Grief can feel endless


It’s four-fucking-thirty in the morning. I haven’t been able to sleep yet. I just ate an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers with cream cheese on them. Yes. An entire sleeve. And from the moment I grabbed them until the moment I was done eating them I kept thinking “Ask me if I fucking care how much I pay for all of this gluten. Nope, I don’t.” (I know I’ll think differently in 12 hours or so when my body is aching and my legs hurt so much I can’t rest my laptop on them and I’m so fatigued I can barely think.)

I’ve been a mess tonight. I know being premenstrual is making it worse. But there’s so damn much pain and grief about not having another child. When will it go away? So much pain. I don’t know what to do with it except cry and feel horrible. I feel like I may have taken a small step forward with it all tonight though. It’s been far too easy to know there is a tiny chance of getting pregnant and let my mind go there. Miniscule chance. But hey, 1 in 10,000 (or worse) is still a chance. I let myself go there this cycle and had sex at a fertile time. Except the chance of a tubal failure AND conceiving at almost 46 years old is that 1 in 10,000 (or worse) chance and is just not going to happen. I was able to let myself concede that even without a tubal, getting pregnant at nearly 46 is so unlikely. Put the two together and there’s just no chance. That tiny chance isn’t a chance. I can go around and around though. Maybe the tubal has failed. And my cycles are still regular and I know from earlier this year that I’m still ovulating. And and and. But the age thing is starting to shake some sense into me. Okay, the age thing practically brings me to my knees with sadness and pain. But just the thought about my age making it virtually impossible is a step forward.

Twenty fucking years. Over twenty years of wanting another child and I’m still in this position. I don’t understand. I don’t understand why I didn’t get to have another child. I don’t understand why I didn’t get to raise a child. I don’t understand why I didn’t get to raise the children I have. I just don’t understand why I never got another chance. What the hell did I do so wrong? My mind can really go to that question but I do my best not to get sucked up in the thoughts that come in answer. And the rantings of Robert, who will jump on that and let me know well and truly that it’s because I’m a worthless piece of shit who doesn’t deserve it. He jumped in for a brief moment tonight and I was able to keep him from going on. My pain pushed him away. At least there’s a good reason for bowling-over emotional pain.

When I’m suffering like this, especially when PMS is playing into it, it’s so easy to think about suicide. I wouldn’t do it. I could never do that to people, especially my sons. Then I can find myself pleading to the universe to not wake up in the morning. Could I please just not wake up once I finally fall asleep? But I can’t wish for that either because (husband) Cory’s parents need contact information for people who would need to know, and information about our debit cards and bills. You know, logistics. Not that pleading in my bed will make me not wake up in the morning, of course. If that worked, I’d be pregnant.

But I’m not and never will be and have spent more than 20 years wishing and hoping (and Gloria praying) for something that will never be. And it hurts. It really cuts deep. And I don’t know how to deal with it. I know I need to find some books about grief and maybe even a group if something suitable is available. I’m working in that direction. But for now I’ll post this and lay down again and hope that I can finally sleep. I took Ativan several hours ago. Vicodin about an hour ago because fibro pain was part of why I couldn’t settle down to sleep. I’m so damn tired. I just need to sleep. I want to sleep. I don’t want to be awake and feel this emotional pain. I just need to sleep.


i am… (take 1)


i am…
    bored and restless

i am not…
    wanting to spend time with in-laws tonight

i feel…
    sad and lost

i want…
    to cut

i need…
    time with a friend

i have…
    a heart that won’t seem to heal

i love…
    my sons

i hate…

This is a writing exercise I found on the Bodies Under Siege message board. When I want to journal but am not sure where to start I use this. Sometimes it ends up being a jumping off point for more writing, other times I feel satisfied with the brevity of those few words.

Cut Off


It took three stages and nearly four years but I’m proud (and sad at the same time) to say that my family of origin is officially cut off. This may sound strange coming from someone who can have no more children, but BabyCenter helped me a lot with this. They have a board called Dealing with the In-laws and Family of Origin (DWIL Nation). For one thing, it’s nice to see that I’m not the only one who has felt the need to cut family off entirely. (And many of you know all about time outs and cut offs and all that entails!) I’m a major lurker on the board and it’s been invaluable. I highly recommend it as a source of support.

It’s been interesting to look back and see how the stages came about. In the first stage, being around my FOO was triggering so I had to step away. I always knew it could go either way in the end, either being around them again or cutting them off entirely. I really didn’t know how it would end up but I hoped I could be around them again at some point. I sent letters out to several family members explaining that I needed some time to get myself together and that I loved them. At this point in my life (present day) I would only barely even consider such letters because I know I don’t have to JADE (justify, argue, defend, explain). But back then it was where I was at with it all.

About nine months after sending the letters my brother contacted me and we did talk on the phone and see each other occasionally for a couple years. I saw family once (twice?) when we celebrated a birthday or something. I ran into my aunt a few times at the store and would talk to her for a few minutes. Last year, even before my grandmother died, my brother was calling less and I wasn’t willing to call him myself. I haven’t heard from him since the day he let me know about Grammy’s memorial service. I suspect he may be upset that I didn’t go to pay my respects even though it didn’t make sense for me to reconnect with family at an event like that. By this time, it was just easier to stay away from my family.

Since my Grammy died last year, I’ve thought a lot about my family. Around the holidays I was really missing them but I also knew that wasn’t the right time to reconnect. I planned on visiting my aunt and brother early in the spring but the more I thought about it the more I realized I really didn’t want to. I missed my family in certain ways (and still do) but not enough and not in ways to give me a push to see them. As spring has come into summer and especially as this summer has gone by I’ve realized that we have practically nothing in common. At first I thought that sounded callous and awful, but what’s callous about the truth? I can hardly imagine they feel some strong connection to me at this point, either.

Part of the not having anything in common is the fact that my life is completely different than when we saw each other, and they have no clue what my life is like now. They know I “go by” Kali but they don’t know why. They don’t know what I do with my daily life. They don’t know about my older son being diagnosed with high functioning autism a year ago. They don’t know I got my tubes tied two years ago. Or that I get allergy shots. They don’t know me! And how do you explain some of these things to people? Why I had to step away? Why I’m Kali? Even how a 23 year old finally gets diagnosed with autism. I knew that explaining these things would end up being huge JADE sessions with my critical, condescending aunt. And I’m not willing to put myself through that, because I deserve better. It was time to be done.

I guess there’s actually a stage three and a half. The half being, I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks about the fact that I have no interest in being around my FOO and feel hardly any connection to them anymore. I don’t care who thinks what. It matters not that my family may feel I’m a heartless bitch. It’s inconsequential that even my parents in law may think I made the wrong choice just for my own comfort. (I have no proof of this, it’s just a suspicion.) I don’t care what anyone thinks about it, and that is the biggest, best part of it all. The most freeing.

And that, my friends, is improving major life dynamics by making a complete family of origin cut off in three (and a half) stages in four years. I’m freaking proud of myself!




It’s hard to believe it’s been a year, but I’m back! I enjoy and miss writing, there’s a lot to write about, sessions with my therapist have come to an end, and I need something to do with myself. So I decided it would be good to start blogging again. There’s plenty to say but I want my first post back to be light so I’m doing some free writing. Hello to all my faithful readers and hi to anyone new!

Needing: New glasses, badly! Oregon Medicaid won’t cover them and I’m finding it almost impossible to save up for an exam and glasses.

Watching: Daria. She reminds me of myself, a smart, snarky wallflower.

Wishing: For several things that simply cannot be, one of them ever.

Waiting: For a package that should have been here by now. Hopefully Monday.

Wondering: How some people can be so hateful and hurtful.

Marveling: At how clear my body can be about certain things. Like the fact that gluten makes my fibro symptoms worse.

Liking: The fact that I haven’t had to wash dishes in at least two months. DH has been doing them every day.

Thinking: About how far I’ve come in the past 6 years. Even when I feel like a wreck, I know I’ve grown a lot.

Listening: To demo versions of songs by The Cars lately, because it’s neat to hear what earlier visions were.

Noticing: How much it helps to give up the need for control in my life. This is not easy for me!

Making: Nothing, and I need to change that. Too much time online, not enough (read: any) time creating things. That’s one function of this blog, thankfully.

Getting: Frustrated with all of the nightmares and other PTSD stuff I’ve been dealing with again for almost two months. I’m starting Prazosin again tonight and hopefully that will help.

Snacking: On too damn much junk and gluten! Being multiple doesn’t help with this one bit.

Hoping: My older son gets through his first real job interview with flying colors in a few days. Asperger’s will make this harder for him than for many people.

Wanting: To go to the beach. I’m only about an hour away and I have no way to get there.

Knowing: That I’m going to have a very hard time when my brother in law and his soon to be wife start a family.

Enjoying: Fresh local fruit, especially Hermiston watermelon.

Following: Not enough of what’s going on in the world. I know tiny amounts about a bunch of things and feel like I should better inform myself.

Coveting: Far too many things, from a bigger kitchen to a different relationship.

Admiring: My mother in law for writing a yet-unpublished novel and getting a meeting with a literary agent. Impressive!

Reading: Too few books, about the right number of blogs, and too many web pages for fun.

Bookmarking: Things that wouldn’t make sense to most people because they would think I have no need to bookmark them. But it’s part of a process for me, so I let myself do it.

Considering: What to tell people when they ask what to get for this body’s birthday. Amazon and PayPal gift cards!

Cooking: A lot of main dish salads and muffins. And food for several people who pay me for it.

Looking: At my cats lounging here in the living room. When they’re awake, wherever I am is where they are. I love them!

Loving: The freedom and relief I feel since cutting my family off completely. I wish I hadn’t felt the need to do it but it was best for me.

Smelling: The lemony, minty aroma of the catnip plant one of the cats just nibbled on. Divine!

Playing: Boggle with my older son several times a month. And Words With Friends with several folks online.

Pondering: How to continue improving my life and how not to be afraid of that.

Feeling: Sure of who I am in many ways.

Giggling: About the most recent Maru video that was posted. I can be in a horrible place emotionally and Maru and Hana never fail to make me feel better.

Drinking: Barefoot Pink Moscato tonight. Or tomorrow. Or both.

Opening: A new chapter of my life in many ways. Family cut off, therapy ending, considering school next year. Good things.

Helping: My sons navigate through life. Sometimes just by texing “Hope you’re having a great day.” Other times much more hands on, including hemming interview pants.

Disliking: How much hot (for western Oregon) weather we’ve had this summer. Bring on the crisp days of autumn!

Wearing: Men’s cargo shorts. They’re part of who I am.

Deciding: Not to contact my mother, because it would make my life far too complicated.

Hearing: The whir and creak of the fan that is keeping me from having to use the air conditioner.

(And getting used to: The new WordPress format.)


{Obligatory Post Title Here}


I don’t have the physical or emotional energy to blog. Between DID and fibro and all the crap that comes with those things, I just can’t get myself here writing. And I feel a bit bad about this at times because I know someone who feels crappier than I do every single day and manages to write. But I’ve figured something out. I’m not a “journaling” blogger. I enjoy reading those types of blogs, I just have a hard time writing that way. So then I can’t find the physical or emotional energy to write at all. A lot of the time I can barely think clearly enough, barely get my body to move to do what I consider basics, and blogging is a l-o-n-g way down my list. So this may be the last post. I know I wrote a Part I post a while back and I want to give you Part II but I don’t know if it will happen.

In case I don’t write again, I (once again) wish you all peace. Thanks for reading!


Where I Went, Where I Couldn’t Go, and What I Want: Part I {mentions death}


{This post talks about death of family members and issues surrounding that.}

There’s so much to write about but I have to pick one thing at a time, so here we go for tonight. Forgive me if I get rambly or if some things are disjointed. I had to take my narcotic pain medicine but also really want to write.

In the past six months there have been three deaths in the family, two of them on DH’s side and one on my side. DH’s grandmother died at the end of December, my grandmother passed at the beginning of May, and we lost DH’s aunt less than two weeks ago. The deaths are sad, of course, but none of them was unexpected. All three beautiful ladies lived a long, full life and for each of them it is a blessing that they are no longer suffering as they had been before they passed away.

The death of my grandmother has hit me pretty hard, mostly because I loved her so much. But also because no one told me how poorly she had been doing in the months before she died and because I hadn’t seen her in the last five years of her life. Over the past few years I’ve actually wondered if anyone in my family would even tell me when she passed away, so I’m grateful that my brother called me that very evening. I understand that the reason no one let me know she was so unwell is because I made the choice to distance myself from my family, including my grandmother. Even though I know I’m taking care of myself and the rest of the system in an important way, I have a lot of guilt at times about not having been there. My grandmother and I were quite close for a while about 15 years ago and I try to focus on fondly remembering that time rather than my not being around during her last five years.

My grandmother’s memorial service is where I couldn’t go. The night my brother called to tell me she was gone, I knew I’d have to decide whether or not to go to her service. I wanted to go, of course! Make no mistake, I wanted to be able to honor her by being there. For a week and a half I put much thought into what the best thing was. In the end I knew I could honor and remember her in my own ways and that it would probably be detrimental for me to attend her service. I knew it would be triggering for me to be there, possibly very much so. My thoughts kept going to my abuser grandfather’s funeral, which was causing flashbacks and body memories. I was having a hard enough time separating that from thoughts of my grandmother’s upcoming service in my head without even being at her service. I also didn’t feel that the memorial service was the right place to reconnect with a bunch of family members, some I don’t know well and haven’t seen in years. I don’t know if my family will ever be able to understand that or forgive me for not being there, but I know I did the right thing.

Where I went was to the services for DH’s grandmother and aunt. And yes, this adds to the guilt I feel about not going to my own grandmother’s service. Grandma D’s service was four months before my grandmother’s service but I still feel like a hypocrite at times for having been there, and at Aunt M’s service of course. I also worry about what my family might think if they found out I went to services for people in DH’s family, one of whom I was not close with at all. But again, it comes down to taking care of myself. Being at these services wasn’t potentially perilous to my mental and physical health.

Sometimes I wonder if I should have pushed myself harder to visit my grandmother, if I should push myself to see my family. I know it would have been triggering to be around my grandmother and I know it’s triggering to be around my family, even though none of them is an abuser. I think about how indignant I get at times about my half-brothers not having anything to do with me since our father’s arrest, even though I had nothing to do with what he did and was his main target. I imagine my family may well feel the same way. We’re not the ones who did anything so why won’t she have anything to do with us? It is so complicated though, and I worry about all hell breaking loose if I tried to be around my family again. I know it would be triggering and I can’t bring myself to see how well I might be able to deal with that. I just can’t. I love my family, I miss my family, but I don’t know how to be around my family. And the more time passes, the harder I know it would be to jump back into their lives, to let them back into mine.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Sociopathic Blindness (A letter to my father)


I’ve been crying on and off for many hours today. I wish you could see and understand why. I wish you could see how far-reaching your actions are. I wish I could open your sociopathic eyes and you could really see the damage you’ve done. But therein lies the problem: you are a sociopath. You don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. But I wish so much that I could pry your mind open so your eyes and your heart could see.

I wish you could see how much your entire family struggles because of your actions. Your brother has lost his faith, one of your sisters was nearly homeless at one point even while she was critically ill. Your oldest two children unable to work, one (me) directly because of what you did, the other indirectly. I can’t say anything about your two younger children because they chose to remove themselves from my life—due to your actions. All five of your grandchildren are struggling. Two have been homeless, another is on the verge of it. One is on disability directly because of your actions. One of your grandchildren has no money for food and is immobilized by depression and anxiety so hasn’t applied for food stamps. He’s so immobilized that he doesn’t care if he has no food and actually considers it to be a possible means of suicide, just letting himself fade away. Today I especially wish you could see that! I wish you could see how scary it is for this mother to see her child in such a horrifying place in life.

I wish you could see how your actions ripple out to those around us. My ex-husband and his family, my current husband and his family. My friends—and for a couple of them, their families. My therapist, who has cried for me on numerous occasions. People who treat our bodies and our minds. Your actions affect people in this community, this state, this entire country who have never met any of us—every person in this country who pays taxes so your children and grandchildren have shelter and food and a meager existence.

I wish you could see how ridiculous it is, how ridiculous it often feels to be proud that I haven’t been in the hospital in years and haven’t cut or burned or been in respite in over a year. I wish you could see how much I struggle just to make sure my top two priorities in life right now happen: eating a clean, wholesome, healthy diet and getting out for a walk every day. Some days I can still barely manage much more than that. I shouldn’t be reveling in not cutting myself when things feel so out of control. I shouldn’t be reveling in crossing off every item on my piddly daily list of tasks. I should be reveling in attending my 100th, 300th, 500th birth. I should be reveling in the way my fruit and vegetable garden would be looking this time of year. I should be reveling in the amazing things my children should be able to do.

I wish you could see the pain in our lives and on our faces. I wish you could have seen me sobbing uncontrollably at times today, and sighing and shuddering still, tears in my eyes. I wish you could have seen my husband trying to console me, holding me and asking if there was anything he could do. I wish you could read the words of my two best friends as they offered their love and support online today.

But even if you were right here with us you wouldn’t see it. Your sociopathic brain will never let you believe you’ve done anything wrong or see the damage that wrong has done. But really, the saddest thing is that you also don’t get to see how we are all moving forward in life. You don’t get to see your third grandson learning a trade he enjoys. You don’t get to see me healing so much that I can think about ending therapy, that even when the thought of harming myself shows up I refuse to do it because I know it makes things worse and it lets you win. You don’t get to see your son’s amazing faith in God in spite of all the damage you’ve done. You don’t get to feel the relief I have knowing that even though one of my children doesn’t even care if he eats, his brother is starting to be a productive, happy person. The very saddest thing is that you don’t get to see us live.

Edited to add: I can’t believe I made it through all that without crying! All day the post was writing itself in my head and I kept crying over what I might write. I’m really thankful not to be in tears again.

I Think I May Be Done


It’s been three and a half years since I started this blog and my life has changed so much. When I started blogging I had a lot to say, including quite a few things I never did say. You’ve gotten to meet a bunch of us and see into our world. Things are so different now, life is so much less chaotic, and I honestly just don’t have much to say these days. I’m not deleting the blog, for several reasons. I may not be done after all. I want people to be able to read what we wrote. And I need to back up all my posts; I’ve been really bad about that.

I am–we all are–so thankful that we’ve had this outlet. Thankful for the readers. Thankful for the friends made because of Life, Multiplied. Thankful for your support. I admit to not being so great about reading many DID and/or trauma blogs these days. But you are not away from my thoughts.

Thanks for sharing three and a half years of my life with me and everyone else in the system who has shared with you here. You are all amazing. I wish you all peace and healing and joy and a life worth living.


Growth in Dreams


Yesterday morning I had a dream that I’d say was a breakthrough. I dreamed that my former stepmother had me come up to her house (her house, not their house) to take care of some kids while she and some other women did something. (Co-workers for a meeting? I don’t think I ever knew, and now the dream is even sketchier in my head.) There was the usual theme of looking around the (a) house. She was showing me changes she’d made now that my father wasn’t around. (Now that he wasn’t around!) I was impressed not only with some of the changes but with the way she was able to turn the house of hell into her own space, her own dream home. I can’t remember much more than that but I do remember being very aware in the dream that it wasn’t my father’s house at all anymore and that he wasn’t going to be there.

This is a big change! So many dreams of being at that house or someone else’s and he would be there and no one else saw any problem with that. All those dreams with that going on, then the one about a month ago where I thought about pushing him into the rushing creek next to the house and it was implied that I did that. And now being at the house and it wasn’t his in any way and he wasn’t there or going to be there because he wasn’t supposed to be there! It do consider it a bad dream/nightmare because it unsettled me pretty badly. (My therapist and I decided that even if I dream doesn’t have me waking up gasping or something similar it’s still a nightmare because it’s so very unsettling.) And I got triggered by several things during the day and was quite dissociative at times, but it was still a dream of growth. And even though I’m feeling anxious right now telling you about the dream, I’m thrilled to be telling you.

It amazes me how much growth can be seen in dreams!

Five Years


Today is my father’s arrest anniversary for the heinous things he did to my niece. It feels more like a non-event to me than anything, really. I do think working up to this day probably has a lot to do with some rapid switching that’s been going on, though. Even though the day feels so much less heavy, we do feel it. Fairly often these days, I find myself wishing he would just pass away so I could find out if there is a trust fund set up for me. I don’t want him to die some horrible death, I just wish he wasn’t around anymore, with or without a trust fund.

Anyway, I’m really proud of how far I—we—have come in the past five years. Even though it’s more like a movie in my head these days, I can still remember the moment that night when my brother said he knew our father had hurt me as well as my niece. I can see the the floor rushing up to me as I collapsed in a sobbing heap, recognizing my truth instantly. I can hear my brother’s voice, feel his arm around me. I can hear him telling the other people in the room to come to me, come support me. And they did. That night five years ago it felt like my world was shattering and falling together all at once.

So much has happened in these five years. So many changes. I’m much more whole than I ever was before I started remembering things, because I can work through the truth and heal from it. The truth can be hard to face but I’m a better person know that I know it and can work through it as it smacks me in the face. As the saying goes, we’ve come a long way, baby. It’s hard not to think of how far it seems there is to go, but I’m thankful for what I’ve got so far.