The Answer

I had a dream last night.

I dreamed a solution for all my health trouble and medical maladies.

I dreamed that in all my previous lives/incarnations, my body perished before the age of 25.  Not necessarily in a nasty way (though some were).  Then it was explained to me that my soul is not able to stay in a body past 25.

That the body will begin to break down.  To self-destruct.  And it was explained in the dream so logically, so simply.

It made complete sense.

It makes complete sense.

I’m supposed to die.

Not in a suicidal way, but in a way that my soul will simply burn this body up before too long.

I am not sure why my soul isn’t able to keep a body alive longer.  I only know that it can’t.

My psyche is fragmented.  There are parts of me screaming out that this belief is complete irrational.  That I am slipping into a schizophrenic type delusion.

Those voices are silly.

Don’t they see this explanation makes complete sense?  That it explains everything?  Of course my body does not respond to meds and has unexplained symptoms that are trying desperately to give me a stroke/heart attack or other malady.

I don’t really feel sad.  I feel so very relieved.  I thank this dream for giving me the answer.  I can relax.  I can stop fighting, stop struggling, and just rest.

I look forward to not being in pain anymore.

I know there are people who will be sad.  But it’s meant to be.  It’s how I am made.  How my soul exists.  It cannot be unmade or changed.

Cogs in a clock, things must move as they are meant to.

Peace sounds so very nice.

Spark of Inspiration

I dreamed last night.

It was a simple clip of a scene (a man, a woman, a secret), but it wiggled it’s way into my head and now a seed of a story is struggling to grow.

I’m excited.  I haven’t had that in a long time.

And I wanted to tell you lovely readers a secret…

The plot involves DID.

I’m sure that doesn’t come as a huge surprise- writers write what they know.  But I’m taking this in an unusual direction I think.

I don’t want to reveal too much when it’s still just a little spark- not yet a flame.

I am so excited.

When I’m in creative writing mode, it tends to heal us.

I can only hope it will this time.

I think I want to share this story with you readers a bit as it develops.  That feels right.

But perhaps that will be silly and boring to you?

Dreams Again

(Trigger warning: some of these dreams are…R-rated, so to speak. Not X, just R. Read safely please.)

Last night’s were a weird mix of not-quite-memories and just fears we’ve been having…but again, in the quick slideshow-type way that we rarely get.
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A gray truck hovers behind us as we drive around our old neighborhood.  We can’t quite make out the driver, but we know he is male and smoking as plumes of smoke ooze from his open window.  Though we know these streets better than our own mind, no matter how fast we turn and double-back and flip around, we can’t lose him.

_________

The red-yellow of a desert surrounds us and as we spin around taking in the beauty of it. A cough escapes us and we suddenly realize we are incredibly parched.  Automatically we glance behind us and see a campsite.  Heading over, there is a figure hunched over a smothered bonfire.  He’s holding a large canteen of water.  He turns as we approach and starts to offer it.  We reach, our hand just about to connect before he flips it over and pours out the contents onto the dry earth.  It is absorbed into the thirsty ground in an instant.
“Sorry cupcake, all out.” His voice says and we realize it’s the voice of someone who’s smack in the middle of puberty, not quite a man. Glancing up to his face, it’s those hazel eyes and the floppy blond-brown hair and we fall back onto the ground, our tailbone smarting from impact.  We start to skitter back and he chuckles.
“Wanna play hide and seek?”

_________

We are determined to prove to them can we can bake drunk.
Midori smirks at the three skeptical faces. “I can bake the hell outta cookies drunk.” She states firmly, then heads into the kitchen. It’s a good thing it’s Daddy’s kitchen and she’s able to automatically reach for ingredients in a place she’s been familiar with since early teen years.
He follows us in, just as drunk, if not drunker. Midori is only half-listening to his rambled thoughts, even as Claire tries to listen harder, recognizing the deep importance of them.  Midori shoves Claire away roughly so she can mix the dough. She easily molds it into balls and puts them on a sheet before popping them into the oven.  She starts to wash her hands when she feels him draw closer.  The intimacy and heat of it has Charlotte out in a moment, grinning and tilting her head down and to the side in submission. Her stomach coils with that tight heat in happy expectation of what will come next.

_________

A red silk tie dangles in front of our eyes, swishing back and forth a couple times.
“You know the rules.” Our Master says firmly. Charlotte steps eagerly forward and immediately kneels on the bed, head bowed and wrists presented forward.
“Yessir.” she says softly.  Despite the body of our Master being female and being referred to as such in the public world, Charlotte knows better than to allude to this.  It is a firm rule in the bedroom.  The tie quickly binds our wrists before being securely tied to the top post of the bed frame. Charlotte twists in ecstasy.  Suddenly our Master frowns in recognition.
“I did not request your presence.” The voice says darkly. Charlotte freezes, her face turning petulant.
“But Sir…”
“No Charlotte.”  The tone leaves no room for argument. Charlotte sighs and mentally steps back. Our face is blank for a moment before it turns fearful. Our Master smiles. “There we go. Hello Clarissa. Turn on your side now.”
“Yes…sir.” She whispers.

_________

We stand at the base of a statue of Mary and try not to think of the irony as we turn to face Becca.  She smiles slightly.
“You can tell me anything. You know that.”
Kit trembles, but forces a smile, “How do you know I wanted to talk and not just hike?”
“Come on. We only come here when you need to vent. Badly. What’s up? Fuck-buddy thing not working out anymore? Wouldn’t surprise me. Army’s a complete asshole. I told you not to.”
“I can’t do…real relationships anymore.” Kit murmurs, a hand reaching into the front pocket of her jeans and pulling out the Zippo etched with a butterfly. The hand flicks the top on and off compulsively.
“Bullshit.” Becca says with an eyeroll, “I still say you should have given Je-”
“Stop. Shut up. That’s not what this is about.” Her trembling is worse now and Becca finally notices. Her eyes soften.
“What is it?”
“My period is super late.” Kit says bluntly. Becca blinks. “You know I’m like clockwork.”
“It’s probably stress.” She replies smoothly. Kit winces.
“I already took a test.”
“And?” Becca asks. Kit lets out an annoyed hiss of breath, Rika merging with her for a split-second.
“Would I have you out here if it were fucking negative?”
“Jesus. Who the fuck have you told?” Becca says, sinking onto a bench by the statue. We remain standing, the nervous flicking of the Zippo speeding up.
“You. And Grey. That’s it.”
“So…not Army?” She states. Kit trembles again, but this time she can’t sustain. She flees. Rika sighs and sits down on a bench across from Becca.
“Fuck no. I’m not a goddamn idiot.” Becca stares. “Well. I mean, I guess I have to eventually or some shit. But…maybe I don’t. I could totally not fucking tell him.”
“That’s a terrible idea.” Becca murmurs. “He’s an asshole, but that’s not fair to him at all.”
“I could go to Germany with you.” Claire says, her eyes wild. “Just…sell everything, sell Pete [our car] and have enough for a plane ticket.”
“Run away, huh? That’s your answer for everything. I’d love to have you come with me, but I love you and you’re not allowed if it’s only to run away.”

_________

It’s Audrey who first notices the blood.  She freezes and suddenly pushes Army away firmly.  He blinks in surprise before he glances down and sees it.  Audrey faintly wonders who’s idea was it to own a freakin’ white couch.  Her face drains of color to match it and she trembles.  Her place of blame is immediate, and probably unfair, but at this moment she only thinks of his distance (especially when she cries), his constant demand for intimacy. She doesn’t think of how he makes sure there is always strawberry ice cream for her constant cravings or ginger ale for her morning sickness. Or how gentle he is when she gives in to his advances.
He will never touch her again.
Within a week, Audrey is gone, never to resurface. Charlotte doesn’t mind taking over the physical demands. She quickly introduces him to her darker tastes and he embraces them easily.

_________

Roms decides to go to this Pagan circle meeting for a second time.  The first was a fluke- the meet-up was near work and we wanted an excuse to not have to go home immediately.  But we could go for the apple cider the coffee shop carries.  Texas agrees to join us and we walk in, immediately recognizing the circle’s leader, SD.  We smile and introduce Texas before SD mentions there will be someone new coming tonight.  When she talks about him, it is in a warning way.  He is deeply flawed and we need to be aware.  She warns us of his dark and flirty nature and Roms frowns, making sure Charlotte is firmly corralled.
When he walks in, SD’s energy shifts entirely and she positively grins at him.  Roms is startled until she feels Rika’s chuckle from the balcony of our mind. “Well…look at the parade in that one.”
Roms hesitates before a small smile flickers across our face.

Dreams

trigger warning:  lots of dark thoughts and self-harm talk

I’m not really sure how dreams work for other systems, but they are very strange in ours.

Sometimes there is a dream specifically had by a single alter who sort of “inhabits” the body while sleeping.

But usually our dreams are a slideshow of various things and memories intended for multiple alters.  It can be very triggering, especially when Charlotte’s dreams are broadcasted where the littles can see.

Last night we had an extremely triggering smattering of dreams…

A dirty back alley and sandy colored garage door. It is storming. We hate storms.  He takes his time, knowing the crash of thunder will cover any noise- not from us though- we are mute. Always mute.

The sharp dig of male fingernails scratching into our tailbone as we stare at his jean jacket. That damn jean jacket.  He had the sharpest fingernails of any boy we’ve ever dated in high school.

Daddy’s cool, controlled voice.  He never yells when he’s really really angry.  He only threatens.  We are limited to our bedroom and nothing but a small shelf of books.  He boxes away everything else in our room, including the notebooks. He knows the writing soothes.  Why did we get a “B” in that class? Everyone knows ladies are supposed to only get “A”s.
We write in the margin of those tattered books. We read them over and over. We are a failure.

A slick black revolver being spun, cowboy style. He’s such a show off. We are wearing thigh high stockings, a garter belt, and nothing else. He likes to leave early in the morning way before we have to get up for work. That’s fine with us.

Being woken up with a soft kiss and the smell of asiago bagels from Panera.  We miss her when she works third shift, but she always made up for it.

Hiding in the basement of our huge house, all alone, rocking back and forth, sure that every siren we hear in the distance is meant for us.  The pills sit heavy in our stomach and our arms and chest run red with blood. They can’t find us.

 

The triggering taste of absinthe that slides down our throat and immediately ruins the night with him.  We talk too much about our pain.  There is an awkward breakfast in the morning.  We run.  He is way too good for the likes of us.

Sitting in the cafeteria of the psych ward.  We are not the craziest one here. We are not the dangerous one. What if he follows us back to our room? The attendants’ eyes slide past as he comes to sit next to us.  He asks why we aren’t eating anything, then proceeds to devour everything off our tray. When the nurse asks, we say we ate it.

The sound of the ice machine at the psych ward. Those perfect little pellets it spits out. They crunch so nicely and soothe our throat and tummy. We ate nothing else.

Dancing at the club, some anonymous male behind us grabbing at our hips and grinding into us. We grind back, making eye contact with her.  She glares.  It was her choice to leave us, but we still savor that jealous look she tosses our way.  Later she calls us a slut. We are a slut. We aren’t good enough.

Riding through the hills of Kentucky on a four-wheeler, wind in our face, laughing and laughing, knowing there is no feeling in the world like this.  And it is the happiest we will ever be…

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When I get up this morning, I am nauseous and there is the tickling sensation of pain at the back of my throat and eyes of holding back feelings, tears, anger, fear.  They all are pushing at the window to see out.  To check if it was all a dream.

I get in the shower, making sure it is scalding.  I automatically reach for the razor to shave my legs.
Victoria is out in a flash, savagely pushing the razor into the flesh of our thigh.  I have a moment of wrestling with her, but then we both watch in silent fascination as the red goes down our leg and turns pink in the swirl of the drain.

This is the real world.

We aren’t sure if that’s good or bad.