The Acquired Sanity of Death

I fought

for the

great

revolution

when the

poor will

come first

and

be safe

and

live like

the

happy trash

on TV–

but the

revolution

was

murdered

and

starved–

but I

escaped

into

loony bins

where

I took

pills and

acquired

the sanity

of

death.

B Goldstein July 2015

This post was inspired by a chat with Melinda at Looking for the  Light about my alternate Bobby.

Born Into a Carnival of Souls

Here are a few words I’ve seen scrawled in the alleys of San Francisco’s
Mission District:

We can’t know what we won’t comprehend.

We can’t stop the damage we won’t believe we cause.

These are the crazies, the dregs of the earth, the losers, and every other demeaning and dismissive word used to dismiss the powerless who suffer
the worst of the GOP’s abuses of power.

These people can’t afford to vote their conscience because they’re dying from the lousy choices of people who can.

I saw this scrawled on a wall in late 2016: Why do u want 2 Kill me?

That’s a damned good question.

A mind that ain’t inquisitive really doesn’t got
shit to live for if you can’t explore the
realms of thought you ought not test lest
you be chomped up, like a pop rock, stopped for a
bead from the weed lady, thought it was the bomb
Really wasn’t nuttin but a bag of strong palms

A human ain’t a human if he doesn’t make mistakes
And the name of this song is Swan Lake

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God is selfish with his stash
of bodies; he snatches us
away
without notice.

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

A Letter from Home: When My Alternates Talk to Each Other

For those who don’t know my blog, I have DID and a small family
of alternates.

One of my alternates is a 16 year old boy and the other is a
woman named Sara.

They know each other; Sara is a protector and Mother figure.

I found this letter from Bobby to Sara composed in 2010  with her reply.

I am surprised by the correspondence because I didn’t know
my alternates were friends and allies.

The logic of Dissociative Identity Disorder is that ‘split’ aspects
of the self are perceived as “other”.

I think that Sara was the first alternate, which means she
emerged in childhood.

She comes out when one of the younger alters feels threatened.

 

There are many letters filed under ‘Letters from Home”.

Most of these are from Bobby to Bob.

Bobby wrote this to Sara as a 15-year-old.

It is the only letter from Bobby to Sara.

Her reply follows this post.

dear sara,

i’m at battery park in Charleston watching an old guy with a
big box of crackers.

he’s feeding it to a flock of pigeons.

it reminds me of the story of exodus.

you reckon god threw manna at us a watched
us fight?

sometimes i think life is magic but grown ups don’t
wanna talk about magic.

ok, so, i got a question:

let’s say one day u meet someone an this person sez they got alotta  love for you an wanna do good by you but somethin’ dont feel right but you need to be loved an the dude seems straight up but there’s a shadow that you don’t really see but you know it’s there and it feels familiar.

but you don’t want to lose the love so u try to make room for  the shadow by telling yourself it ain’t there, when bam!

you catch the dude in a lie, like when we was robby, with nasty secrets, an the cruel bruises and words that slice your soul.

so you try to talk about it cuz you wanna believe it’s all in your head  so you say to the dude that says he loves you, you say: “i’m scared  that somethin’ is wrong.”

right away he starts calling me names an saying i’m a hater an that i ain’t got no gratitude cuz most folks don’t even want to know me an i think, “damn! this feels familiar!”

the only person that will ever love me will leave if i try to talk about these shadows that are now everywhere so i get confused, cuz I really  want it to be me, cuz maybe i’m imagining it, cuz maybe i’m a hater an  everything about me is wrong.

sara, are those shadows really there?

and i got one last question about thinking life is magic.

how come when i say i think the world is made of magic folks tell me to get over it and grow up?

Love,

Bobby

A Letter from Home: Dear Bobby

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