OK, I've been putting this off. All day. Several weeks. A good chunk of my life.

It's important that you know that my mother was an emotional abuser. My brother and sister were both gone by the time she turned on me, or maybe that just let her focus more on me. A day off for my father meant only 8 hours of work, so he was out of the picture. He was out of the picture even when he was home, and getting his attention was usually something to be avoided. (Yes, that's one more issue, at least. I'm not ready to deal with that yet.) So most of the time, it was just me and Mommy Dearest.

My mother was a cold and brutal bitch. Self-righteous, smug, and bitter. She had her own life under such rigid control that she had plenty of time to live other people's lives. I happened to be the most convenient life for her to live. Oh, did I mention that she was also vindictive? That she couldn't tolerate anyone being happy? That no one mattered except for her, no one's desires mattered except hers, no one's feelings mattered except hers, that nothing about anyone else mattered to her, except to the extent that she could take it away, ruin it, destroy it, piss all over it so that even if she gave it back to you, you could never stand to touch it or see it or think of it, ever again? My fucking wonderful mother.

You don't believe me? I'll tell you a story. It's not about me, because I need to save my strength for later, when things are really going to start hurting.

My father built a model railroad in our attic. He did it with my brother, Stu, and a family friend, Wink. I always envied the time my brother had working on that railroad; it seemed like he was closer to my father and to Wink than I ever could have been. To Wink, yes. I didn't learn until a few years ago how much Stu feared those times with my father. But my father and Wink were close friends; I think that Wink might have been his only friend for a long time. They put years of work into that railroad; the track was all built by hand, the scenery was all built by hand, most of the rolling stock was carefully assembled from detailed kits.

Eventually, years after she drove my father out of his own home, my mother finally got that railroad destroyed. It was her rival. Wink was her rival. The railroad couldn't stay. This happened 20, maybe 25 years ago. The only thing that stayed was the rolling stock, and over the years pieces of that were given away.

After my father died, my mother basically locked herself in the house and tried to turn it into a museum to my father. But her health was going, too, and her sister was trying to get everything she could out of my mother's house and into hers. Considering that she lived next door, much closer than the rest of us could be or wanted to be, that wasn't hard for her to do. Eventually, Stu, my sister, and I had to get together and get the things we wanted out of the house, before they disappeared by any other means.

There were some things that each of us wanted, and we managed to split the things of value without any quarrels. There were many things that none of us cared about, and they stayed behind. But there were a few things that needed special care. One of those things was to give my father's favorite locomotive to Wink.

When my mother found out that Wink had that locomotive, she walked over to his house, barged through the front door, and demanded that Wink's wife give her the locomotive back. She got it.

My sister later offered to give it to Wink again, but he refused to take it. I understand why.

My lovely, fucking, vindictive mother, who hadn't seen Wink in years, and gained nothing from all of this, except a locomotive that she hated.

This was the bitch who whelped me. This is the monster with whom I shared a home for 18 years.

Between such incidents of humiliation as she could arrange, she lectured, she condemned, she trivialized, she dismissed, she demeaned, she engaged in every form of verbal abuse she could manage. She did everything except shut up. She never shut up.

And she arranged and manipulated and controlled and punished and cajoled her way into absolute tyranny over my life. She did her best to choose my friends, all the while telling me that she didn't need friends, so I didn't need them either. She controlled my time to the point that my escapes were infrequent, and even then I had to fight back to get away from her, which only cost more later on.

Of course, nothing I did satisfied her. Oh, there was occasional acknowledgment that I could do something well, but it was always, always, fucking always tied to some criticism or goad so that I couldn't take pride in anything I did. And while the praise might happen once, the criticism was endless. I was a lazy, useless, shiftless, worthless person who would always be a burden to someone, and by God it wasn't going to be her. If I ever forgot any of that, she would remind me, again, again, and again. I was incapable of living up to my potential (whatever that was), and it was my fault. Everything was my fault. Everything about my life was my fault. Her disappointment in me was my fault. No matter what was wrong, I couldn't fix it. Not then, not now, not ever. I couldn't because I was lazy, useless, worthless, and had no ambition, no pride, no sense of responsibility, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on.

This is just background, you understand. I've dealt with a lot of this, although the anger will never, ever go away.

But I had to deal with it then, too, and the only ways I had to deal with it were the ways available to any abused child. I didn't follow any one of the classic patterns exactly; there were parts of all of them. Sometimes, when I could break out of depression, I was an overachiever. Sometimes, I was a rebel, but that always brought more pain and retribution than it was worth. More than anything else, I withdrew.

Emotional abuse victims dissociate. When the grinding and tearing go on and on and on, and there's no escape in the physical world, where else do you go but out? It's the only way to stop the pain, because you can't stop it for real, and you can't get away, and can't fix the things you're doing wrong, and it must be your fault because this is your mother telling you it's your fault, and there's nothing left to do but go away. You're worthless, after all, why would anybody want to live in this life? Get out.

I still dissociate. I can be sitting in a conversation with someone--anyone, even Carol, whom I love dearly--and suddenly realize that I haven't been there. How long? Can I connect what's going on now with what was going on when I can last remember? Sometimes. Sometimes not. Whatever happened, it's gone.

How dissociative am I? This is what's scaring me. Am I a multiple? Maybe. Maybe there is a little girl inside who takes over when I can't cope. I'm beginning to wonder if I know what brings her out.

Part of what brings her out is anger. Not mine, but someone else's. Another part of what brings her out is inadequacy, an inability to fix the things that are wrong. And that's inside me.

One of the few things that Carol and I disagree about is my computer. She thinks I spend too much time there, and I do; it's one of my ways of withdrawing. But it's more than that; you who have been here in ASD for a while know that it's far more than that. It's my lifeline to many friends. It's my support. It's also my creative expression, because it's where I write, it's where I build my web pages, it's where I do so many things that matter deeply to me. But to Carol it's just me with my face stuck in a machine.

It blew up again this morning. Carol got angry because the machine was taking me away from her.

This is when she comes out. As articulate as I may be the rest of the time, I can't talk when something like this happens. I can't defend myself. I'm helpless, and I can't fix what's wrong. I'm being torn apart from an important part of myself, and I can't have it back. There are enough cues there to drag me back to my childhood, and all I can do is cry, and withdraw, and curl up in a ball. I can't talk. I can't defend myself, because there is no defense, it's all true, everything she says is true, and it doesn't matter that she doesn't understand that it's not just a machine. I'm helpless, and I can't fix what's wrong.

Carol hates this, because she feels like she has to set aside her anger and take care of me. Which is not true; I need to take care of me, if only I could do it. She has a right to her anger, and once again, I'm responsible, I'm responsible, I'm responsible, I'm responsible.

Who is it that hurts so much? Is it me? Is it someone inside of me? Who is it that can't talk at these times? Is it me? Is it a child who could never ever never ever stand up to the onslaught of my mother's anger?

Who is it that hurts so much?

Dear God.

No fighting will win this battle, any more than logic will do it.

I've learned a little more about my little girl since I wrote that, partly through the alt.support.dissociation newsgroup, and partly on my own. She seems to be non-verbal, even without confrontation. I have no idea how old she is, and unlike my other inner children there doesn't seem to be any specific event or memory or feeling that I can associate between my childhood and her life. The pain she feels is very old; I can feel that much with her.

Now that I know about her, I've gotten close to her a couple of times. Once, alone, I let her cry with my tears. She didn't cry much, though; I don't think she knows how to cry or to let go of her feelings. (And how could she, if she is me from years ago?) Another time, Carol and I had another disagreement, and I could feel her coming out. I stayed with her as best I could, so she didn't have to feel alone and completely responsible. It was very hard, though.

A friend who is multiple told me about one of his alters who stood guard for 30 years, a five-year-old boy in a loincloth, armed with a spear. He sleeps now, and he no longer has to be on guard. Perhaps something like this is what my little girl needs, to be relieved of being responsible for the unfixable. I haven't figured out how to let her know about that; I don't know that I'm ready to take her place, either, since my coping skills may not be a lot better than hers!

The other thing she needs is love, something that neither of us got as children. Someone in alt.support.dissociation suggested getting her a big stuffed animal, and I think I'm going to do that. She needs deeper love than that, too, but that will have to come a step at a time.