..dear reader..

Enough of all that formal, respectful, compromised, castrated, unemotional language bollox.  Documents don't need to be legal to be historical. You know what's going on behind all this emailing? A reluctance to admit that there is a lot more work to do in terms of the 'mes', and the 'others' the boys, the men, the old ladies, the blondes.  If I start reading or talking about my own experiences of multiple personalities and dissociated states I start feeling like my brain is being spread on toast.  I don't feel I know much about the others.  If I was able to do that they would be another me and not a totally separate person.  I'm not even sure I can tell them from actual other people when I start to think about it.  I used to love to make up new versions of people I met.  Fantasies about what I thought that person could of been if they had been nurtured and encouraged instead of brutalised.  Then I would try and go ab...

... She talked about how she used to get singing lessons. I couldn't tell the difference between her vocal and the chart version on the CD. She said it was dubbed, something about a noise caused using microphones, or something. It was difficult for me. I did my best to encourage her, when she along to Tracy Chapman's 'Revolution' I could hear her voice was good. At home I was thinking about it all and started to wonder if her voice was being used to produce bootlegged tracks... Dancing and tears in dramatherapy. Little me and rabbit. Everyone has a Rabbit. Simpsons episodes on mind control cults and Marge as a glamour model. Usual genius. New Shrink soon. A little apprehension. Pub today. 1 and half pints of Guinness at two separate locations. Both went down like magic. Thinking about drama, thinking about moving forward.

Felt less awful today, especially after my 'Wordless Wednesday' award. People have called me 'strong and courageous' before but it was hard for it to mean anything. It wasn't a choice, I woke up, sometimes in the middle of being brave. Answering back, making phone calls, remembering everything, smashing up their objects, smashing up their people. I get too cocky about the violence and omit that one of my survival skills was nothing to do with violence although it did motivate it. I fell in love with people, I would see someone who had something I needed, a position of power, a personality trait, a way of seeing things and would dedicate my life to giving them as easy a ride as possible, sometimes literally. I would fight their abusers, hide their money, give them new names, new identities, everything I couldn't do for myself. I was well aware that part of my motivation was just that, to give someone something that I needed but couldn't get. But there...

I dreamt about George Micheal last night, father figure. It was lovely. I really wish I had taken better care of that back up disk. I dreamt in the hotel that I chucked it out. I'm worrying now that it was a multiple rearing her head and It wasn't a dream and did I actually chuck it. As for all this blaming canabis rubbish, stop it!