Did you Find your Blogarithim Today?

I’ve decided that after two years of clogging blogging, I have enough experience to write a blog about how to bluff  blog.

Misspellings aside, I have noticed there is a certain rhythm to a good clog blog. If you have a blogger in the family, you may have noticed they make strange rhythmic sounds or moans during a prolonged process of writing. These are blogarithms. Friends and relatives of a blogger need to encourage quiet, so these sounds can be heard clearly throughout the house or office. No attempt should be made to stifle, muffle or mute a blogarithm.

Blogarithms are as necessary to the blogger as biorhythms are to the body. If the blogger has trouble writing his/her blog and find themselves with a bad case of no-writus (neuritis of the brain), it is possible at that time to create a bio-mathematical blogarithm.

Stand near or by the blogger and try to resuscitate his blogarithms. If he/she has already written a few words (up to three lines of a blog) begin to speak these words to him/her in a rhythmic cadence. Try to get a good rhythm going and hopefully this will restore the bloggers blogarithm and he will be able to continue. This is especially important for people who are paid to blog, (all twelve of them) but also necessary for us amateurs.

Sometimes bloggers make an unsuccessful attempt to write a blog. Words become glue, then turn into wordglue, thus giving birth to the word clog. See www.wordglue.com. (This link is ficticious). Bloggers also need plenty of fresh air. Stuffy air (smog) is not helpful to bloggers, who need fresh air to get fresh ideas. Their minds are often in a FOG, and when they are in this state of mind they are cloggers, not to be mistaken for those who dance a clog.

In my case, I am a multi-linguistic blogger – A multiple who studies weird words, and then blogs them in no particular order.

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My Brain is Snowed In

I was going to blog about the psychodynamics of complex multiple personality disorder today, but when I woke up my brain went into a pathological brain freeze. When I try to think, this fluffy white stuff starts flying around in my head, giving me cerebral frostbite. I would very much like to share wonderful truths with my followers, but the truth is I have only frozen memories of such things. Things such as words, sentences, clear thoughts, memories, ideas and other assorted subjects evade me. In other words, my brain is snowed in. Sorry about that! Perhaps tomorrow there will be a thaw.

Global Warming causes Local Freezing?

Former Vice President, Alvin More, has announced that the latest weather trend, Local Freezing, does not preclude Global Warming. Now shown on all TV weather maps, one can readily see that the United States is a target of Local Freezing, or National Freezing, however the weather forecasters describe the current temperatures over the northeastern United States. Unfortunately, for most Americans, the weather map shows that the rest of the world is much warmer and, in some cases, rather balmy.

Has the Word “Cold” become Obsolete? Meteorologists, commonly called Weather Men, are confused and upset, unable to understand the connection all this cold has to do with that warming ‘balderdash.’

Mr. More refuses to back down on his stand for Global Warming, still insisting that it isn’t cold, just slightly cool, and it is not necessary to wear an overcoat, hat, ear-muffs or gloves to ward off this ‘anti-warming’ trend, which will soon pass.

Appearing in only his well-groomed brown suit, the former Vice President gave a speech on the front steps of his home in Nashville, insisting for the umpteenth time that global warming is a real phenomena, much like extra-terrestrials, ghost-busters and Big Foot. More claims the word “cold” has become obsolete. Unfortunately, his speech was cut-off prematurely, when his teeth began chattering and he ran into the house to get warm.

More was recently challenged by representatives from The Weather Channel, who accused Alvin of being cold and unfeeling, uncool and hot-tempered. The weather bugs are challenging More and his followers to a swim-off in Lake Placid in February to see who has the guts to swim in the freezing waters. Then maybe they will remember the word “cold!”

Give Gifts to your Alters

We often talk about feeling like a kid at Christmas, but few of us are blessed to be able to become one when we want to. People with multiple personalities usually have a few alters who are still children. When they were abused they hid and are still available for fun and games in the right situations. Unfortunately, they can’t let their inner children come out in front of normal adults because the adults think they’re crazy. Imagine that!

I have several children inside me who love Christmas. Around the holidays I start to see ads for wonderful toys and these inner children want them. I cut out a few pictures of the things my little girls want. One personality, New Nancy, wants a Barbie Malibu Dream House.

Doll House

I also have an alter named Allen, a nine-year-old boy. He likes to play Indian so perhaps I could find a headdress for him. He also likes guns, airplanes and magic.

I think the best present to give a child alter is Play-Doh. This toy is inexpensive and can be used in most games as anything from play food to small sculpted objects.

Play-Doh

If you have an alter who is still a child, try buying them an inexpensive toy this Christmas. I bet they’ll like it, and all of you will feel better. Please let me know how this plan works for you.

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Betty Crocker – The Early Years

When I first got married in 1964, I didn’t have a clue about how to be a housewife. I was still in my last semester of college, and all I knew was what a knife and fork looked like and which appliance was the refrigerator. I did have experience at the sink, washing my hands and getting a drink of water, but as a teenager I had studiously avoided Mom’s kitchen. It really was a studied avoidance, because after dinner, I often gave my mother the excuse that I had to study, so I couldn’t help with the dishes. Unfortunately, it was true. I always had so much homework my eyes fell out every night at 10:00.

But I’m getting behind myself. My husband and I managed to eat out for the first few nights. My mom had given me her Betty Crocker Cookbook and after several days of screw-ups, mishaps, and culinary disasters, I decided to make chicken, mashed potatoes and peas. At least I knew about the three food groups: easy, difficult, and impossible.

Betty’s Cookbook  informed me how to bake the chicken, which turned out to be blackened but edible. It was the mashed potatoes that proved impossible. The recipe said to put the potatoes in a pan with ½ inch of water. Betty forgot to mention that the water needed to cover the potatoes and have an extra ½ inch on top of them.

Anyway, I burned the potatoes. I did cook the canned peas in a small saucepan with water and they turned out fine (1964 was during the pre-microwave period in culinary history). I think my husband was still hungry after dinner, but he didn’t say anything. The next night we went to “Big Boy” for hamburgers and fries.

My history of not-so-good dinners finally changed when I had children and was forced to stay home all day and take care of them. I began to care about cooking. Really, I began to care about eating, and I was serving Kraft Macaroni and Cheese every other night, so I needed to study up on making nutritious, edible and tasty dinners.

A neighbor taught me how to make a delicious pot roast. I’m getting hungry just talking about it. I had finally conquered baked chicken and I understood every step of making creamy mashed potatoes. My girlfriend found a great recipe for spaghetti sauce and I learned how to make that. At that point I was able to boil noodles.

“Mom, I learned to make spaghetti sauce from scratch.”

“Really?” Mother was astounded.

“Yes, it’s delicious.”

“Better than Chef Boy-ar-Dee?” Mom looked incredulous.

“Yes, Mom, even better than Chef Boy-ar-dee.” I remember laughing to myself because Mom thought sauce that came in a can would be better than homemade sauce.

So finally, as National Feast Day comes around again, I think back to Betty Crocker and Chef Boy-ar-dee, and although their food was not nutritious the way we insist our food be now, it was fairly good and kept us from going hungry when Mom was busy.

Chef Boy-ar-dee is a real man from Piacenza, Italy whose name was spelled Hector Boiardi. He had a famous restaurant in NYC and was one of the first chefs to package his ingredients together in a box for sale to the public. People ate it up!

Unfortunately, Betty Crocker is a crock. Yes, I’m sorry to burst your bubbles, but Betty isn’t a real person. She was started by the Washburn Crosby Company in Minneapolis in 1921, invented to give a personal touch to thousands of requests they received about baking. Here are some pictures of Betty during her early years.

Betty Crocker

Science Packs a Wallop

Since school has started almost all over the country, I am reminded of an incident from my school days in the fifties. As young girls, my sister, Gretchen, and I lived in Pittsburgh and went to Winchester Thurston School in Oakland. I was a year ahead at school, but our birthdays were only 22 months apart, so we were close.

Father drove us to school every morning, but we took the streetcar in the afternoon. We took the #75 streetcar from Ellsworth Avenue, through East Liberty and east on Penn Avenue to our street, Homewood Avenue near Frick Park.

Our route took us past a bread factory, where the aroma of fresh baked bread tempted us every afternoon. Mother warned us not to get off the streetcar and try to buy bread at the factory, and she always had a snack ready when we got home. We usually had a choice between potato chips and Coke(my favorite) or milk and cookies.

One day, when our streetcar got to the corner of Penn and Fifth Avenues, the conductor announced that because of road construction, the streetcar was not going the rest of the way up Penn Avenue.

“We’re going to turn left here and go down to blah blah and turn onto blah and blah, blah, blah.” I suppose the adults on the streetcar understood these directions, but it was gibberish to us. We had no idea where our faithful #75 was going. We were panicked. How were we going to get home?

“We should get off here,” I said, thinking we could walk the rest of the way home.

“No, we should stay on the streetcar,” Gretchen said. “We don’t know the way home.”

“I’m pretty sure we just stay on Penn Avenue until we get to Homewood Avenue,” I said.

That day I made my sister get off the streetcar. We were standing by ourselves at one of the busiest intersections in Pittsburgh and Gretchen was mad. She was almost in tears when she said,

“What are we going to do now? We don’t even know where we are.”

With that BANG! She hit me on the head with her science book!

“Ow!” I groaned, surprised by her sudden turn to violence. “Why did you do that?”

“Because now we don’t know how to get home,” she yelled at me.

“I know how to go,” I said, trying to sound self-assured despite my recent injury to the head.

We stood there quite awhile trying to figure out how to cross the intersection. It was four lanes in one direction and three in the other. Using the lights to tell us when to go, I led Gretchen across both streets and we started walking up Penn Avenue. I didn’t know how many blocks it was to Homewood Avenue, but I knew it crossed Penn and we would eventually get to it. However, we were getting tired and I still couldn’t see Homewood Avenue ahead, so I suggested we turn into a drug store on one of the corners. Gretchen agreed. We did what our mother and father had taught us. I asked the salesgirl if we could call home because we were lost. She looked at me very strangely and let me use the phone.

When Mother came and picked us up, she only had to drive two blocks to get to our house. We felt kind of stupid, but she was glad we called her and said we did the right thing to get off the streetcar.

I felt justified, but I had a sore bump on my head for several days. I had learned that science packs a wallop.

A Dummie’s History of Computers

Believe it or not, I was born long before the first computers became available to the public. I totally lack any credentials for writing a blog on the history of computers, so I am only presenting the few facts I know to be true from experience. In other words, I am the dummie!

My first husband was an electrical engineer who graduated in 1964 from Carnegie-Mellon University. At that time, if a computer were mentioned in a conversation, most people understood it was at IBM, and had nothing to do with real life. However, my husband got a job at the university making circuit boards for their new computer, one of the first in Pittsburgh.

The computer was not a lap-top or a desktop. It took up almost the entire third floor of the new computer research building. I am saying this to explain that size mattered at that time, and the idea of a computer sitting on a desk would have drawn laughter. The computer used at least 50 huge 1’x 6’x 6’ high cabinets. These large metal cabinets held all the files and hardware for this computer, and took up the whole floor. When I see teenagers running around with internet capable cell phones I am still amazed. How did those computer cabinets get small enough to fit into these phones?

To make a program for a computer you needed three bachelor’s degrees, two master’s degrees and twelve PhD’s, so there were very few programmers. I am exaggerating, but then, as now, these people were considered the smartest of the smart, or as Apple calls them, geniuses. These are to be differentiated at all times from dummies.

One of my husband’s jobs was to solder circuit boards. The boards were about 3” by 6”. My husband soldered the wires to the board all day and when he came home at night he explained how the computer worked. One wire connected to either a 1 or a 0, depending on the voltage used. If the user asked the computer a simple question, the wires went through many boards connecting various ones and zeros until it arrived at the answer. A simple question might travel  through hundreds of wires and circuit boards. It was mind bloggleing.

“It sounds so simple, doesn’t it?” I ask.

“No it doesn’t,” another personality answers.

“Are you crazy?” a third personality chimes in.

“Who’s asking?” I wonder.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

P.S. Having checked out a few articles on computers from the Internet, I think the computer language I’m talking about is called binary, but the reader is cautioned not to speak of the information in this article in front of a professional or an educator for fear of looking a lot like a dummie. And remember, a dummie can be a computer user, but a computer user might be a genius.

Pulling Myselves Together

A few days ago my friend, Christy-Marie and I went to lunch. We try to meet once a month, but we always seem to be too busy, so we end up meeting every three months instead.  We are always happy to see each other and we have a close bond because we are both multiples. We both have Multiple Personality Disorder.

Oddly enough, we both have the same diagnosis; Dissociative Identity Disorder. The psychiatric community (the doctors, not the crazy people) doesn’t like to call us multiples anymore, even though that’s what we are. Apparently soon after the publication of Sybil, by Flora Schreiber, in 1973, hundreds of cases of multiple personality surfaced in psychiatric sessions; an epidemic, if you will. Some doctors even coached their patients into believing they had multiple personalities, which later proved to be untrue.

Doctors decided that they needed to slim down the number of cases reported because many of them were imagined by the patients and in retrospect were considered “daydreaming”. The result was the new diagnosis, Dissociative Identity Disorder, which allowed doctors to include real multiples as well as imagined multiples. This is a tricky procedure because all multiple personalities are imagined.

My question is this: if doctors were having trouble differentiating between diagnoses, why lump them all together? It seems as though it would be more reasonable to separate them even further with stricter guidelines. Any thoughts about this?

When Christy Marie and I arrive at the restaurant the hostess always asks us, “how many?” Should we tell the truth on a psychological level and say “30,” (13 for me and 17 for Christy Marie)? Or should we just tell the number of bodies, “two?” It’s a conundrum.

My therapist always suggests that I have conferences between my personalities. When I do, I form a circle of 13 chairs, one for each personality. Then I write everyone’s name on a sheet of paper and place each one on a chair. My managing personality, Control, takes over the meeting and allows each personality to speak. Sometimes we get into a squabble because two personalities disagree, but most often we feel overwhelmed by the number of us. We sit around in a state of bewilderment, listening to each other voice their feelings. I don’t like it. I want to be normal like everyone else most people.

I wish that I didn’t have to take a poll in order to know how I feel. It is discouraging to realize there are twelve other people inside me with minds of their own.  It’s like trying to control twelve unruly children. I wish I was normal, but having a conference is about as normal as I can be right now, until I have complete integration.

The goal of therapy for Dissociative Identity Disorder is integration of all personalities. I need to pull myself together!

Are You a Multiple or Just Confused?

Having lived the last 66 years with multiple personality disorder gives me a unique perspective on life. There is no such thing as a normal day when you have this disorder. My brain will think of things to do and say much faster than I can do them. I do better if I plan ahead for the next day. Of course just because I plan my day, doesn’t mean I’ll actually do all the things I’ve planned.

There is also the other extreme – doing three or four things at once. I’ll start one project, see another that I can do quickly and begin that, and then before I’ve finished either of those, start a third and fourth. This is definitely “crazy” behavior. If I had Bi-Polar Disorder, it would be a short manic period. The problem is, if I don’t quit and start cleaning up, it becomes very obvious that I’ve “gone over the edge.”

Having a conversation is also challenging, because while I am talking or while the other person is talking, one of my personalities will think of something else and miss the point. If I don’t monitor myself diligently, I’ll blank out and miss what the other person is saying, or I’ll change the subject without blinking an eye. I feel like my head is a gum ball machine. I can put my quarter in, but I’m never sure what’s going to come out.

Have you had problems with confusion? Do you ever feel like you’re on a mental “wild goose chase?”

All of these problems have their root in confusion. Here is what Mr. Webster has to say about “confuse.”

  1. archaic: to bring to ruin
  2. to make embarrassed: ABASH. This word originally meant to shame
  3. to disturb in mind or purpose: THROW OFF (“Interrogators who do their best to frighten and bewilder him,” Aldous Huxley)
  4. to make indistinct: BLUR (stop confusing the issue)
  5. to mix indiscriminately: JUMBLE
  6. to fail to differentiate from an often similar or related other ( ~ money with comfort).

I think all of us have experienced confusion, and hopefully this definition is helpful in understanding how to deal with it. Do you have problems with confusion? Do you have a special way of dealing with it?

God, the Ultimate Genius

My sister, Greta, is a born-again Christian and she loves the Lord. She also loves people and when a friend asked her to drive her to radiation treatment in Columbus, my sister agreed. Greta is very giving. Please don’t ask her for the shirt off her back, she’ll probably give it to you, leading to an embarrassing situation for all concerned. Anyway, we have a sweet friend, Holly, who has been battling cancer for about four years, and she asked Greta to drive her to Columbus. Greta did request, however, that they stop at the Apple Store in Columbus because Greta’s new I- phone was not working properly.

Holly’s appointment was for 1:45, but the ladies arrived at the Apple Store in plenty of time for Greta to explain her problem to a consultant. The consultants work at the GENIUS BAR, and are referred to as GENIUSES, and rightly so, since they seem to be a whole lot smarter than everyone else.

The problem with Greta’s phone was that it would not ring. When she received a call the phone merely vibrated, so my sister was missing a lot of calls. She has a two-story house and if she was downstairs, when the phone was on the second floor, she couldn’t hear the buzzing sound. She has a telemarketing business, so it was essential that the phone would ring. The Apple Store was her last resort in exchanging the phone.

Greta and Holly arrived at the store in plenty of time for Greta to pick out and exchange her phone. The consultant, excuse me, I mean the Genius, agreed she needed a new phone and within a few minutes she had one. The problem came when the geniuses tried to download her content from her old phone to the cloud on her new one. They started the download and the phone got the first few entries, but then it stopped and nothing happened. They tried again. The same thing happened.

Time was passing by and it was getting late. The Geniuses tried to download the content again. Greta was getting nervous. This was her last chance to get a new phone, because Apple doesn’t have a store in our town, and obviously traveling two hours to get to Columbus is not an easy option. Even so, the phone downloaded the first part of the content to the cloud and then sat still.

Greta decided to pray. She quietly and unobtrusively laid her hand on the phone and prayed:

“Dear God, you are the real Genius. You gave these people the knowledge to create this phone. You can do anything. Please make my content download, so I can take Holly to her appointment.” As she lifted her hand to look at the phone, the rest of her content began downloading and within minutes it was done. She silently thanked the Lord, who is the ULTIMATE GENIUS.

As Easy as Pie

I’ve been cogitating on the idiom “as easy as pie.” Apparently this phrase was first used by someone who was eating a piece of pie, not baking a pie, because baking a pie can be difficult and may involve tears.

As a young bride of 21, about a hundred years ago, I had to make breakfasts, lunches, dinners, do the food shopping and wash the dishes, and I didn’t have a clue. I had purposely avoided the kitchen at home because I didn’t like my mother. She always seemed to find fault with me.

I hadn’t been married long when I decided to make an apple pie. In those olden days, one had to make piecrust from scratch and anyone who has done this, knows it is a skill that needs carefully practiced. I started with a stick of soft margarine and some flour and salt. I happily mixed it all together expecting it to become dough. However, it didn’t become dough. It became a wet, gooey mess.

I started over with fresh ingredients, reading the recipe over several times to get it right. This time I got a bunch of crumbles that wouldn’t congeal without adding water, and when I did add it, the same thing happened. Then I cried.

I called my mother, but she wasn’t home. I called my girlfriend and she told me I needed several things I didn’t have. First I needed to use real butter, and I needed a pastry blender. I didn’t have one. I didn’t even know what they looked like. I cried some more. She said I could blend the shortening and the flour with a fork but I had to do it very easily in order to get a good crust. Apparently if you mash the ingredients together too hard, the dough gets tough, and the tough get doughy.

I actually tried to make the crusts again, using butter and a fork to blend it, but it still didn’t work. I cried long and hard after that.  If tears were used to moisten the crust mixture, I could have had the best pie ever made. I’m sure at some point I threw something to vent my anger, but I don’t remember what. What I do remember is the flour was all over everything, there were dirty forks, spoons and bowls and there was no pie.

Whoever said something was “as easy as pie,” has never tried to make a pie crust from scratch. Long live ready-made pie crusts. No tears necessary.

Little Hansie

During the late forties, my family was one of the lucky ones who usually took a vacation to the beach every summer. We had several places in New Jersey where we went for a week or two to swim, go to the boardwalk and ride bicycles. Our favorite place at that time was Wildwood-by-the-Sea. We would rent a wood-frame duplex with two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room about two or three blocks from the ocean. It wasn’t fancy, but my sister, Gretchen, and I thought it was paradise.

Mother on the boardwalk

Almost every day, we packed up a picnic basket and grabbed the towels, beach blanket, sand buckets and umbrella and hiked a few blocks to the beach. We’d spend most of the day at the beach, enjoying swimming and building sand castles and eating delicious (but sandy) ham sandwiches until we went home for naps in the afternoon. Even our parents took naps, they were so exhausted from taking care of us.

We also usually took a boat into the ocean to go deep sea fishing. My sister and I were too young at first to be trusted with a hook and line when other people were around, but as we grew older we were also allowed to fish.

Summer vacation was a wonderful time for us, and I have dozens of sweet memories of it. But my favorite memory of all is playing “little Hansie.”

This game was played at the beach in the shallow water. My father’s name was Hans Beyerl and he had come to the United States from Germany when he was 19 years old. He still had his German accent. He would take us into the water and he would kneel down and pretend he was our little boy.

My sister and I would hold his hands and when a wave came we would try to help him “jump” the wave. He’d make it over the first few waves, but sometimes he’d let the waves smack him right in the face and we’d squeal and worry he would drown. Then a “big one” would come along and he would go under the water like he was drowning and we would squeal and try to help him up.

“Little Hansie’s drowning,” we would scream and try as hard as we could to lift him up. Sometimes he would come up and sometimes he wouldn’t. Then we would squeal even louder and try harder to lift him up, meanwhile laughing and giggleing, as only children can.

He would always come up drenched in water and looking like he was going to drown at any minute. We would help him up and help him brush off the water, trying to care for little Hansie.

father on the boardwalk

I remember the joy of playing this game, perhaps better than anything else from my childhood. I’m sure we squealed enough to bother a few people trying to relax, but we had such a good time I don’t think anyone was upset about it. And my poor father. We always wondered how he withstood getting salt water all over his face all the time, but he didn’t seem to care. I think he loved this game too!

Do you remember any special games you played at the beach?

The Vat of Words

It takes a really long time to write a book.

When you start, you think you’ll just write down a few things about the subject, put them in an outline and write a chapter a week until you get it all down. But then, about a third of the way through the project you start to realize it’s going to be a lot harder to write this thing than you thought. At first your ideas were so simple and orderly, but suddenly there are conflicting ideas and many more possibilities than you first thought.

It’s like jumping into a big vat of words. You swim around in the words for awhile, but you don’t know how to get out. There’s only one thing to do: realize it’s going to take a really long time to write your book, and settle in for the long haul. You have to learn to swim in the big vat of words. You’re a writer.

For years your friends have been asking you if you finished your book, and the answer has always been no, because it takes a really long time to write a book.

Finally you begin to get to the end of your planned book. Just a few more chapters to go. However, when you start to tie up the loose ends, there are so many that it’s hard to sort them out. My question is this: how can a few more chapters take so long to write? Is it possible that the end of the book is harder to write than the beginning? Is it even possible to know when it’s done?

Well, I finally finished my first draft of my memoir. I feel like I have done something very special because I finished my book. I am finally coming up for air, climbing out of the big vat of words. Wow there’s life out there! There are people walking around doing things. Yes! I feel like I have accomplished a good thing. I’ve written a book. Whether or not anyone reads it is another story entirely. Or would that be another book?

 

A Taxing Interview

Last week I gathered our tax records and drove to see my accountant, Wade. Wade and I have been friends for years and we always catch up during tax season. I sat down in his office, which is nicely outfitted in arts and crafts movement furniture. I placed my records neatly on the customer side of Wade’s desk, and waited.

“How are you doing Nancy?” he asked as he came in briskly and took his place on the other side of the desk. We exchanged pleasantries and then he slid the records over towards him and began checking them out. He likes to make sure he understands what’s what.

“Is there anything new I should know about?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m deducting business expenses for my writing. I’m writing a book.”

“All right,” he said as he began reading the list of expenses I had made. “What’s the name of your book?” People always want to know the name of the book I’m writing. Sometimes I’m almost too shy to tell them, but since I’ve known Wade for so long and he has never transgressed on our friendship I told him.

“It’s called Multiple: Surviving Child Abuse, a Journey through Insanity.” I know this title is mind boggleing, so I waited to see his reaction. He stopped trying to read the report and was thinking. I could almost see the wheels turning in Wade’s head and I thought he was probably wondering what to say, so I continued.

“I have Multiple Personality Disorder. I was sexually abused as a child and I have more than thirteen personalities!” For some reason this always takes people by surprise. After a very long pause, a pregnant pause, Wade looked up from the paper.

“You’re not a serial killer are you?” A simple question, but why do people assume that if you have multiple personalities one of them is a serial killer?  Fortunately, Wade smiled as soon as he said it and we both laughed.

“No, none of my personalities are killers.” With this pertinent information in hand, Wade stopped perusing the tax records and began questioning me at length about my illness and my book. We spent ten or fifteen minutes talking about being a multiple and writing a book.

My point in telling you all this is, that the public really needs educated about Dissociative Identity Disorder, aka Multiple Personality Disorder. That is the reason I wrote my memoir. I want people to know about what happened to me and how I discovered my “alters,” so that possibly another child might be saved from the same fate.

I want people to find out how crazy I was for the first fifty years of my life, although I was never a serial killer, and how shocking it was to discover my other personalities, which I found when I was in a mental hospital. I also want people to know that there is help out there and that “mental cases” can live fairly normal lives if treated. I’d like to get the word out there so that other people with multiple personalities can get help.

The statistics are rather revealing. Safe Horizon.org published a statistic on their website stating that there are 3.6 million reports of child abuse in the United States every year and that six million children are involved. Please be vigilant and call the Child Abuse Hotline if you think a child is being abused. The number is 1-800-4-A-CHILD.

Did You Celebrate Multiple Personality Day?

I am so embarrassed. I missed Multiple Personality Day, which was March 5th. I hope I have not lost any readers because of my memory lapse!

Did you celebrate? Are you a multiple or a single-minded individual? I’m sure many of you had great celebrations with cakes, gifts, and balloons, but what about those who are not multiples? We could call them indivisibles, with liberty and justice for all. I think that’s what we should call them.

My guess is that most multiples had no idea it was Multiple Personality Day. Most of us try so hard to appear normal that we forget everything else.

Some parts of me realized this special day was during March, but my overall presiding personality, Control, wanted confirmation in black and white. Unfortunately I was not able to find the information I wanted on the internet, but I did find a great video on multiple personality, which I presented in my last post.

Since I have mentioned Control, I will describe him/her/it. Control was created in the eighties, when I became a married middle-class woman living in a small university town. My third husband kept coaching me on how to raise my two daughters from previous marriages. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to do it right.

“You have to be consistent,” he said. Well, if there’s anything a multiple can’t do, it’s be consistent. An untreated  multiple has little chance of being consistent. Some of us can’t remember what we did yesterday, much less what significant lesson we were trying to teach our children.

So I created Control, who has no feelings, no gender and no past. This personality was the perfect entity to run a complex household. He/she kept track of holidays (unlike Nancy), car pool schedules, grocery lists, Doctor’s appointments, church responsibilities, cleaning schedules, laundry and meal planning and execution. (I don’t actually execute my meals, I do cook them!)

Control handled all of the above without getting upset. Most of my other personalities can’t do that, because they get upset if there are too many details. They get overloaded and then, wham, they change into someone else!

So that is my excuse for forgetting Multiple Personality Day. I hope you were able to have a nice celebration anyway! Did anyone do anything special?

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