Dissociative Identity Disorder: The Monsters Are Back

Some context.

I often write from the perspective of an alternate personality, in this case Peter, a child alternate who thinks he’s a ghost. I first posted this piece in July 2016.

Warning: Content may be triggering.

The Monsters are Back


Today was a week and now is a year.

Grief

Grieve

Grieving

Art by Rob Goldstein
Scissors

It’s 1958; monsters are everywhere.

They hiss faggot as I walk with my
head bowed.

They gather in packs and surround me.

I freeze in horror and shame.

It’s 2018 and the monsters are back.

I know these monsters;

They killed me when I was five.

A black and white screenshot of avatars staged to represent a child alternate named Peter and protector alternate named Bobby.
A screenshot of avatars staged to represent a child alternate named Peter and protector alternate named Bobby.

All material on this page (c) Rob Goldstein 2016-2018

More info: What is an alternate?

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ABBA and Mr. Bear

from The Writer’s Playground

The Writer's Playground

(Note: I wrote this many years ago for the now closed website Gather.com. This is true. It was my life.)

One child hid inside the darkness
One child never said a thing
One child closed his eyes and disappeared
But at night I still can hear him whispering, whispering, whisper…

~Dream Theater, Dead Winter Dead~

Part 1: Mr. Bear and ABBA

Tick tock, tick tock, the long arm of the clock dragged from one number to the next. How I needed the day to end, to escape the classroom, the snickers, and the laughter. Please let that bell ring soon. She was talking to the entire classroom, our 3rd-grade teacher, Mrs. Olgren. The echoing click from the wall drowned out her voice as I counted down the minutes before I could get home.

Melanie, would you please sit still for a few more minutes?” Mrs. Olgren sighed in my…

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Peter: The Little Girl in the Wall

First published as Wild Kingdom on April 14, 2015.

Warning: The content may be triggering.

Lions stalk the plains of Africa, roaring and eating up deer, then the Rock of Gibraltar appears behind a man that lights a cigarette and promises money to people that die.

“That’s the strength of the rock!” he says.

Peter thinks about the little girl with scissors.

Mother says she hides in the walls until she hears a little
boy talking too much.

Then she pops out, holds him down, and cuts out his tongue!

Mother says the little girl has scissors as long as Father’s arms.

But the little girl can’t hear a drawing, Peter thinks.

Mother’s in the kitchen having coffee with Earline.

Earline is the lady that lives next door.

Mother says Earline is PG.

Peter goes into the kitchen to show Earline his pictures of
people with breasts.

Earline blushes and says what a little man Peter’s become.

Mother heaves a burdened sigh and shakes her head, “He’s so difficult Earline! One of his uncle’s gave him a book about the natives of Africa; now he draws tits on everything.”

Mother smiles patiently at Peter: “Go to the living room, sweetheart and we’ll look at your drawings later.”

Peter returns to the living room. where the flies chase each other around his chair: one of them drifts sluggishly to the floor.

Peter snatches it up and rips off it’s wings.

Then he drops it to the floor to see what a fly without wings can do.

A screenshot of VR avatars staged to represent a child alternate named Peter, a protector alternate named Bobby and a storyteller alternate named the Narrator
A screenshot of avatars staged to represent a child alternate named Peter, a protector alternate named Bobby, and a storyteller named the Narrator. Please click this link for an explanation of alternates and their function.
(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

Open letter to those who choose to do nothing in the face of abuse.

I didn’t get to write my story of my childhood. Pedophiles wrote it. Other victims of all ages who are used, abused, sold, held hostage, had their stories stolen. The life they were meant to be living, they are not. They are now, we are now, trying to mend, mostly on our own, because society does not want to hear our stories. Society doesn’t want to know about rape in the military. Society doesn’t want to change laws or persecute/prosecute the criminals of these horrific crimes. Society doesn’t want to know about the mutilations that still happen to little girls. Society is made up of millions of little YOUS. Millions that are sitting back with your glass of wine, watching your flat screen tv, and doing NOTHING. You get the luxury of choosing to do nothing.