hugged Jamie Lee bringing her fully into the system.
Thank you, Jamie Lee, we mindtouched. Thank you for protecting our babies, for protecting us. But I sensed there was more to know. I remained hyper alert.
Soon after on a warm summer night several of us were sharing ops scanning the sky for meteors and sipping Guinness. It was after midnight.
el and I competed for the highest nightly tally of meteors. He usually won.
“It’s only ‘cause you’re practically blind. Half what you see probably aren’t even meteors el!” I protested.
He grinned. “You could be right.”
Suddenly ‘rion startled. A muscular young man sat beside him. Taking advantage of ‘ri’s surprise, the boy grabbed ops and chugged the Guinness.
Who the hell are you? ‘rion mindtouched.
OK, not exactly welcoming but if someone suddenly appeared next to you and swiped your beer how would you react?
Our newest Q’s response sounded garbled. None of us could decode it. I started to sweat. He had ops with a vengeance. I couldn’t even get a toehold to regain control. I was scared he’d lock us completely. On the bright side he seemed to like Guinness. You can hardly be a Q if you don’t like it.
A tractor trailer rumbled by on the highway and the boy was on his feet in a flash spilling a bit of Guinness in the process.
Mither’agod wha’ were that? His mindtouched. His panic resonated through the entire system. Now everyone in the system was awake and frightened. I caught a glimpse of Gwen catching l’ilones and herding them back to bed.
‘rion attempted to regain ops and failed.
We may have a situation, ‘rion mindtouched me.
No shit, I responded. At least we could still see and hear what was going on outside and we could mindtouch inside. A couple of emerging alters were able to block inner communications, which made it difficult to reassure them or share anything. ‘rion and I joined forces and pushed for ops together. The boy swatted us away like an annoying insect.
Crap, I said.
‘rion agreed.
Another truck went by. The boy hid. The body shook with his fear. True to Q form he drained the bottle.
Hey dude, don’t get us drunk that would be seriously uncool, I warned.
“Wh’re’m I?” the boy asked aloud. He had a distinct sort of Irish brogue.
The sound of his own voice startled him. He didn’t seem to grasp the difference between outer reality and our inner world. Suddenly Jamie Lee was at his side. Arms crossed she glared at ‘rion and I.
Leave him alone, she warned.
We won’t hurt him. We just want to get acquainted, I assured her.
This is my twin, Ian Lee, she said.
Jamie, lass, wha’s happenin’? Ian mindtouched.
She wound her arms around his neck.
It’s all right sweet Ian. It’s time. I’ve been checking this out for a while. The babies are safe.
“How can you be sure?” he asked aloud with a sharp intake of breath.
“I just know. I’m done protecting them and you don’t need to guard them anymore. We can let them go, we can be free now,” she said.
She vanished without warning, her signature exit. Ian blinked owlishly at the rest of us. He took a step back regarding another truck racing up the mountain. This time he stood his ground and watched.
I mindtouched el privately, This could be tricky. He’s unstable as hell and scared witless. Why didn’t Jamie Lee stay?
I don’t know Shel, but I have an idea they aren’t ever really very far apart, el said.
He asked the others to give Ian and I privacy. I was worried. Ian still had a stranglehold on ops and his response once he understood our situation was a wild card. Ian met my gaze.
Where am I? What is this place? he demanded.
I tried sending him soothing thoughts.
We’re kind of a family, but we share one body. Right now you’re in control of that body, I said.
He blinked in disbelief. His expression made me shiver. Ian, look around you outside, what do you see? I prompted.
Nothin’ familiar, Ian whispered. His fear surged hit me like a detonation.
“Where’s me babies?” Ian wailed aloud into the night.
Think of them. Reach them with your mind like you’re talking to me. Mindtouch them and you’ll see them. That’s how it works Ian. Are they safe? I asked.
Ian’s face softened. “Aye, me wee ones are sleepin’ sweet,” he said.
I tried getting closer hoping to grab ops from him but Ian whirled on me, fists ready for a brawl.“Stan’ y’r groun’,” he warned.
I sighed. This could be a long night.
Ian, I’m Q’s system protector. Just like Jamie Lee protects the babies and you, I protect the whole system, all of us in Q. You have nothing to fear from me. Think hard. Reach out like you did with the babies but deeper. I’m sure you know me. I help Jamie Lee protect. I’m a Guardian too, like you. I’m the only one in Q who is both. Come on Ian, try! I urged.
He still regarded me suspiciously.
Jamie Lee trusts me, I said, wishing she’d come back and prove it.Ian softened his defensive stance a tiny bit. Ha ya got an’a mar beer? he asked.
Maybe later, I said with a grin. I patted the ground and Ian dropped warily beside me.
el can let you tap our collective memory. Let him show you Ian. You’ll understand better, I said.
Ian nodded uncertainly. Sometime between a sigh and a lifetime later he understood. But knowing the truth devastated him. He hid his face in his arms and wept.
I ‘m suppos’d t’guard th’ babies. Wha’ will I do now? Wha’ about me babes? Must they all wake, grow up? Ian demanded.
I don’t know, I whispered. We’ll know in time. Suddenly I saw what he saw, a hundred or more babies wrapped in blankets, sleeping amongst the roots of a huge tree. I was overwhelmed by Ian’s task. I knew he’d readily die to spare them pain, just as I would for Q.
It would hurt ‘em too much. I can’t let that happen, Ian said.
Maybe it has to happen Ian. Jamie Lee said it was time, I said.
A light winked on in the house. Eyvonne woke to discover her beloved Q was not inside. Even though it was now 3 a.m. she wasn’t overly concerned. She was accustomed to our nocturnal forays. She called softly from the doorway. “Q?”
Answer her Ian, I urged, desperate for Eyvonne’s help.
I don’t belong here. I belong wi’the babies, Ian said. I want t’go home.
Another truck barreled down the highway. Ian strode purposefully toward it. I ran alongside.
IAN! Stop! Kill yourself and you kill us all! Even the babies! I shrieked.
Ian slowed at the last possible moment. The truck roared past. A latter-day dragon, the truck’s hot breath buffeted our body, still under Ian’s command. I couldn’t believe we were still standing. Our heart was racing. We could barely breathe.
Ian, you’d be responsible for the babies’ deaths. For my death. For el’s, Lillie’s, Gwen’s, Baby’s, ‘rion’s, Jamie Lee’s and all the Q’s still hiding out there somewhere beyond the system. Is it fair for you to kill us all?
I remembered when it was me wanting, el pleading for life. el wanting and Lillie pleading. Was this the last time? Would Eyvonne find us crumpled in the road?
It’ll ‘urt ‘em less than stayin’ here, Ian said with a shrug. They’ll be born inta new lives, wi’ bodies a their own. I will too. It’ll be much better.
I wept with frustration as another truck bore down the mountain. Ian squared his shoulders.
Ian, it’ll hurt! I said.
It was lame but it was all I could think to say. Try thinking rationally standing in the path of an 18-wheeler.
Only f’r a moment lad, he said kindly.
He stepped further onto the road.
eliot! I can’t stop him! I shrieked.
He and ‘rion added their weight to my mine.
We were blinded by headlights but we had ops. Ian was fighting to gain control again. We stumbled and fell. Wind from the truck backlashed us. We were curled up on the white line.
Give the babies a chance Ian. Give us all a chance, I said.
The winking out of the outer world when he lost ops astounded Ian.
‘ow ‘d you do that? Where did it go? Are you wizards?
I pointed at el. I was hiccuping something between sobs and laughter.
No, only him, I said.
We managed a retreat to the yard before Ian gained ops again. Like most newcomers he had raw strength. We couldn’t force him to do anything for very long. In Ian’s case his strength was amplified by his role as a Guardian. Fighting him was futile. He would either accept his place in the Q system or not.
I tried a strategy I learned from Monty Roberts to gain the trust of horses. Advance and retreat. When Ian listened quietly I retreated. When Ian challenged me I pushed him steadily away. By morning he was tentatively willing to align himself with the rest of us. He handed me ops and abruptly disappeared. I knew he’d be back. This kid was a major force.
Once he decided to truly become part of the system Ian integrated with his sleeping charges. He just put his arms out and drew them in. He said it was better that way. It was a solution that worked for all of us.
Ian had a lot of interesting traits besides being almost unintelligible most of the time. He felt pain in a normal manner, the only Q to do so. If we thought we might be sick he could confirm or deny it. He was nearly always warm. He could run around outside in the dead of winter comfortably without a coat. He rode our horses in an archaic style we learned was once called ‘sidepass’. He won Scrabble games using archaic Celtic words that were still in the dictionary. And he remembered a past life. He was the first of us to remember such a thing in detail.
Several of us remembered things we believed stemmed from former lives. Bits and pieces really. But Ian remembered a lot and in rich detail. Our therapist at the time was convinced he was proof that at least some of us had lived other lives, only awakening in this lifetime to protect this lifetime’s child from abuse. It works for me. It feels right. And our clanmother says it’s a traditional way of understanding multiplicity.
In the far back time people like us were thought to have great medicine. Many were psychic and adept at traveling in the spirit world. They were often healers. That pretty much describes el.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot