Thursday, November 18, 2004
I'm Pretty Sure I'm Real
We sometimes meet people who just don’t believe we exist. They don’t believe the human personality can fracture into many pieces, or that memories can be locked away for most of a lifetime.
I don’t agree with much Sigmund Freud professed but his suppressed memory theory seems to be bearing out. He stated the brain suppresses unwanted memories related to trauma. Our brains are awash in chemicals and hormones. Memories are the result of a complex dance of electrical connections and chemical responses.
There is a growing body of scientific evidence showing that traumatic events are processed differently in the brain on a chemical level from ordinary events. Dissociation, the mechanism whereby we became multiple, is in its most basic form merely a chemical process, probably similar to what allows a prey animal to die calmly in the jaws of a predator.
Memories created during trauma are also stored in different cognitive areas of the brain from ordinary memories. Recent studies under controlled conditions indicate participants could successfully control unwanted memories. Their attempts were associated with increased activity in the frontal cortex. This led to reduced activation of the hippocampus, an area of the brain associated with memory.
New information indicates we can avoid laying down unwanted memory tracks. Another study shows the brains of developing humans suffer permanent physical changes when subjected to childhood abuse or neglect. These changes are thought to be significant enough to cause psychological and emotional problems later in life.
Amnesia related to traumatic events such as combat, violent crime, concentration camp experiences and torture has been documented for over a hundred years. Recent studies show a large percent of childhood abuse survivors report forget some of the abuse they suffered. Some common components were that the abuses took place in early childhood, intense emotions were generated, and there was more than one type of abuse and the abuse included threats to safety.
Freud decided later in his life that the overwhelming number of horrific things his patients related couldn’t possibly be real events. He couldn’t conceive of child abuse being that prevalent and his professional colleagues as well as the public refused to acknowledge his theory was correct.
In the face of professional strife Freud backed down. Instead of actual abuse incidents he decided his patients were talking about sexual fantasies expressing their own repression or neurosis.
We suspect he was right in the first place.
Studies today indicate sexual abuse perpetrated by adults on children and adolescents is as high as one in three girls and one in ten boys.
As in our case, by mid-life the chemical locks on hidden memories often erode, releasing memories of abuse experiences in chaotic floods called flashbacks. Sometimes therapists are accused of asking questions leading patients to create elaborate false memories. Our memories flooded into our consciousness without any suggestion or help from health care professionals. They listened. They to teach us techniques to survive the horror, but they never suggested anything.
Many abuse survivors have family members who confirm their abuse memories. Our older sister has done so for at least some of our experiences. Some of our memories were merely softened so we could allow them to stay with us.
Our family raised chickens when I was young. Some of the chickens were destined for the stewpot while others laid enough egg to earn their keep at least for a while. It was a graphic lesson I never questioned. If you didn’t produce you could be slaughtered without prior notice.
My sister told me there were periodic butchering days, an event pretty common to farm and rural folk with flocks. I remember little about that but my sister can barely eat chicken to this day.
But I’d always remembered one incident in particular. My father had some chickens in a sack. He tied the neck of the sack to the exhaust of the car and ran it to kill the birds.
As an adult I wondered just how healthy it was for us to be eating chickens killed in such a manner. I mentioned it to our sister.
She looked at me quizzically and said, “Not chickens, kittens”.
The real memory flooded back. Our cat Lucy had produced a litter. They were allowed to live for a time but their days were numbered. Our father made us watch their execution. The kittens were collected, shoved into the bag mewling pitifully, fighting for freedom. The bag was progressively more still until it hung limp and silent. I was handed my favorite, a gray kitten with blue eyes. His eyes were open wide in death, his tongue chewed, and his fur damp. Over forty years later I finally cried.
You can believe what you want about multiplicity and repressed memories. It’s your life and it’s a reputedly free country. Some people choose to believe the holocaust never happened. Others tell me the Indians got what they deserved, where would the country be if left in the hands of savages?
Savages huh? According to Erich Fromm matriarchal societies are the most peaceful and offer a good quality of life. It seems to me the patriarchal European invaders could have learned a thing or two about something from the Eastern Woodlands tribes besides how to grow corn beans and squash to avoid starving. The Eastern Woodlands people prized their children. Parents seldom spoke a harsh word to them. Beatings were unknown. Child abuse was uncommon, as was rape, no matter what ‘historical’ novels try to perpetuate. A person who abused a child the way I had been would have been ostracized. There were multiples, and people who were ‘two-spirited’ – those who lived their lives as members of the opposite sex. These were so rare they were considered holy people who helped keep balance in the world.
You probably won’t learn much about that in history books either. History is written by conquerors to fit their societal needs. The American history myth and Hollywood stereotypes are all most people know about Indians.
Anthropologists are discovering our pre-contact cultures were a lot more complex then previously believed. Scientists now know agriculture developed here independently. Indian crops spread out from the Americas and are grown throughout the world. New theories about the earliest people in the “new world” are surfacing as older and older artifacts come to light. New credence is being paid to our oral history and stories passed from generation to generation. People are developing a new understanding.
I believe the same will happen over the next two decades for multiples. The media frenzy has largely died out. Raging arguments over whether or not memories can be repressed and resurface are coming to surprising conclusions supported by scientific studies and advances in understanding brain chemistry and function. Dissociative behaviors and tendencies are better understood.
Someday maybe more multiples will come out of hiding. Not because they want to be on TV talk shows, (sorry Oprah) but because they won’t be afraid anymore. I no longer care what people think. It doesn’t matter to me if they don’t believe I exist. I no longer need to cut myself to prove I’m real.
The real news is we’ve finally won. The people who abused us lost.
We don’t need to track them down, harangue them, sue them or charge them with crimes. We Qs are surrounded by people who love us. We are safe and happy and productive. No, we aren’t wealthy. We’re not living the American dream. It was never our dream anyway.
When yuppie kids at his school made fun of beat-up car, Thunder said, “You’ll never understand. The car I drive isn’t important. I’m complete. You need a cell phone just to survive.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful we don’t have to trudge through three feet of snow, cut up downed trees and drag logs back to our house to stay warm like we did last winter. I like having enough money for food. I’m actually considering getting TV. I mean what the hell are we going to do in December after we’ve finished this book? Supposing Pleiades continues to be mellow that is, there is still that two percent fear factor going on. I’m kind of hoping he hates being called Pleiades and shows up to tell me what his real name is. Once that happens we can see where he fits into the Q.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
I don’t agree with much Sigmund Freud professed but his suppressed memory theory seems to be bearing out. He stated the brain suppresses unwanted memories related to trauma. Our brains are awash in chemicals and hormones. Memories are the result of a complex dance of electrical connections and chemical responses.
There is a growing body of scientific evidence showing that traumatic events are processed differently in the brain on a chemical level from ordinary events. Dissociation, the mechanism whereby we became multiple, is in its most basic form merely a chemical process, probably similar to what allows a prey animal to die calmly in the jaws of a predator.
Memories created during trauma are also stored in different cognitive areas of the brain from ordinary memories. Recent studies under controlled conditions indicate participants could successfully control unwanted memories. Their attempts were associated with increased activity in the frontal cortex. This led to reduced activation of the hippocampus, an area of the brain associated with memory.
New information indicates we can avoid laying down unwanted memory tracks. Another study shows the brains of developing humans suffer permanent physical changes when subjected to childhood abuse or neglect. These changes are thought to be significant enough to cause psychological and emotional problems later in life.
Amnesia related to traumatic events such as combat, violent crime, concentration camp experiences and torture has been documented for over a hundred years. Recent studies show a large percent of childhood abuse survivors report forget some of the abuse they suffered. Some common components were that the abuses took place in early childhood, intense emotions were generated, and there was more than one type of abuse and the abuse included threats to safety.
Freud decided later in his life that the overwhelming number of horrific things his patients related couldn’t possibly be real events. He couldn’t conceive of child abuse being that prevalent and his professional colleagues as well as the public refused to acknowledge his theory was correct.
In the face of professional strife Freud backed down. Instead of actual abuse incidents he decided his patients were talking about sexual fantasies expressing their own repression or neurosis.
We suspect he was right in the first place.
Studies today indicate sexual abuse perpetrated by adults on children and adolescents is as high as one in three girls and one in ten boys.
As in our case, by mid-life the chemical locks on hidden memories often erode, releasing memories of abuse experiences in chaotic floods called flashbacks. Sometimes therapists are accused of asking questions leading patients to create elaborate false memories. Our memories flooded into our consciousness without any suggestion or help from health care professionals. They listened. They to teach us techniques to survive the horror, but they never suggested anything.
Many abuse survivors have family members who confirm their abuse memories. Our older sister has done so for at least some of our experiences. Some of our memories were merely softened so we could allow them to stay with us.
Our family raised chickens when I was young. Some of the chickens were destined for the stewpot while others laid enough egg to earn their keep at least for a while. It was a graphic lesson I never questioned. If you didn’t produce you could be slaughtered without prior notice.
My sister told me there were periodic butchering days, an event pretty common to farm and rural folk with flocks. I remember little about that but my sister can barely eat chicken to this day.
But I’d always remembered one incident in particular. My father had some chickens in a sack. He tied the neck of the sack to the exhaust of the car and ran it to kill the birds.
As an adult I wondered just how healthy it was for us to be eating chickens killed in such a manner. I mentioned it to our sister.
She looked at me quizzically and said, “Not chickens, kittens”.
The real memory flooded back. Our cat Lucy had produced a litter. They were allowed to live for a time but their days were numbered. Our father made us watch their execution. The kittens were collected, shoved into the bag mewling pitifully, fighting for freedom. The bag was progressively more still until it hung limp and silent. I was handed my favorite, a gray kitten with blue eyes. His eyes were open wide in death, his tongue chewed, and his fur damp. Over forty years later I finally cried.
You can believe what you want about multiplicity and repressed memories. It’s your life and it’s a reputedly free country. Some people choose to believe the holocaust never happened. Others tell me the Indians got what they deserved, where would the country be if left in the hands of savages?
Savages huh? According to Erich Fromm matriarchal societies are the most peaceful and offer a good quality of life. It seems to me the patriarchal European invaders could have learned a thing or two about something from the Eastern Woodlands tribes besides how to grow corn beans and squash to avoid starving. The Eastern Woodlands people prized their children. Parents seldom spoke a harsh word to them. Beatings were unknown. Child abuse was uncommon, as was rape, no matter what ‘historical’ novels try to perpetuate. A person who abused a child the way I had been would have been ostracized. There were multiples, and people who were ‘two-spirited’ – those who lived their lives as members of the opposite sex. These were so rare they were considered holy people who helped keep balance in the world.
You probably won’t learn much about that in history books either. History is written by conquerors to fit their societal needs. The American history myth and Hollywood stereotypes are all most people know about Indians.
Anthropologists are discovering our pre-contact cultures were a lot more complex then previously believed. Scientists now know agriculture developed here independently. Indian crops spread out from the Americas and are grown throughout the world. New theories about the earliest people in the “new world” are surfacing as older and older artifacts come to light. New credence is being paid to our oral history and stories passed from generation to generation. People are developing a new understanding.
I believe the same will happen over the next two decades for multiples. The media frenzy has largely died out. Raging arguments over whether or not memories can be repressed and resurface are coming to surprising conclusions supported by scientific studies and advances in understanding brain chemistry and function. Dissociative behaviors and tendencies are better understood.
Someday maybe more multiples will come out of hiding. Not because they want to be on TV talk shows, (sorry Oprah) but because they won’t be afraid anymore. I no longer care what people think. It doesn’t matter to me if they don’t believe I exist. I no longer need to cut myself to prove I’m real.
The real news is we’ve finally won. The people who abused us lost.
We don’t need to track them down, harangue them, sue them or charge them with crimes. We Qs are surrounded by people who love us. We are safe and happy and productive. No, we aren’t wealthy. We’re not living the American dream. It was never our dream anyway.
When yuppie kids at his school made fun of beat-up car, Thunder said, “You’ll never understand. The car I drive isn’t important. I’m complete. You need a cell phone just to survive.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful we don’t have to trudge through three feet of snow, cut up downed trees and drag logs back to our house to stay warm like we did last winter. I like having enough money for food. I’m actually considering getting TV. I mean what the hell are we going to do in December after we’ve finished this book? Supposing Pleiades continues to be mellow that is, there is still that two percent fear factor going on. I’m kind of hoping he hates being called Pleiades and shows up to tell me what his real name is. Once that happens we can see where he fits into the Q.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
Snow Swans
People often ask me what it means to be an Indian. I quip, “Be ready to move.” Fewer ask what it’s like to be multiple but the same answer would suffice.
A year ago we abruptly moved from where we’d been living in western Pennsylvania for nearly two years back to our home in the rugged Endless Mountains of the state’s northeastern region.
Eyvonne and I had been adopted into a small group of other Native descendents in Western Pennsylvania. The group was first to participate in a national project we were involved with developing ‘story poles’ with native groups. The poles were widely exhibited throughout the northeastern part of the United States, including more than once at the United Nations in Manhattan, and once in Durban, South Africa.
Eyvonne and I focused on helping the group develop a heritage complex to interpret Native American contributions and culture. We worked without pay, believing we were ‘family’.
While our home in the eastern mountains sat empty we lived in an antiquated trailer with a leaky roof working up to 70 hours a week. We were promised salaries if we brought in enough funding through grants, presentations and workshops. From the outset we contributed from our meager our income to help jumpstart the project.
My business withered but I was sure things would change as grants started rolling in. My relationship with this group proved almost as destructive as my birth family. We were told no drug users would be allowed to live on the property where our trailer sat behind the home of one of the group leaders. A few weeks before we left someone new was invited to move onto the property because he was homeless. Eyvonne and I observed him using drugs more than once. We brought this to the attention of the property owner. She and her husband initially assured us he would be asked to stop doing drugs or to move. A few days later we knew he hadn’t stopped. We called a circle to discuss the problem. The man verbally attacked both Owl and I saying we’d “betrayed’ him. He threatened to beat Owl to a bloody pulp. It was worse than a nightmare.
Next the property owners defended this guy’s right to live as he chose. They said he was welcome to stay. What he did in his own home was his business; we’d just have to adjust.
That was a Tuesday. I called a truck rental company. We packed for two days and were on the road back east by Friday evening. I was glad we hadn’t sold our house. At least we had a place to go. Owl was driving our car. He’d left two hours earlier so he could stoke up the woodstove and turn on the water.
It started snowing as we drove down the driveway for the last time. It felt like the snow stung my face right through the windshield of the U-Haul truck. I was ashamed for being fooled again. I had no desire to look back at the dwelling we’d spent so much time and money fixing up. The trailer bearing my ’54 Chevy pickup fishtailed in the darkness every time we exceeded 30 mph. We wracked up 30 miles in tense silence during our first grueling hour. 150 miles stretched before us.
“Pull into this mall and park under the lights I’ll check the trailer,” Eyvonne said.
We bailed out of the too-warm truck cab into a hell of wind-driven snow. Ebensburg. It always seemed to be snowing here.
“We might get there by dawn at this rate,” I said. Shivering violently I dogged Eyvonne as she checked the trailer hitch, the wheel restraints. She ignored my steady stream of complaints.
“Here it is!” she shouted over the wind. “This wheel restraint popped off.”
“Can you fix it?” I managed. My teeth were chattering so hard it was difficult to speak.
“I dunno,” she said. “I think it slid under the wheel.”
I watched as she worked the strap loose. Her fingers were blue. But there was little I could do to help. Old injuries to my neck and back left me with little feeling in my right hand. Lifting anything heavy disabled for days. Besides I didn’t understand how the damn thing worked. My sole job was driving our little rig. I’d driven trucks with 24-foot beds through New York City in my younger days, but I’d never pulled a trailer. I hadn’t recognized the feel of a load about to launch itself. I might have lost Indy, my faithful road companion for the last 15 years. I envisioned the Chevy rolling off the trailer and flattening an SUV. I chuckled.
Reading my mind, Eyvonne glared at me.
“That’s not funny Shel,” she said.
Chagrined, I danced from foot to foot in a vain effort to get warm. Lights from McDonalds beckoned commercial Christmas cheer across a vast stretch of empty asphalt.
“I got it! Let’s go,” Eyvonne shouted.
We bent into the wind trying in vain to run. I was shivering so hard when we breached the door customers inside recoiled. It’s not socially acceptable to be that cold. It took several minutes for my teeth to slow their chattering so I could order coffee. The kids behind counter had been watching our ordeal.
“What kind of truck is that you’re hauling,” one asked.
“’54 Chevy,” I said, grinning.
The young man offered advice on keeping the wheel restraints tight. “Check ‘em every 50 miles or so,” he said.
“Merry Christmas! Stay warm and have a safe trip,” they called as we left.
They gave us hope. We hung onto each other slipping and sliding toward the U-haul with lighter hearts. A faint sound made us look up instinctively.
“Geese!” I shouted into the wind.
Snowflakes fell on our upturned faces we strained to see. This was a powerful omen. Geese supported Sky Woman in her descent to earth from the sky world. A ‘V’ of huge white birds flew low directly overhead.
“Not geese, swans!” Eyvonne shouted.
We laughed and cried as the big white birds flew over us honking steadily.
“We can do this!” I said.
Eyvonne’s eyes met mine. “I know.”
Re-securing the wheel did the trick. The trailer no longer fishtailed. My truck was safe and so were the drivers behind us. An hour later we crested the Allegheny Ridge at about 20 mph and drove out of the storm. The stars twinkled overhead crisp and bright. Our own mountains lay far to the northeast. I wondered if it was snowing there. The only part of the drive that still worried me was the nine-mile haul up Sonestown Mountain. The rental truck and trailer were seriously overloaded. But I settled into easier driving and thought about what I was leaving behind: two years work and a project I’d believed in with all my heart. But the time wasn’t wasted. I’d learned many things. I hoped one of those lessons was better discernment.
I took inventory of what lay ahead. Our business was down to one major client and a smattering of smaller ones. Our house had been empty two years and was in need of many repairs. We had little firewood and no propane. Each mile devoured more of our limited resources.
The last time I’d seen a swan it was flying with a flock of geese. A true ugly duckling it was three times the size of its companions. I could relate. I never seemed to fit in either.
When we arrived Owl met us at the door wearing his winter coat, hat and gloves. Even with the fire going full blast it was freezing four feet from the stove. The windows were all covered in crystalline ice feathers a quarter of an inch thick. Wherever nail heads poked through the walls they sported delicate crowns of frost. We slept our first night home on the floor as close to the stove as we could get. We wore our coats, hats and gloves and pulled our sleeping bags up over our heads to let our breath help warm us.
The next morning we took inventory of our resources. Someone had stolen most of the wood out of our woodshed since the last time any of us had been here. We had no propane for back up heat or to cook with and the roof leaked. By the next night it was warmer in the house but it took three days for the ice to melt off all the windows. We were glad to be home.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
A year ago we abruptly moved from where we’d been living in western Pennsylvania for nearly two years back to our home in the rugged Endless Mountains of the state’s northeastern region.
Eyvonne and I had been adopted into a small group of other Native descendents in Western Pennsylvania. The group was first to participate in a national project we were involved with developing ‘story poles’ with native groups. The poles were widely exhibited throughout the northeastern part of the United States, including more than once at the United Nations in Manhattan, and once in Durban, South Africa.
Eyvonne and I focused on helping the group develop a heritage complex to interpret Native American contributions and culture. We worked without pay, believing we were ‘family’.
While our home in the eastern mountains sat empty we lived in an antiquated trailer with a leaky roof working up to 70 hours a week. We were promised salaries if we brought in enough funding through grants, presentations and workshops. From the outset we contributed from our meager our income to help jumpstart the project.
My business withered but I was sure things would change as grants started rolling in. My relationship with this group proved almost as destructive as my birth family. We were told no drug users would be allowed to live on the property where our trailer sat behind the home of one of the group leaders. A few weeks before we left someone new was invited to move onto the property because he was homeless. Eyvonne and I observed him using drugs more than once. We brought this to the attention of the property owner. She and her husband initially assured us he would be asked to stop doing drugs or to move. A few days later we knew he hadn’t stopped. We called a circle to discuss the problem. The man verbally attacked both Owl and I saying we’d “betrayed’ him. He threatened to beat Owl to a bloody pulp. It was worse than a nightmare.
Next the property owners defended this guy’s right to live as he chose. They said he was welcome to stay. What he did in his own home was his business; we’d just have to adjust.
That was a Tuesday. I called a truck rental company. We packed for two days and were on the road back east by Friday evening. I was glad we hadn’t sold our house. At least we had a place to go. Owl was driving our car. He’d left two hours earlier so he could stoke up the woodstove and turn on the water.
It started snowing as we drove down the driveway for the last time. It felt like the snow stung my face right through the windshield of the U-Haul truck. I was ashamed for being fooled again. I had no desire to look back at the dwelling we’d spent so much time and money fixing up. The trailer bearing my ’54 Chevy pickup fishtailed in the darkness every time we exceeded 30 mph. We wracked up 30 miles in tense silence during our first grueling hour. 150 miles stretched before us.
“Pull into this mall and park under the lights I’ll check the trailer,” Eyvonne said.
We bailed out of the too-warm truck cab into a hell of wind-driven snow. Ebensburg. It always seemed to be snowing here.
“We might get there by dawn at this rate,” I said. Shivering violently I dogged Eyvonne as she checked the trailer hitch, the wheel restraints. She ignored my steady stream of complaints.
“Here it is!” she shouted over the wind. “This wheel restraint popped off.”
“Can you fix it?” I managed. My teeth were chattering so hard it was difficult to speak.
“I dunno,” she said. “I think it slid under the wheel.”
I watched as she worked the strap loose. Her fingers were blue. But there was little I could do to help. Old injuries to my neck and back left me with little feeling in my right hand. Lifting anything heavy disabled for days. Besides I didn’t understand how the damn thing worked. My sole job was driving our little rig. I’d driven trucks with 24-foot beds through New York City in my younger days, but I’d never pulled a trailer. I hadn’t recognized the feel of a load about to launch itself. I might have lost Indy, my faithful road companion for the last 15 years. I envisioned the Chevy rolling off the trailer and flattening an SUV. I chuckled.
Reading my mind, Eyvonne glared at me.
“That’s not funny Shel,” she said.
Chagrined, I danced from foot to foot in a vain effort to get warm. Lights from McDonalds beckoned commercial Christmas cheer across a vast stretch of empty asphalt.
“I got it! Let’s go,” Eyvonne shouted.
We bent into the wind trying in vain to run. I was shivering so hard when we breached the door customers inside recoiled. It’s not socially acceptable to be that cold. It took several minutes for my teeth to slow their chattering so I could order coffee. The kids behind counter had been watching our ordeal.
“What kind of truck is that you’re hauling,” one asked.
“’54 Chevy,” I said, grinning.
The young man offered advice on keeping the wheel restraints tight. “Check ‘em every 50 miles or so,” he said.
“Merry Christmas! Stay warm and have a safe trip,” they called as we left.
They gave us hope. We hung onto each other slipping and sliding toward the U-haul with lighter hearts. A faint sound made us look up instinctively.
“Geese!” I shouted into the wind.
Snowflakes fell on our upturned faces we strained to see. This was a powerful omen. Geese supported Sky Woman in her descent to earth from the sky world. A ‘V’ of huge white birds flew low directly overhead.
“Not geese, swans!” Eyvonne shouted.
We laughed and cried as the big white birds flew over us honking steadily.
“We can do this!” I said.
Eyvonne’s eyes met mine. “I know.”
Re-securing the wheel did the trick. The trailer no longer fishtailed. My truck was safe and so were the drivers behind us. An hour later we crested the Allegheny Ridge at about 20 mph and drove out of the storm. The stars twinkled overhead crisp and bright. Our own mountains lay far to the northeast. I wondered if it was snowing there. The only part of the drive that still worried me was the nine-mile haul up Sonestown Mountain. The rental truck and trailer were seriously overloaded. But I settled into easier driving and thought about what I was leaving behind: two years work and a project I’d believed in with all my heart. But the time wasn’t wasted. I’d learned many things. I hoped one of those lessons was better discernment.
I took inventory of what lay ahead. Our business was down to one major client and a smattering of smaller ones. Our house had been empty two years and was in need of many repairs. We had little firewood and no propane. Each mile devoured more of our limited resources.
The last time I’d seen a swan it was flying with a flock of geese. A true ugly duckling it was three times the size of its companions. I could relate. I never seemed to fit in either.
When we arrived Owl met us at the door wearing his winter coat, hat and gloves. Even with the fire going full blast it was freezing four feet from the stove. The windows were all covered in crystalline ice feathers a quarter of an inch thick. Wherever nail heads poked through the walls they sported delicate crowns of frost. We slept our first night home on the floor as close to the stove as we could get. We wore our coats, hats and gloves and pulled our sleeping bags up over our heads to let our breath help warm us.
The next morning we took inventory of our resources. Someone had stolen most of the wood out of our woodshed since the last time any of us had been here. We had no propane for back up heat or to cook with and the roof leaked. By the next night it was warmer in the house but it took three days for the ice to melt off all the windows. We were glad to be home.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
More Evidence
I woke up this morning feeling as if I have a hangover. My eyes burn, throat is scratchy and tight, my gut unsettled. Most of it is from being in a small space with three people who smoke for three hours yesterday while computer ‘doctoring’. The tooth is still throbbing too, in fact the whole side of my face hurts. I know it will all be better with my first sip of coffee. Coffee is the elixir of life. Somehow being fully charged makes it easier to ignore pain.
It’s the fatigue level that’s bothering me. I remember waking up last night around two a.m. I remember turning on the light to read. That’s it. I don’t remember Eyvonne coming to bed, turning out the light or cuddling up to her. But I do have a vague recollection of wandering around the house in the dark.
Sometimes I wish I could smoke. I really want a ciggie right now. It’s kind of ironic, an Indian being allergic to tobacco. But when I smudge or smoke a ceremonial pipe nothing bad happens. It’s when I’m trapped inside with people who smoke for more than a few minutes that things go wrong.
It’s not just tobacco either. I can’t tolerate any nightshade family plants. Tobacco is in the nightshade family foods along with tomatoes, potatoes, green, red, yellow or any kind of hot peppers, eggplant and paprika. I don’t eat any of those things but the last one.
You cannot eat food in America without ingesting the last one. If you don’t believe me start reading ingredient panels. You’ll see oleoresin paprika on a lot of them. They use it on the tops of bread loaves to get that nice rich brown color. It’s in a lot of foods to add color like hot dogs and frozen dinners. It’s in even more to add a spicy flavor. If the ingredients list “spice” you can bet it’s paprika.
Thankfully it’s the one thing on the list we are least reactive to. Sneaky potato flour is more of a problem. It’s in a lot of breads, cakes, gravies and crackers. It’s in those weirdly tasteless ‘onion rings’ sold next to chips.
Needless to say going out to eat is loads of fun for me. Waitresses never know the ingredients used in things. And even if I explain I don’t want any tomato garnish. Ketchup or French fries with my food, even if they’re part of the meal some prep cook in the kitchen always decides my plate looks too empty so they surround my sandwich with potato chips.
It’s hard even for people who know about it to remember.
Eyvonne held her fast food fries across the table once and announced cheerfully “I didn’t put any ketchup on these so you could have some.”
“Umm, aren’t French fries still made from potatoes?” I asked.
Sometimes the seemingly most innocent foods get me. I ate a pickled egg from deli. Ten minutes later I was sweating, all my joints hurt, and I was on the verge of hallucinating. When she’s really pissed at me Eyvonne offers to buy me a pickled egg.
The most common reaction is my joints swell up and burn. If I eat a handful of chips or a tablespoon of ketchup I will feel the effects for 72 hours. And we all feel it, so we know it must be massive. I can’t drink milk or use most dairy products in any quantity either. A glass of milk a week is about my max. I can eat ice cream, cheese and yogurt if I don’t overdo it. Too much in one day and it’s like I have the flu.
And I have these weird food allergies why?
Because I’m Indian.
Lots of us have the same types of problems. The sad thing is most don’t know why they feel like crap. Mainstream health providers don’t have a clue.
We served on a state health board as a minority representative. There was one other person of Indian descent serving on that board. The state wasn’t too worried. Everyone knows there aren’t any Indians in Pennsylvania.
When Eyvonne and I teach seminars on genealogy we always stress it’s important to know if you’re a Native American descendent.
It’s not about getting a BIA card and trying to get something for free from the government. That doesn’t happen anyway unless you can prove your ancestor was registered on a government roll. Those of us whose ancestors didn’t end up on reservations to be counted won’t get a card anyway. We’re not ‘real’ Indians to the government.
We’d be ‘real’ Indians to a forensic anthropologist. I can reel off a dozen things that would tip them off from the shape of my teeth to the extra ridge of bone that runs along the side of my foot.
It’s important to know your family members could be allergic to nightshade plants, or are at high risk for developing diabetes. Your child might be severely lactose intolerant. Owl can’t digest dairy foods at all. As a child he failed to grow for almost a year before we figured it out. Some Indians can’t properly digest wheat or other grains of European origin. Native Americans and Asians have a higher than normal risk for a little known condition called moya moya disease that mimics strokes. Treating moya moya as a stroke can kill the patient.
And you thought my life was complex because I’m multiple? Even given our present circumstances, with Pleiades and his unknown agenda up all hours of the night, I wouldn’t trade it for being a singleton. We like being who we are.
There is the risk that Pleiades is that rage filled alter Dr. Dwon always warned us about. But I figure it’s a really small risk.
Eyvonne said yesterday during one of my low points, “We’ve been through this before. It’ll be all right.”
Mostly I agree with her. We’ve never had an alter who let us discern their existence and then went back into hiding. Letting us know they’re around indicates they already know about us and they’re ready to come into the system. they typically know how to do at least the job tey were 'born' to do. That includes knowing any skill needed to perform that job.
The wild card is someone like Ian.
On some level I understand that Ian is me, as el is me, as Lillie is me. But not. Experientially we’re not one person.
It’s no longer important for us to unravel all the threads of how we got this way. We’ve done enough hard work to understand the why of our existence. Now it’s more important to keep system healthy. We have a good life. Why would we want any of us left out of that?
The biggest question I have is why now? What brought Pleiades to seek us out now? We are capable of spawning alters of the moment’s need. They typically don’t know a whole lot about anything except the event they were ‘born’ to handle. Most integrate after a very short time with one of us. Which makes sense as they split off very recently.
Other alters split off earlier in our lives for specific reasons. Most had tasks or jobs of some sort. Like el acting as our CPU. In a simplistic sense he is Qs brain, Lillie is Qs heart and Baby is our soul. I was born to handle security.
One of the mysteries to me for a long time was why all the sleeping babies? Who were Ian’s charges? We were seeing a local therapist when Ian showed up. “I think each baby represents an abusive incident,” she said.
I reacted so violently against that concept I knew she was right. Over a hundred sleeping babies. It made me weep. I was and am ever grateful to them, and to Ian, and Jamie Lee and all the others who kept us sane and moving forward.
Human adaptability to survive as individuals and a species is hotwired into the brain’s core. It’s truly amazing what we can endure and triumph over.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
It’s the fatigue level that’s bothering me. I remember waking up last night around two a.m. I remember turning on the light to read. That’s it. I don’t remember Eyvonne coming to bed, turning out the light or cuddling up to her. But I do have a vague recollection of wandering around the house in the dark.
Sometimes I wish I could smoke. I really want a ciggie right now. It’s kind of ironic, an Indian being allergic to tobacco. But when I smudge or smoke a ceremonial pipe nothing bad happens. It’s when I’m trapped inside with people who smoke for more than a few minutes that things go wrong.
It’s not just tobacco either. I can’t tolerate any nightshade family plants. Tobacco is in the nightshade family foods along with tomatoes, potatoes, green, red, yellow or any kind of hot peppers, eggplant and paprika. I don’t eat any of those things but the last one.
You cannot eat food in America without ingesting the last one. If you don’t believe me start reading ingredient panels. You’ll see oleoresin paprika on a lot of them. They use it on the tops of bread loaves to get that nice rich brown color. It’s in a lot of foods to add color like hot dogs and frozen dinners. It’s in even more to add a spicy flavor. If the ingredients list “spice” you can bet it’s paprika.
Thankfully it’s the one thing on the list we are least reactive to. Sneaky potato flour is more of a problem. It’s in a lot of breads, cakes, gravies and crackers. It’s in those weirdly tasteless ‘onion rings’ sold next to chips.
Needless to say going out to eat is loads of fun for me. Waitresses never know the ingredients used in things. And even if I explain I don’t want any tomato garnish. Ketchup or French fries with my food, even if they’re part of the meal some prep cook in the kitchen always decides my plate looks too empty so they surround my sandwich with potato chips.
It’s hard even for people who know about it to remember.
Eyvonne held her fast food fries across the table once and announced cheerfully “I didn’t put any ketchup on these so you could have some.”
“Umm, aren’t French fries still made from potatoes?” I asked.
Sometimes the seemingly most innocent foods get me. I ate a pickled egg from deli. Ten minutes later I was sweating, all my joints hurt, and I was on the verge of hallucinating. When she’s really pissed at me Eyvonne offers to buy me a pickled egg.
The most common reaction is my joints swell up and burn. If I eat a handful of chips or a tablespoon of ketchup I will feel the effects for 72 hours. And we all feel it, so we know it must be massive. I can’t drink milk or use most dairy products in any quantity either. A glass of milk a week is about my max. I can eat ice cream, cheese and yogurt if I don’t overdo it. Too much in one day and it’s like I have the flu.
And I have these weird food allergies why?
Because I’m Indian.
Lots of us have the same types of problems. The sad thing is most don’t know why they feel like crap. Mainstream health providers don’t have a clue.
We served on a state health board as a minority representative. There was one other person of Indian descent serving on that board. The state wasn’t too worried. Everyone knows there aren’t any Indians in Pennsylvania.
When Eyvonne and I teach seminars on genealogy we always stress it’s important to know if you’re a Native American descendent.
It’s not about getting a BIA card and trying to get something for free from the government. That doesn’t happen anyway unless you can prove your ancestor was registered on a government roll. Those of us whose ancestors didn’t end up on reservations to be counted won’t get a card anyway. We’re not ‘real’ Indians to the government.
We’d be ‘real’ Indians to a forensic anthropologist. I can reel off a dozen things that would tip them off from the shape of my teeth to the extra ridge of bone that runs along the side of my foot.
It’s important to know your family members could be allergic to nightshade plants, or are at high risk for developing diabetes. Your child might be severely lactose intolerant. Owl can’t digest dairy foods at all. As a child he failed to grow for almost a year before we figured it out. Some Indians can’t properly digest wheat or other grains of European origin. Native Americans and Asians have a higher than normal risk for a little known condition called moya moya disease that mimics strokes. Treating moya moya as a stroke can kill the patient.
And you thought my life was complex because I’m multiple? Even given our present circumstances, with Pleiades and his unknown agenda up all hours of the night, I wouldn’t trade it for being a singleton. We like being who we are.
There is the risk that Pleiades is that rage filled alter Dr. Dwon always warned us about. But I figure it’s a really small risk.
Eyvonne said yesterday during one of my low points, “We’ve been through this before. It’ll be all right.”
Mostly I agree with her. We’ve never had an alter who let us discern their existence and then went back into hiding. Letting us know they’re around indicates they already know about us and they’re ready to come into the system. they typically know how to do at least the job tey were 'born' to do. That includes knowing any skill needed to perform that job.
The wild card is someone like Ian.
On some level I understand that Ian is me, as el is me, as Lillie is me. But not. Experientially we’re not one person.
It’s no longer important for us to unravel all the threads of how we got this way. We’ve done enough hard work to understand the why of our existence. Now it’s more important to keep system healthy. We have a good life. Why would we want any of us left out of that?
The biggest question I have is why now? What brought Pleiades to seek us out now? We are capable of spawning alters of the moment’s need. They typically don’t know a whole lot about anything except the event they were ‘born’ to handle. Most integrate after a very short time with one of us. Which makes sense as they split off very recently.
Other alters split off earlier in our lives for specific reasons. Most had tasks or jobs of some sort. Like el acting as our CPU. In a simplistic sense he is Qs brain, Lillie is Qs heart and Baby is our soul. I was born to handle security.
One of the mysteries to me for a long time was why all the sleeping babies? Who were Ian’s charges? We were seeing a local therapist when Ian showed up. “I think each baby represents an abusive incident,” she said.
I reacted so violently against that concept I knew she was right. Over a hundred sleeping babies. It made me weep. I was and am ever grateful to them, and to Ian, and Jamie Lee and all the others who kept us sane and moving forward.
Human adaptability to survive as individuals and a species is hotwired into the brain’s core. It’s truly amazing what we can endure and triumph over.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
