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what's happened *mult trigger*

Posted by James K on February 25, 2006, at 15:42:56

In reply to Re: Different personalities concept *triggers?* James K, posted by Racer on February 25, 2006, at 13:54:52

This is just me bitching about my past, probably not good reading for a rainy saturday afternoon, so maybe you'll read it later when it more psychological feeling. I just have to get some of it out even if I feel foolish after. I let this stuff bother me so many years later. Any way, I'm going to hit post now, and it will be out here. I'm not making a big deal, but telling unpleasant is unpleasant.

This stuff did happen for a reason. If there is a little boy in me still, he is scared and hurt. And if there is an adolescent in me still, he is angry and vengeful. But the adult I am is a tribute to the love of my best friend and my wife. The extreme nature of my adult emotions is a tribute to me protecting the "little boy" and reinforcing the "adolescent".

Me and my sisters got spanked. Not a big deal on the face of it. Welcome to America. It messed me up big time. It started too soon, and went on too long. There was always a feeling of such disaproval and tension to live under. I remember when I was 4 and in kindergarten, I was called to the front of the class because I guess I had just aced my first standardized test and was to be congratulated. I freaked out from fear. The poor teacher had to reassure me that something good was happening.

Getting hit when you are young, as some of you sadly know, changes the way the brain works. My little sister was my best friend and favorite person in the world. Sometime around 7 years maybe she would be 6, someone of the three of us did something bad. We all got punished to confess. Which I even then knew was a Nazi tactic. So one by one we were bent over a bed naked and whipped with a 4 foot, 2 inch yard stick till they stopped, none of us confessed so we went again, and again. Nobody ever confessed, but the stick broke on my little sister's bare *ss, so they stopped. They asked us to forgive them, and I said no, and I went finally hard inside. Now sex, nakedness, pain, humiliation are all twisted up in my head.

They continued to hit us for years, but they'd lost me. I started using drugs a couple of years later, and some day in my early teens, my mom tried to hit me some more, and I threw her to the ground. That was the last day of that particular punishment. A few years after that sometime, she was yelling at me, and I slammed my bedroom door in her face. She didn't like that, but she liked it less when my fist came through the door. I walked out of the house, ran my head full force into the brick wall and walked away. I didn't come back until very late that night after calling and asking if I could, and all we talked about was the fact there was beer on my breath. I don't care, I needed a drink.

I was a smart lowerclass underaged yankee in a stupid trash southern subdivision in a rich school district. I got in fights all the time. Beaten up. 2 on 1, or by older kids. Metal lunchbox fights. Sometime in highschool after I gained my strength and confidence, I started scaring people. I helped my new wave friends when people messed with them. I just had to go look at somebody and it was on, because I wasn't afraid to go right now. That is huge power. It kept me alive throughout young adulthood. I faced down guns, and other drunks, because I had hate like they didn't know about.

When I got older and worked in customer service, there came times when I had to just take it. Because I wanted to keep my job, or because the store had bought my honor for itself. So I had to deal with my honor on my own time. So I've hurt myself real bad over the years. Somebody has to pay and it's almost always me. I look down on my arms, and I see the words worthless nothing burned in my forearm, the butcher knife marks that almost killed me, the stab wound from last month, the scars on the broken knuckles. I've been self injuring longer than I've been substance abusing, and thats almost 30 years.

I had a big fear of marking my face, It's already marked with lots of injury scars, but now I have my first permanent on purpose scar in the middle of my forehead. I'd already violated my privates with safety pins, so there is no taboo left for me.

My dad is a big man 6 foot 4, 300 plus pounds. He dropped me on my head when I was a newborn on the icy concrete church steps from clumsy. He full force slapped me onside the head to the floor when I was 8 for whatever. My mother made sure I knew I wasn't as cool as I thought I was when I was 14.

Nobody ever helped me with social anxiety that was so obvious. Noone helped me with substance abuse when I was a preteen.

Gay predators kept coming after me. More than I care to remember. It messed with my sexual identity because I couldn't keep a girlfriend for more than one night, but all these men wouldn't take no for an answer. When I was 17 at college, I finally let a guy jack me off in exchange for him supplying the liqour I couldn't get otherwise. He was 24, but claimed 21. I would hit him.

I'm rambling, there were just days after days of pain, humiliation, confusion, depression, anxiety, I had books and music. When I discovered booze and a peer group I became me. And i hate the me I was before, and I hate the world that allowed me to be that me. When I get reminded of that old me, or that part of the world that creates people like the old me -abusers, predators, class system, incompetence. I want to wipe it clean. I want no trace of the little boy I'm telling you some of to exist.

All that is just to say the muliple personality parts of me are the hurt kid (that I hate) the adolescent who tried (and failed) and Me (who would rather break something than feel or remember any of this stuff that comes to me when I stay sober too long, or get triggered by the news or media of some kind)

james k


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poster:James K thread:612863
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/psycho/20060225/msgs/613233.html