multiplicity_archives | somewhat more of an introduction

Wrote this a while back in another journal. Thought it would work pretty well for a (admittedly, rambling) sort of intro. Other basic stuph: I'm 36 now, working on getting disability for a host of physical problems, and planning on moving far too soon to the Portland are (Oregon, not Maine). I lose internet access on September 11th, and probably won't re-establish it until October. (Great time to join a community, yes?)

Cut primarily for length, although there is one teensy little curse word.

03:01pm
29/05/2003

It suddenly occurred to me today, after watching the Firefly pilot a second time, that I might be off my main goal.

This whole experiment, this entire journal, started out as an exercise to give me better emotional control. No, wait, that's not the point at all--it started out as an exercise to give me more access to my emotions. Better emotional control I already have, to the point where most people can't tell I feel much of anything, frankly.

But it's an odd thing--we hear people say all the time, I am not the person I was. Well, I am not the person I was--but as a person with multiple personalities, I really mean that--I am not the person I was. And the other people I used to be have either been absorbed, or are still sleeping. For a time, for a while--maybe for forever.

But it brings us back to the initial reason for starting this journal. And my personal theory that this me, this me I am right now, was designed to be a front for the others, designed to be a mask. And that maybe the reason I have so much difficulty with expressing emotions is that I was never designed to have any.

This is why I hear music and tear up without knowing why, without having a referent for it in any way. This is why I can cry without reason, not understanding, but yet have to argue my body into releasing tears if I feel I really need to mourn, or grieve, or...whatever. I literally have to set myself up, play music I know gets me to cry, play movies like The Color Purple or Boys on the Side that I know reduce me to shakes and wailing, because otherwise I can't anymore.

And maybe that's not a failure of emotional response, but a design motif--because I wasn't designed to be an emotional creature.

So, while the other selves sleep, for however long that will be, I'm resigned to feeling their emotions dimly and distantly, because I have none of my own.

This is not the freeing concept that you might think.

In fact, this further sets me up--I can evolve, but only so far, because I wasn't designed with all the reaction sets--I was designed as a cover, as a fake, as a blind, and I was never designed for intensive interaction. I'm the getaway car. I'm the fan thrown up to hide behind.

Unfortunately, I'm also the one in front, and I have been for six years, and I'm running out of options to gain more autonomy of purpose.

And I still haven't found a way to wake them up. Or found out if there is a way to wake them.

That's a depressing realization. That's one of those, 'well, hell, why go on?' kind of things. You know?

Good thing I'm so fucking stubborn or frankly, I'd give everything up. Man.

Do we have any alcohol in the house other than creme de cacao? This kind of paradigm shift kind of deserves major alcohol intake.