Torn Canvas

Most of you are familiar with this story.  The beginning, so to speak. It is what caused the initial coping of fracturing, of splitting. It wasn’t until much later that the coping technique was used to it’s maximum…

Trigger warning (pretty obvious from the title)
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It was always about the words. The sentences. The phrases. That charismatic speech.  The way they curled about and slithered into the deep recesses of Pen’s mind.

The saying may be that a picture is worth a thousand words; but Pen was always fascinated by a good story.

This story started out simple enough…

Once upon a time there was another child of divorce- Katherine. Another girl who struggled to form normal relationships with people. A girl who was not repulsed by the idea of Pen being more than just Pen.

Pen did momentarily hesitate due to the gender. She had never considered a relationship with another female. Not for any particular reason, it simply hadn’t occurred to her.

Katherine spun the story’s web of beauty tighter. A complicated pattern to entice and confuse.

A woman would never hurt another woman. She knows how men can be too brass, too rough. They can trigger Pen.  They only want to brand Pen.

She tells these lies, even as she hides her own branding iron behind her back.  Pen never even tries to look.

The first time is so very tentative, unsure. Pen is concerned she’s doing everything wrong. Katherine seems enthralled by the innocence. Pen doesn’t notice, too focused on trying to please.

Katherine is quick to demand more of Pen’s time. It seems so easy at first. Pen has so few friends anyway. But soon the few friends she does have are noticing. And commenting. Pen brushes them off. They just don’t understand true happiness.

It doesn’t take long for Katherine to turn rougher. Pen is startled at first, but Katherine uses those charismatic phrases to sweeten the deal. And of course, it is nothing but ecstasy for Charlotte.

The story changes quickly. Soon Pen is the caged songbird. The collared fox. She was okay with being tamed, but this seems like much more.

The marks are hard to hide. She has to purchase special makeup that is technically for concealing tattoos. Katherine says the marks are better than tattoos. The burns last for months. She says she is working on “proper branding”. Soon Pen will truly belong only to Katherine.

There is jewelry as well. Necklaces and rings so that a person they encounter out in public may be quickly made aware that Pen is not available.

The waiter grins as he hands Pen a refill on her Coke. Pen gives him a hesitant smile. It takes mere seconds before she feels the harsh pain of Katherine squeezing her hand and digging her nails into the soft flesh. She hisses a warning. Even a polite smile means fraternizing to Katherine, especially when it involves males. Pen doesn’t register the abnormality of this. She merely aligns her face to “completely disinterested” when around men. Midori helps.

Pen delves into books regarding domestic abuse and sees little correlation. And yet, she feels this sense of camaraderie with the victims that she cannot explain. It puzzles her.

The sex is so extreme now that Pen’s migraines have become frequent and debilitating  It does not occur to her that perhaps her body has realized how repulsed Katherine is by an upset stomach and has devised a way to try and snag some time to heal from the bites, burns, scratches, and welts. The doctors are at loss on how to treat the migraines, since they do not respond to standard medication. Katherine becomes frustrated that treatment is not happening easily.

It is surprising how it comes to a roaring halt. Or perhaps it is not. The relationship started out with a sweet lie.  It seems only fitting it should end with a harsh true.

Another woman? It makes no sense to Pen. Pen has thrown her whole self into their relationship. Katherine claims to have done the same. But obviously this is not true. She so easily finds another and leaves Pen a torn and incomplete canvas. Left to rot in a forgotten room.

Despite the words that started this story, it is the picture left behind that does the damage.

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It takes years and multiple partners to relearn how relationships are supposed to work.
The most recent partner has taught the best lessons:

-Independence is allowed. And is healthy.
-It’s okay to cry or yell if something has truly upset Pen. She doesn’t have to pretend everything is fine.
-Teeth are not acceptable below the belt.  For either party.
-It’s all right to smile at another person in a friendly manner.  That actually does not equal flirting.
-Pen does not have to have sex on her period.  If fact, Pen can actually decide at any point whether she actually wishes to have sex or not.
-She can eat what she likes without judgment.
-The scars she has are part of her past, not part of her.
-Slow and soft cuddling is sometimes the best way to spend time together
–She is beautiful

The Grip of a Label

The last post didn’t really establish how badly this Steubenville case has gotten to me.

I’m mad at myself for that, but I can’t seem to break free.

It isn’t really the case itself.  I’m not going to bore you with more talk about the media’s portrayal.

No, I have a more personal issue.

The victim’s mother stated, “This does not define who my daughter is. She will perservere, grow, and move on.”

But I worry.  I worry about the label of “victim”.  I worry whether that is truly ever able to fall away.  To be something of the past.

Because right now I only feel like a victim.  I feel like I’ve never shaken that label.  I’ve never relaxed the iron grip of it, the gnashing teeth and rancid breath.

I still feel powerless, lost, hopeless.  These feelings sometimes dwindle down a bit, but they never seem to truly fall away.  I can manage a strong front.  I can fake it like a pro.

But inside I still just feel like a scared girl who doesn’t want to walk down the street without at least some pepper spray, most likely my dog, and even possibly a gun (I never said I was a Democrat).

I don’t want to be that scared person.  I don’t want to be a victim.  But anytime I get into a personal situation that narrows itself down into that test of power, of control- I fumble.  I cave.  I fold into myself and allow myself to be the powerless.

I don’t understand it because I do not give up control at work to my clients.  I am not rude or mean, but I am in control.  I think the less I know a person, the more likely I am to remain in control and not allow that feeling of uncertainty to creep in.

But when someone starts digging into my skin, breaking beneath the surface…then I let the reins fall.

I hate that about myself.

The past couple days I’ve lapsed so bad back into my eating disorder because I need to know I have control, I need to know this body is mine to do with what I want.  I don’t know why I can’t get that feeling treating it healthily.  I wish so hard that I could.  I know I’m broken and I need help.

Why can’t I just reach out?

Why is the grip of this label so crippling?  Why do I think of myself as the victim or the villain of a story instead of the hero?

On one level, I’m so sure that I can just keep wading through my own muck without that extra push, that extra lift.

But on another level…..I know I can’t handle it.  I can’t keep going like this.  Not for much longer.

Clarissa explains

Hi there. I’m Claire, the compulsive writer alter.  It occurred to me that The Beginning/The Abuse is always a curiosity for blogs with DID victims (don’t feel bad, we all have that morbid curiosity. It’s the first thing I look for when I’m surfing other DID-er’s blog….as terrible as that is.)

Some years ago I managed a little excerpt of a story. I present it now.  There are aspects of supernatural creatures because of my interest in fantasy and sci-fi fiction.  But most of it….not fiction.

Make of it what you will.
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Girl was playing in the alley again. The Thing craned forward to see, while still forcing the glamour to protect it from sight. She had on a pale blue human shift-like covering today. It looked pretty. The Thing tilted its head as it watched her waved to someone in the distance.

It was Him.

Boy came into view and the Thing automatically recoiled. Large ribbons of dark energy curled around Him enticingly. The Thing knew that wasn’t good. But it couldn’t do anything for Girl.

Girl nodded as he whispered something in her ear. The Thing skittered a little further into the alley, hoping to catch any dialog it could.

“I’ll be It. You have to run away and hide and not let me catch you. Then you can be It after I catch you.” He explained. Girl blinked owlishly.

“What happens if you catch me?”

Boy just smirked in that charismatically dark way that so enticed Girl and repulsed the Thing. She giggled and prepared to run away. The dark tendrils around the boy danced in excitement. The Thing chewed its lip nervously. Perhaps it should do something.

He leaned against the back of the garage and pillowed his head on his arms, starting to count.

Thing watched this passively for a bit. It continued simply watching as Boy finished counting and immediately went tearing over down the alley. He knew where Girl was. Sadly, she tended to not be creative with her hiding places.

There was a shriek of surprise and Thing heard pounding feet. Girl came tearing up the alley; Boy fast on her tail.

He caught her at the garage. Grabbing her arm roughly, he gently tackled her to the ground, rolling to soften the blow. She laughed again, not even sensing the dark wisps curling in delight and expectation of what was to come. The Thing moved closer. It hesitated, knowing there was a terrible risk if it were to help.

A metal scraping sound as a zipper was undone.

The Thing moved quickly, diving into His body with a sickening squish. It was uncomfortable in here. It kicked out its own energy as quickly as it could.

The dark ribbons grew teeth. And sank their sharp points into Thing.

It was too late.

And Thing grinned in that charismatically dark way that usually enticed Girl.

She shuddered back as the realization hit her like a bolt of lightning. But it was much too late.

Thing reached forward for her and its power was combined with Boy’s. She couldn’t get away now.

Afterwards, the ribbons easily let Thing go. The act was done, their dark want sated. What need did they have for Thing now? And Thing realized the whole act had been just intended for it. To beguile it to merge with the Boy. And it worked.

Boy left immediately, not looking over his shoulder even as the glazed look lingered in his eyes.

Thing watched the curled bundle on the ground that was Girl. She was silent and unmoving. Soon Mother would call for her to come inside. Thing moved forward and reached out to Girl, stroking her softly with dark taloned fingers.

Thing gave her two gifts in an apology for the terrible act that day.

Mask and Box.

Girl blinked as the glamour prevented her from seeing what had happened. She felt it though. She reached out to her second gift and put all the horrible things from moments ago into its hallowed recesses. She snapped the lid shut firmly.

Mother called distantly from the back porch.

Girl glanced up and stared towards her house for a moment. Her face was a terrible mess of broken dreams.

Until the Mask was put on.

All better.