There is power in our names. As a multiple I understand that point intimately. Many of my Selves were named for specific things: "Niagara" was raped at the falls, for instance. Each name that my alters hold is significant to them. Initially in therapy nobody wanted to tell Spug their names because they believe that once he knew their names, he would have power over them.

It sounds peculiar but upon further inspection makes total sense. In order for me to survive, all of my parts needed to respond to my birth name. To admit that they existed to anyone (especially to divulge their actual, differing names) was to become vulnerable. And therein lies the power--their power--the ability to exist and yet be completely unnoticed.

My birth name is unusual, ugly, and full of horrible associations for me. Although I have hundreds of "other names" within my Selves, I consider those to be their individual expressions of self and will not adopt any of them. I had a dilemma because I hated the name I was born with, yet didn't feel like I deserved anything different.

Over a year ago, I experienced an interesting rebirth within my core being. As I began to evolve and take a different shape I realised that my birth name no longer reflected who I was. After consulting with the others inside, I decided to rename myself.

I asked Spug if he would help. He did. He & his wife sifted through baby books and came up with a first and middle name for me. I loved them, and I loved the symbolism behind who had given them to me. Within 6 months I had completed the proceedings to have my name legally changed. As a result, I am a new person, with a new name, and a name given to me by somebody who actually likes me and wants the best for me.

It took some time to accustom myself to being called by my new name. Even more difficult was accepting that everytime I heard it, I was acknowledging that someone found me worthwhile, and wanted me to stay alive. Hearing my birth name called out loud echoed the insults I had grown up believing:

"stupid goodfornothing worthlessthanazero neverbeloved ugly evil childofsatan slut liar neverenough errantchild"

When I buried my old name, I buried the lies that I had made synonomous with it, and I found a freedom and a beauty in myself that I had never known existed.

I have been so concerned ever since the bit was born that I would hurt her--I have guarded my heart and my Selves, I have put a siphon from all of the awful horrible things that usually come rushing out of me and into the air around me, and I have reworked the tubing so that it pumps right back into my head again. And its killing me.

These emotions are powerful, dangerous, terrifying. They fill me with a haze of confusion and "blankness." I am horrified that if I let them out, if I let them into the world around me, they will corrupt my daughter; drown her, fill her up with my toxic angst.

I guess in that way, in determination, I am nothing like my abusive family of origin. And I will never be. But how do I find the fine line between allowing myself to vent, to express these horrible things within me, and still protect her? I don't want her to be afraid of her mom. I don't want to be mentally ill around her.

But the reality is that I AM mentally ill. I have multiple personalities, and there is nothing I can do about it. I can't change it, rewrite it, make it go away. I can't bury it deep inside of me and ignore it, I can't hide it, and I'm learning I can't recycle it. And I hate that. I hate that I'm sick, that I'm hurt, that my childhood sucked and my adult life is the constant ramifications of that. I hate that I have to tear at my hair and pull on my skin and bleed. I hate it, hate it, hate it. I want to be normal, I want to give her normality. But I can't, I can't--though I try, though I desire it with all of my heart--I can't. I just can't.

Tears raged through my body today, shook my whole being, rushed out my eyes into my mouth and flooded through my nose, and I couldn't stop crying. I can't stop feeling helpless. I can't change anything and I want to, I need to, but I can't change anything. And I'm afraid that I will destroy myself. In my wish to keep my daughter safe I will be lost, stolen, and I will fall apart. I will go insane.

I don't know how to keep myself safe. I don't know how to stop the churning chaos in my head, the sickness in my stomach, the memories, the smells, the flicks of images, the black river of rage inside of me. I don't know how to handle it and it scares me more than I can say. It scares me more than I can explain. I feel like the world is ending and I am blowing up inside of it.

It didn't happen. I'm still as overwhelmed, confused, angry, mixed-up, traumatized as I was on Monday. But ... I am a little rested--in that I was able to get some time to myself.

The weirdest thing of all was that Spug finally saw "Good Will Hunting." The fact that he saw it wasn't what was weird, exactly. The strange thing was that he asked me if Robin Williams was a better therapist than he was.

What am I supposed to say to that? I think he was kidding, but the question was out there and I felt like I had to say something, so I muttered: "you don't want to go there..." and he raised an eyebrow and got that "could you please elaborate" expression on his face, so I continued:

"Do you remember the person who gave me away at my wedding? He was my English teacher in high school, and I love him fiercely. But in spite of that, I liked Robin William's teacher character in Dead Poet's Society more than I liked D."

It isn't a fair comparison. Movies are bigger than life--every second, every line, is crafted and perfected (or ad-libbed) and re-done--actors don't make unplanned mistakes; actors don't say the wrong thing unless its in the script. So how can you ask me who or what is better? Damn, I'll take the fantasy every fucking time!

Once that was settled, we got down to the business of what is going on in my life and made a potential suggestion for going back to 2 sessions a week, and I don't know what I'm going to do, but I know I have to get better or I'm going to go really lose it and end up in the hospital again, so ....

... But my free time, it was great. I went and visited an old friend I hadn't seen in years and then I went and had mexican food, and it was wonderful to eat--by myself, without worrying about the crying bit, without balancing a bottle in one hand and a fork in the other--and I sat there a long time and chewed slowly and really enjoyed the privacy.

C either has Hodgkin's Disease or a metasized tumor from somewhere else, and she has surgery on Friday. I am scared. More than anything, I'm scared because Hubbs hasn't lost any of his family-of-origin (except his grandfather when he was younger), and its getting to where its going to start happening. In some sense, I'm really fortunate because my family is as good as dead to me, but at the same time, I know that when they officially "die" its going to be difficult in its own way.

I am learning to live life in 2 hour increments. I'm also learning to relax a little and let the bit cry once in a while. I have been so intent on being a good mother that I have felt like I have to prevent her every tear, every whimper, and keep her entertained, dry and happy every single second. I realise now that this is nearly impossible. So I'm letting go of some of this "SuperMom" role. It feels good to be human again.

Last night we went to hubby's work and I got to spend several hours online. It was really nice because he took care of the bit and I didn't have to worry about her. I had 2 monitors, ISDN and all the graphic art tools a person could want. I hastily compiled a new page (miscellanea) which has links to the journals I like to read, and the award from Bronwyn. I wish I had the time to make my pages extraordinary ...

I am so delighted that I have discovered the online journal community. I don't fit in yet, I hardly know anybody and I'm too shy to icq and too busy to email, but I really like the people I have read. I believe the intelligent faction of the net is in the journal community, people that I can understand and feel like I could say something bizzare to and they would totally get it. The net is a wonderful, wonderful thing...it appeases some of the great Void of my Loneliness.

I have been losing time in strange ways again. I am concerned because when I ask around inside, nobody seems to have a clue as to what is going on. This makes me uncomfortable. Very Uncomfortable. I hate this process of "healing." I hate that for every victory, there are 100 failures. I hate that for every moment of peace, there are 100 moments of self-mutilation and torment. It is exhausting, it is relentless, I am like a small rock being tossed about in a big surf. I hurt.

It sounds melodramatic, it sounds like the same old bullshit I've been spewing for almost 3 decades now. I would give anything to just make it go away, snap out of it but I can't. I've tried. I have. I've pushed everything to the back dusty crevices of my mind and "gone on" with my life. But I didn't go anywhere, I didn't know who I was, I didn't know how to ignore the gnawing at my soul, the agony of the restless pain that is inside me, the tears that spurt from my eyes if I'm not hypervigilant and aware of every move.

I feel like jello run over a cheese grater--I feel like I'm living on a bed of hot coals, sleeping on a cot of spikes. I cannot stand this pain most of the time, I cannot stand the images in my head, I look at the world around me and see the Ugliness, the horror and shame hidden beneath the Guess clothing and fancy cars. I see what is underneath the Surface of things and I hate the Vision, the Insight, the Ability; I want to crawl inside a warm place and come out plain and boring and untouched.

I could eat Mexican food every meal of the day and still not get sick of it. I love grilled cheese sandwiches, and I manage to mutilate everything I eat.

Know how I eat pizza? I lift the cheese up very gently and sort of flip it over the back of the crust. Then I lick the sauce off with my finger. Then I fold the cheese back down and eat off the toppings (tomatoes, eggplant, garlic,etc), then I take the cheese off entirely and eat the dough/crust. I finish it off with a mouthful of the cheese and drink a big glass of diet pepsi.

And sandwiches? well ... I eat the insides out first. If its tuna, I'll slap some ruffles chips in the middle and eat the whole thing, but anything else and the sandwich comes apart. I eat out the tomatoes, lettuce, sprouts, meat (if there is any), and then eat it just like a cheese sandwich, with only the cheese and the bread.

You know those $0.39 tacos from Del Taco? I take out the cheese before I eat them, and put it into a nice little pile in the corner of the wrapper. After about 3 of them, I take the last taco, add that cheese to the already existing pile, scrape out the lettuce & meat from the inside, eat it with a fork, take the entire collection of cheese and dump it into the now empty shell; thereby forming a cheese taco.

I am obsessed with cheese, it makes me happy. Hubbs once said he was going to write a book called "Everything in Life is a Grilled Cheese Sandwich" cuz in my case its entirely true. I love cheese and bread...in any form. I turn everything I eat into cheese and bread somehow. The rest is decoration.

I put mustard on my grilled cheese sandwiches and limes on my carne asada. I put a few cubes of ice in my milk. I eat yogurt with a fork and rice with a spoon.

Like I said, I am extraordinarily weird. Now you have proof!