Everyone has a story, a place that they came from to form who they are today. It doesn't make them who they are; it's not a definition of who they have become but it certainly deserves a marker or in a lot of cases a badge or scar. This website is a product of my history but most certainly does not define me. But nonetheless it's my scars and hopefully the place where a lot of those scars begin to fade. Below is the story of how I came to be, what I've been through and serves as a platform for my thinking.

I'm Tempy, currently I am in my 20's and sorting through my past to prepare for my future.

Some of my story is seemingly unimportant and some of it's painful. If you are a survivor please take care of yourself should you choose to read.

The beginning of my story is obviously just re-told based on what I have been told about my life. So it's standard and news like.

Before Me

Let's start with my family. My father was born in 1948 to my grandparents that had moved from Germany about 10 years before his birth. They settled in Ohio. My grandfather was a scientist for the Navy and my Grandmother was a housewife and often very ill due to an eating disorder and illnesses in her childhood. My Dad was often shipped off to other family members homes due to his mother's illness for months at a time, and his father was extremely abusive and angry. There were several suicides in my fathers childhood, two of which he witnessed. His mother gave birth to a daughter when my Dad was about 7, but she died later in infancy, I still don't know how. My father moved to Australia on his own for several years in his teens and young adulthood, and when he returned he joined the Navy.

My mother was born in 1954, to a schizophrenic mother and alcoholic father. She has two sisters (one younger and one older) and her childhood was abusive physically and sexually by the hands of her father. She became a prostitute at age 13 and had three abortions before she met my father.

Fast forward, my parents met in a bar and had 'relations' which resulted in my mother's pregnancy with my sister. My parents married three days after my mothers 18th birthday, bought a home and settled in as a family. My sister was born in 1972 and then my brother in 1976. They moved around a lot due to my father being in the Navy. My father began to have affairs early in their marriage, but it didn't become a serious problem until my mother began to unravel after her fathers death in 1978. From 1979-1981 my father only came home every couple of months, as he was living with different women from time to time. Eventually he did come home and apparently apologized and my mother accepted him back home. Shortly after all of that drama, I was conceived and the happy family was to be complete. My conception was a surprise and my parents were ill equipped with emotions on how to handle the surprise. Their marriage began to crumble again. Shortly before my birth my father moved out again and it looked as though they were headed for an actual divorce this time. However, 3 months before my birth my sister was gang-raped by boys in our neighborhood. My father rushed to be back at home to help deal with this. And then, bam, I was born.

Obviously, my birth was in the middle of a lot of difficult things in my parents lives. Most parents would suck it up and take care of their children, my parents however reacted the opposite way and had transferred all their problems and feelings onto me. My presence became their constant reminder of awful and unbearable things. In other words, I was screwed. They deteriorated rapidly and they fed off of each others dysfunction and disorders.

I will make it clear now though, that my siblings deny that anything happened to them in their childhoods, other than my father raging and smacking them around. So I cannot say whether or not the things to follow were new, or whether my siblings just cannot speak of them.

Birth Through Infancy

After being home from the hospital for a week after my birth I was quickly returned to the local emergency room at 6 days old. I had pneumonia and several cracked or broken ribs. I was transferred to Children's Hospital in Washington D.C. where I stayed for 7 more weeks. During my time there I refused to feed and lost weight so they tube fed me. My parents only came once, and the reason I know this is because one of my nurses was a next door neighbor that gave me the details when I was a teenager. My parents told me it was because they were so afraid of losing me that they couldn't stand to see me all hooked up to tubes and wires. So at 8 weeks old I was once again returned home, and my life began again.

Everyone that was a part of my life at the time tells me that I was a distant baby, and very quiet. I preferred to be left alone and didn't smile much. They say I didn't come out of my shell until I was 10-11 months old which is when I began walking. They say I developed a silly personality and I was very social. My parents on the other hand tell me that I was never playful and was usually depressing. They say I slept more than normal for most children and had strange mood swings, ranging from content to raging in a matter of seconds. I am unsure of how to interpret this, but it seems relevant.

The Toddler Years

At 14 months I was put into daycare for the first time. My mother got a job teaching pre-k on the base and I was sent to my neighbors in-home daycare. I don't know much about this time to age three, only a list of hospitalizations and injuries.

Dec 84'- 15 months Right wrist broken

March 85' - 18 months Ingested poison

June 85' - 22 months head injury, 1 week hospitalization

October 85' - 2 years 2 months ingested poison

January 86' - 2 yrs  right wrist broken, shoulder dislocated

June 86' - 2 yrs hip injury

Pre-School

I began nursery school right after my third birthday. My teachers name was Mrs. Thompson. I remember that she smelled funny and she sweat a lot. I remember my best playground friend was Meagen and we were inseparable. I remember how much I enjoyed school and then I remember the terror I would feel when my mother would come to my classroom to pick me up. I remember the bribes I was given by my teacher if I went home like I a good girl I could be line leader the next day.

The other memories from this time are spotty and confusing. I remember that it was spring when we moved away to Maine. I have memories of some physical abuse by my father, and I remember vividly being starved by my mother. I remember people and places more than I remember my home life, so I won't even bother trying to go much further into that time.

Age 5-8

The sexual abuse by my father had started sometime around age 5, and my mothers was sometime before that. I do have memories of her from very young but I cannot even begin to place it on a time continuum. Before age 5 we had moved to Maine, then to Mississippi and then back to Maine and finally to Maryland. I was in gymnastics and excelling, and this led to my father becoming very controlling over my body and weight. He wanted a champion and took over my practices and exercises. He controlled my food and weighed me several times a day to make sure I was not deviating from his rules. I was still being taken to the ER here and there for 'injuries' however, they were easily explained now that I was a gymnast. They kept me just well enough so that I could compete, and became more careful to make sure they didn't over-do it and disqualify me from competitions due to injuries. This routine continued through about age 6 1/2.

During my first grade year, I had a WONDERFUL teacher...Miss Patterson. I bonded with her immediately and found great comfort in being at school. However, there were many snags along the way. The sexual abuse that was occurring in my home created some physical problems for me, and at times I was unable to hide my discomfort. I began to 'perch' on my chair instead of sitting. My teacher created a pet name for me, 'Birdie' and the kids made fun of me for it. When it became a behavior issue, my parents were enraged and only tormented me worse because of it. My mother began to lodge things inside of my private parts and I was instructed to never take them out. At school I couldn't walk or sit comfortably and was sent to the guidance office or nurses office almost daily. My teacher took a special interest in me, and I would be her recess buddy, walking the playground with her and holding her hand. I confided in her one day that I was sad that I was the only first grader still sleeping in a crib. She called my mother and asked if this was true. She instructed my mother that I HAD to have a big girl bed because it was inappropriate for a 6 year old to be in a crib. My mother developed an intense hatred for the woman.

Near the middle of the year, I was told to draw a picture of something that made me happy and then to draw something that made me sad. For my happy picture I drew my teacher, for my sad picture I drew my father abusing me. Of course that picture required a teacher-parent conference. I lied and said I drew it of my classmate Travis. I was punished. Near the end of the year we had a day where we had to watch a film about 'good touch' and 'bad touch'. Apparently I freaked out and had to be consoled for a good hour after the film. I don't remember the film, but I do remember sitting in the rocking chair with my teacher holding me afterwards, and she told me she was going to protect me. Two days later I was removed from that school and put in a private catholic school...even though we were not catholic.

Around age seven I started to refuse to eat the little food that I was offered and dramatically lost weight. I could barely muster the energy to go to gymnastics practice, let alone my competitions. I also began to get sick frequently with bronchitis. Most of this time I remember never being able to breathe and my parents being so angry that I was so sick. I dropped to 32lbs as a 7 year old and suffered a heart attack after receiving an adult dose of adrenaline twice in 5 hours. I was sent back to Children's Hospital and stayed there for 10 weeks. At first they were treating me for the heart attack, overdose and asthma. Then they realized how malnourished I was and subsequently began treating me for my eating disorder. I remember one of the Drs coming to see me was talking to a nurse early in my stay. He was talking about how one of my medicines was not safe for a child under 5 when the nurse told him my age, he jumped and said I was unusually small. They began to whisper about my 'refusing to eat'.

I was tubed. I pulled it out at least five times until they threatened to restrain me if I did it again. At the time I was also mute. This made for a lot of LONG days spent in a playroom, on the cold floor, with people talking to me and observing me. There were a lot of really nice nurses that were empathetic to my struggles, many social workers that spent many hours with me. Lots of Drs and psychologists making recommendations for further treatment and many students poking and prodding. I didn't care much. I wasn't at home. My parents on the other hand were fuming over my stubbornness and appalled at accusations of things going on in my home. After an intrusive exam it was determined that I had been raped and sexually abused, they accused my uncle and went through all of that legally to prove it wasn't them. Eventually I was returned home after gaining the weight back, however I still refused to speak at school. I was placed in a class for the emotionally and physically handicapped. I excelled in my written work and everyone was wondering why I was in that class.

About 3 months after being home from Children's, it had gotten so terribly bad at home that I overdosed on my asthma medication and woke up two days later in the hospital. Three days after my release my parents and I headed off for Mississippi again. They told me it was going to be a fresh start. I didn't understand why my siblings were staying behind in Maryland with my grandmother. My parents had told them they were taking me to a special school. This trip resulted in them abandoning me on highway 90 outside of Biloxi, Mississippi.

Here is the recount of being abandoned in Mississippi and entering foster care:

I was left on HWY 90 in the middle of the night with a small backpack that had a pack of crackers, 2 Hi-C juices, a baby doll, a bouncy ball and Lip Smackers. Of course, all the essentials one would need when abandoned and 8 years old. I sat on a concrete slab right before a huge bridge for what seemed like hours. I was told if I was seen I'd be murdered by the homeless, so anytime I saw headlights I would duck behind it. When it became daylight I decided to head to the nearby strip malls because I figured if I could find the malls, I could find our rent-a-house and hope my parents were there. I made it to the malls, nothing. I made it to the neighborhood by lunchtime, nothing. So then I decided I was going to walk all the way to Florida where my grandparents lived. It seemed closer than Maryland. I was hoping they'd keep me for awhile. So I walked, and by dinner time I had consumed half my crackers and one of my juices. I came up with the random idea that it would only take me two more days to get to Florida, and I needed some more food and I decided that I could find my own food and drink in the woods. (this still makes me laugh) By the time I found some woods, it was dark and I was terrified. I remembered a book that I had read called "Hatchet" and the kid in the book was lost in the woods and made a home for the night so he wouldn't get wet or cold. So that was my next plan. I didn't do so well, just found a trashbag for a roof and some cardboard sides. I made it through the night and began walking early. Middle of the day came and I got thirsty. I had run out of juice earlier that day and became so desperate for fluids I drank from a puddle. That night I got very sick, cramps and throwing up. It was a disaster that only led to me being more dehydrated. Ok, so I was walking the following morning when I was spotted in a place no little girl should be alone, hunched over and not very coherent. I was a little pissed that I didn't have more endurance. Then the police were called by  motorist I believe. I don't remember much other than the ambulance coming and arriving at the hospital very sick.

I remember the questioning and the many people constantly in and out of my room, and all of the nurses being really nice but always looking sad. I remember one saying "She's not from here, listen to her accent. She's not a Mississippi kid" and it made me angry because I was telling everyone I WAS from Maryland. After a couple of days I was transferred to temporary housing at a childrens center in Biloxi where there were a LOT of other kids and we slept in bunkbeds. I learned the ropes quickly and I was told I'd be 'easy to place'. I have no idea how long I was there, but it was short and all I really remember in detail is when some kid stole my bouncy ball and I smacked him. I was put in time out. I was placed with the Beaulieu family with 4 other children. Lacey, Michelle, Tyler and Logan. Things there were NOT cool. Michelle was always touching and kissing me. Tyler would bite me and pinch me, and since I was the new kid I couldn't tattle-tale. Mr. Beaulieu was weird and one night he came to my room, I had the bottom bunk and Michelle had the top. He started to touch me and I pretended to be asleep, until he put himself in my mouth and I freaked out. I was put in the closet for the remainder of the night. The following day was my first day at the school I was zoned for. I jumped off the second story balcony. That did not end well. I was removed from the Beaulieu home and moved around to different treatment centers between Biloxi and Pascagoula. DFACS labeled me as disturbed and unable to be in a home with other children.

My parents returned somewhere at this point and were informed of the hospital I was in. They came to visit and I remember seeing them outside of the PT room and FREAKING the FUCK out. They were not allowed to see me until the following day with a Social Worker present. I refused to let them touch me or speak. My mother told me I looked 'messy' and that I had 'gained weight'. My father had a whole speech about thinking I was lost forever and was so thankful to find me 'unharmed'. I went mute again after that visit. Shortly after, I was dressed up in some silly pink dress for a 'visit' by my new 'friends'. Something you learn in foster care is that you don't make your own friends, they are given to you, and usually they are adults who just want to play with you like a puppy at a store. I was not thrilled by this. I was hauled over to the Social Services building and shoved into a playroom by myself. I was pissed. But to my surprise in walks Mike and Joan. They came in and sat down at a little table and said "Hi". I went back to putting a puzzle together, trying to ignore them. They sat in silence for a bit and then they moved from their chairs to the floor and opened a new puzzle and began to put it together. They told me I could join if I wanted. I didn't. I went over to a fake kitchen and started to play with some dolls. Joan asked me if I liked babies, I ignored. Mike asked me if I was cooking the baby something to eat. I ignored. This went on for some time. Finally Mike stood up to which I practically jumped out of my skin and he apologized for startling me. He then stretched and told me that the playroom was boring and he wanted to know if I'd like to go outside on the playground. I didn't speak but I followed.

We had two more visits like that one before my social worker asked if it'd be ok if I went to stay with them for the weekend. Because I refused to answer, she told me she was assuming it was a yes, and I was shipped out to the Bucklers. They lived in a nice neighborhood and had a pretty big house. They showed me that I had my own room which was nice. Mike pushed my bed against the wall because he heard I liked sleeping next to the wall. That evening they took me to the beach in Biloxi, we had shrimp for dinner and I was allowed to get a hermit crab. The first time I spoke to them out loud was to tell them my crabs name was 'Hermie'. The next day we watched cartoons in the morning and had a big breakfast. They didn't seem too bad, but I was still on high alert. When I was returned, I heard them talk about how I didn't sleep, and that at times I was very hyper and talkative and other times I was mute and angry. I never remember talking, but I guess that is DID for ya. I had another visit with my parents in which I became very ill after having cookies my mother brought. I was then placed with the Bucklers.

My impression of them? Joan was fairly young, probably around 30-35, and she was always coordinated and pretty. She had a sweet southern accent and spoke very softly but had a loud laugh. She was VERY maternal and treated her dogs better than I'd seen most kids be treated, but not in a weird way. Mike was very very tall and wore tiny glasses. He never wore suits but always khakis and a polo or plaid shirt. He had an office in the house with tons of pictures kids have drawn and he always had games to play. I think I mentioned he was a child psychologist. He was very playful, but set boundaries really fast. They both had more patience than saints and had a lot of energy.

At first everything was new and quite an adjustment period. New school, new family, new everything. Joan took me three times a week to another child psychologist and Mike spent most evenings with me on our porch talking. He asked lots of questions, but not in an intrusive way. I had a lot of problems with loud noises, not sleeping, scratching my arms and not eating...but they never showed their frustration with me. I was having flashbacks and tantrums often, and they did everything right. I was rewarded often for changing behaviors and they got to know my weirdness and learned what not to do. After about two months I finally sat in Joan's lap one evening on the couch and it made her cry. I didn't understand!!!! So I ran away, they found me in like 15 minutes and they apologized and told me it wasn't my fault. They were just so happy I was accepting them.

One day they sat me down and explained that I was going to be seeing my parents again. They promised me they wouldn't leave me and that I would be coming home to them afterwards. I became so anxious I wet my pants and ran crying to my room where I sliced up my stomach with scissors so badly that I required stitches. That night when we got home, Mike slept on one couch in the living room and I slept on another with Joan and I never felt more safe in my life. I actually fell asleep that night while Joan was playing with my hair. I remember waking up, hearing them breathing and thought maybe I had died and was in heaven.

We settled into a routine, once a week visits with my parents that ended up in meltdowns and then we'd get right back up and melt into a family again. I became overly attached to Joan, to the point of being physically pulled off of her by Mike to be taken to school where I would cry all day 'needing' her. At home, she was always within arms reach and I began to resent Mike when they would hold hands without me. I wanted Joan to MYSELF. Mike started taking me places without Joan which I tolerated after a bit, but would get so clingy after being gone that he gave up and told me that if it was what I needed for a short time, we'd deal with it.

My birthday came. I had my first EVER birthday party!!!!!! I had a cheerleader cake and FRIENDS to come over. It was the only party I had as a kid. I still have one picture from that day, Joan took it. Three days after, we had a court date. My parents were given custody back and within two weeks I was returned to them for good. Remembering the day I was taken back by them is one of the most painful days I can remember. The last thing that Joan said to me was "My sweet little angel, you'll be ok, you'll be strong, and nothing changes the way Mike and I feel about you. You simply cannot be forgotten. I love you!"

Back to Home Life

Upon my return to my family I had another suicide attempt with overdosing. This time I learned that nothing was ever going to be done and that my parents would always win. We moved to Atlanta that year and my mother became a part of the child prostitution rings, selling me to people several times a week. After school she would dress me up and take me to random places where we'd meet a guy, he'd take me for a few hours and return me. A few times they were overnight ordeals and I always wished I would just die. I didn't. Obviously. My mother was also having 'relations' with many men in our home and would often force me to participate.

When we returned to Maryland, she joined a 'church' and had me inducted. At first it was a very welcoming place with a lot of younger people that I enjoyed spending time with. My grandmother was already a member of this church and my aunt and cousins were members too. It seemed normal and I was too preoccupied with being social to actually retain the messages they were putting out there. Weird stuff began to happen, stuff that I don't dare to try and label. But it was disturbing.

Life continued on like this for a long period of time. Sporadic men, a lot of sexual abuse, my parents fighting, my father courting me. All pretty screwed up, but nothing really sticks out from the day to day torture. It wasn't until seventh grade that things became intense again. I was still not very social and had become labeled as troubled that year. I starting wearing all black, including black nail polish and lipstick. The Vice Principal of my school took an interest in me one day at lunch. She starting coming to my lunch corner every day just talking to me. Soon I began to seek her out, I went to her office for lunch everyday. She quickly realized that I was not eating. She kept encouraging me to eat in her office, but I refused and said I ate when I got home. I passed out one afternoon in the hallway. After that the lunches were no longer casual, I was forced to sit in her office at lunch. I still wouldn't eat, but it was my schools version of intervention.

During this time, I was actually pregnant(for the second time). I was so underweight when I conceived that no one noticed the weight gain. At the beginning of February of that year my father was getting nervous that people were going to notice. He beat me until I lost consciousness. I gave birth to a beautiful sleeping baby girl. She didn't take a breath...there was only silence. When I returned to school I was depressed beyond belief and ready to take my life. My lunches with my VP turned into therapy sessions. We talked a lot and I started to speak about some of the abuse I was going through. At the time I wouldn't name who was doing these things, but when I was cornered I offered of my cousin (who is the same age as me and also went to school with me) who was in truth abusing me. He just wasn't the one doing the things I was talking about. He had forced sexual contact with me, but his abuse was no where near what my parents were doing. My VP immediately notified children's services and the police were called. It was a terrible time. My family stopped talking to my aunts family and our drama was focused on by most of the community. Because I was already a loner at school, my peers sided with my cousin and I was ostracized.

Everything went downhill after that. I was forced into therapy with a woman that I thought could help me. She did for awhile, until she starting sleeping with my father...

Freshman year was a new beginning. I joined the soccer team and made varsity. I had a whole new group of peers that didn't know me and I was starting to become social. I made a few friends and kept my life at home a huge secret. I was moved into AP classes in October and was even taking a few classes at the local community college. I tested out of several classes and then progressed into advanced studies. In January of that year a relative gave birth to a little boy, addicted to drugs. My parents being the saints that they are adopted him and he came to live with us, our local community rallying behind us for doing such an amazing act of kindness. My parents however, were not interested in raising another child, they were looking for a good PR moment. Jonathan was moved into my room and became my responsibility. There I was, 14 years old and raising a child while trying to finish high school early, taking some college classes and trying to maintain a social life which I'd never had until that point.

My days turned into a routine of very little sleep and a lot of paranoia that something terrible would happen to the baby. My parents used him against me to get what they wanted. They'd threaten to hurt him if I didn't do what they wanted, and it was a sick game. My days looked something like this:

5AM -Feed Jonathan
5:30- Shower and get ready for school
6:15- Get Jonathan ready for daycare
6:45- Take Jonathan next door to daycare
7:00 catch bus
7:30-12PM- School
1:15-3:15- Classes at college
3:55 Pick up Jonathan
4:15- feed Jonathan, put him down for a nap
5:00 homework
7:00 Feed Jonathan
7:30 back to homework
9:00 do what parents want
10:30 feed Jonathan while reading what's leftover from homework
11:00 Jonathan to bed
11:30 Mom comes for whatever
12:30 finish homework
2:00 SLEEP
Start all over again.

I remember it very well. Around this time I became very OCD, obsessed with ritual and timing. If something deviated from my schedule I believed something terrible would happen. I also started to cut myself regularly and stopped eating again. Jonathan was a great baby though, and I loved him (still do) with every ounce of myself. I would die for him...

My father became jealous of my independence and began to raise the threat level. One day I caught him in my room at Jonathan's bed and I freaked out. I told him that if he even thought of touching Jonathan I would expose him. For some reason I felt so sure of myself that day that I told him he better leave me alone too, that I was ready to talk. I told him I had evidence, pictures and the videos he took. It spiraled. He overdosed in our home that night. He survived that and was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for a week. When he got home we talked, and he told me it was my fault. The entire weekend he was there he forced me to sleep with him and not leave his sight. The following Monday, he took his life with a shotgun in front of me when I told him I was still serious about telling. It was December.

My family was in shambles. My mother went off the deep end. She took everything out on me, and abused me more harshly than ever before. I was afraid for my life. Then all of a sudden my mother just stopped coming home. I finished highschool early and lived in our family home while she shacked up with her boyfriend. I was 15. I got a summer job at the community college and was accepted to George Mason for the Fall. My mother only came home once a week to drop off the check from my fathers social security or to tell me what bills she hadn't paid. I was alone with a small child and unable to cope with life.

My therapist at the time was so guilt ridden over the affair she had with my father she was unable to help me. She told me I was judging my mother unfairly and that I needed to be more respectful. She was clueless about the abuse and even more clueless about the symptoms I was having. I lost large chunks of time, I couldn't remember how I ended up in places, I was self-harming and not remembering, having sessions with her and not remembering.

I started college in the fall, right after I got my drivers license. I was taking more classes than I was supposed to and maintained a 4.0. I took classes through all the mini-mesters and through the summer. After the first year I had completed two years. It was insane. During that summer my therapist decided to terminate with me. She told me I was borderline and she was tired of being manipulated. Long story, but it was devastating. So I quit therapy for several months. I thought since I was doing so well in school that I didn't need anyone or anything. If I could master what I was doing while providing for a child than I must have had my shit together. But, it unraveled. Between not sleeping or eating, and the stress of a toddler I was feeling more desperate than I ever had before. I was in a bad relationship and was contemplating killing myself. I found a therapist in the phonebook and went to see her. She was nice and seemed to be empathetic. I was honest with her, but not too honest because I was still a minor and did not want her to do anything to upset the very delicate balance of my life.

I told her of my symptoms and she diagnosed me with PTSD and Major Depression. She suggested I see a psychiatrist for meds which I vehemently apposed due to bad experiences as a child. She seemed puzzled by some of my dissociative symptoms, but curious. On our third session she had quite a surprise when I switched alters right before her eyes. She diagnosed me with DID right on the spot. She didn't tell me this though. I guess she did not want to overwhelm me. She started to speak with parts of me on a regular basis and find out information about my daily activities. She spoke with them on the phone at least once a day trying to persuade them not to self injure.

As my college graduation was rapidly approaching, I had an impending sense of doom lurking. Without school I had no idea what to do. I didn't know what my degree would offer me job wise and the pressure of parenting without a job made me nuts. I was self-injuring outside of my awareness daily and simply not sleeping. Finally it reached a point that I could no longer be an outpatient, and I was admitted to Sheppard Pratt Hospital on the Trauma Disorders Unit. I would be in and out of that hospital for the next four and a half years.

Real Therapy

Once I was in the Sheppard Pratt System, I was in and out of the hospital more times than I can count. I moved from my house to Baltimore, MD and had my first apartment with Jonathan. These years I will only highlight.

-My best friend ended her life in 2004
-My sister got married
-I gave up my guardianship to Jonathan and he moved out.
-I came forward about the abuse by my mother in 2005 after she drained my savings account that my father set up for me. My therapist worked with me to get to a point where I was ready to put a stop to it. I was never pushed, only encouraged. I made the decision after my mother invaded my home in the middle of the night and brutally assaulted me. I decompensated so rapidly after that, that I had to quit school (I was working on my second degree) and ended up in the hospital for three weeks of pure craziness. I was in restraints twice because of my flashbacks being so out of control. So I filed for a restraining order in Feb 2006 and it was granted. My level of dysfunction was so high that I ended up in the hospital from Feb to June at the Psychiatric Institute of Washington.
-I became a nanny for a wonderful little boy, he saved me in a lot of ways.
-I met my current best friend, and she changed my life forever.
-My therapist announced she was moving to Georgia at the same time my restraining order on my mother was up.
-I decided I would also move to Georgia.
-I packed up my few belongings, and headed to Georgia with only a job interview and $100 to my name.

My first year in Georgia was difficult. I started at a low paying retail job, lived with a psycho and became enmeshed with my eating disorder. Slowly I built up my rankings at my job, and went from the lowest on the tier to holding several job titles and excelling. I see my therapist once or twice a week, etc.

July of last year my sister gave birth to her first child and shortly after my nephews birth I went back to Maryland for a week long visit. My mother found me and assaulted me. So upon my return to Atlanta I was a hot mess. I was admitted to The Ridgeview Institute for a month where I worked on my eating disorder for the first time, for real. Which was alongside all of my dissociative symptoms, flashbacks etc. It was very difficult, but it was very helpful and I bonded with a lot of people, especially the staff.

After my discharge I moved into the wonderful home I am in now and I am working hard on life. It's not going perfectly, and I am still struggling terribly with DID and eating disorder symptoms. But that is how I got here.

As for the name of my blog...well, I like to think that my journey started the day my parents abandoned me and I learned what true love and attachment looks like from my foster parents. If they had not given me a taste of that, I wouldn't have fought so hard. So, it started with crackers and a juicebox...and here I am.