Quilted: Piecing Together My Dissociated Selves

By Suritaplus

"Quilted" is the story of Suritaplus, a multi-faceted woman who, at the age of 17, left home for a college 600 miles away. She looked forward to a life unburdened by her father's invasive hands, threatening language, and the weight of his body against hers. It is a story of her healing from the lasting, hidden damage caused by a childhood filled with trauma. "Quilted" chronicles the author's journey from first hearing the words Dissociative Identity Disorder to the discovery, acceptance, and ultimate embrace of her internal system of personality parts. This book explores the question, "who is Suritaplus?" and finds answers in the story revealed through her journals, artwork, and therapist's notes. "Quilted" is a story of anger, denial, grief, courage, hope, compassion, and joy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350908848

Book preview

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QUILTED

Piecing Together My Dissociated Selves

© 2023, Susan Rita / Suritaplus

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35090-883-1

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35090-884-8

With my hands on my heart,

I dedicate this to all trauma survivors

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am deeply grateful to the following:

Dr. M. Breyer: after our work together ended, graciously gave me copies of her handwritten notes from our therapy sessions allowing readers multiple perspectives of living with DID and without which this book might have just been memories

Maureen Brady: my editor from the beginning when snail mail was the only option and who knew the exact questions to ask for the best results leading me to a greater understanding of my selves and my process of healing

Dr. F. Delhaye: who saw through Sixteen’s brash bravado and transformed her energy of fire and anger into one of compassionate leadership

Dr. Gianine Rosenblum: who gained the trust and respect of even the most skeptical Insiders and gave me the tools to build a healthy internal system founded on compassion, communication, cooperation

Dr. Lynn Taska: for believing me and holding space while I learned to accept and believe in myself and whose therapy blanket I now own

Dr. N.C. Patel: whose use of psychotherapy and energy work eased the way for Insiders to let themselves be known and healed

Thank you to those who held me together as my parts emerged:

Penelope Gnesin and Sue Fulton for opening their hearts and their home at just the right time

The CoolWomen of my support group who emotionally shared this process with me, challenged my self doubts and kept me afloat

Olympia’s Daughters acapella group for helping me find my voice

Corettes, The Core of Fire dancers, who opened their circle and drew me in

Ellen-Miss-Ellen: who, when I was 67, welcomed me, baggage and all, into her studio as an adult student of ballet, and helped me reclaim joy in dance

Christie (and Lily) for her belief in the value of this project and for her technical assistance in bringing it to fruition

Andrea, cat-lover, searcher, and proofreader extraordinaire

Kathryn, Russ, Caroline and Martha for being family

To the teachers, guides, guardians and angels both named and unnamed, past and present, who have filled, surrounded and protected me as I moved from being a victim struggling to survive to being a survivor learning to thrive.

To Jane, who, unknowingly, introduced me to the things that still fill my Survival Box: ballet, drawing, sewing, singing, writing, creativity, determination. Jane’s quilting inspired the title of this book and is featured on the cover.

Special Thanks to my siblings and their spouses for successfully ending our family’s multi-generational cycle of abuse.

Contents

INTRODUCTION

Chapter One: ENDING IS BEGINNING

Chapter Two: ENTERING THE LABYRINTH

Chapter Three: MAD, SAD, BAD

Chapter Four: MAPLESS THROUGH THE WILDERNESS

Chapter Five: THE WALRUS SAID

Chapter Six: THE EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE

Chapter Seven: SIOUX

Chapter Eight: MIRIAM IN CHARGE

Chapter Nine: BLACK SOCKS

Chapter Ten: SHADOW BOXING

Chapter Eleven: THAT RIVER NILE

Chapter Twelve: PUTTING MY SELVES TOGETHER

Part one

Part two

AFTERWORD

APPENDIX

CHARACTER LIST

WHEN THE BODY WAS MINE by Susan Rita 3, 4, 5

WHEN THE BODY WAS MINE by Sara 12

WHEN THE BODY WAS MINE by Sara 16

WHEN THE BODY wasn’t MINE by Sixteen

The Insiders’ Bill of Rights

Questions and Suggestions*

Photos of five affirmations

INTRODUCTION

I always believed there was something wrong with me. Early on, reports from teachers described me as being disinterested, inattentive and slow to learn. They informed my parents of my inability to grasp the most basic skills of reading, comprehension and mathematics. Skills needed, they said, for success in the world. However, my world was not about academic success. As Susan, a six-year-old child living in an abusive household, my world was about survival and my survival did not depend on an ability to identify letters, shapes and numbers. It depended upon my ability to cope with the fallout of the abuse, the fear, shame and confusion that slowly poisoned the air I breathed in at home. That same poisoned air stole my concentration in school. Intuitively, I had become an expert at creating fantasy-inspired distractions to help me. I made up happy stories, drew happy pictures of rainbows and flowers and was able to block out loud angry voices. I had perfected the art of daydreaming.

But by the age of twelve, those old coping strategies were no longer effective enough to distract me from the escalating abuse. Staying present in school was increasingly difficult. I struggled in all academic subjects and was considered a slow learner. As a result, I was placed in special remedial reading classes while my peers began learning foreign languages. My self-esteem, already tenuous, plummeted and, depressed by life as I knew it, I contemplated suicide. Desperate for emotional distance from my parents and their traumas, I mentally disowned them. I rejected the name they’d given me at birth and, with surgical precision, removed its last three letters as if cleanly excising a cancerous lesion. In so doing, I became Su. I now see that act as having been the first of many attempts to lay claim to my identity.

Yes, maybe I was too sensitive, took things too seriously, thought and felt too deeply about the colors of sunsets and why that baby bird fell out of its nest. Maybe in my fantasy world, I would have been thought of as a leader. But that wasn’t the world I was living in, and the disconnect between those two worlds was what convinced me I was defective, broken, deficient. Years later, as a teacher myself, I still sensed something about me wasn’t right. Although I appeared happy, confident and self-reliant, I was struggling to conceal my depression, eating disorder, hypervigilance and despair. But it was the dissolution of my marriage that finally compelled me to find out why.

This is a story of healing from the lasting hidden damage caused by a childhood filled with trauma. It chronicles my journey from first hearing the words, Dissociative Identity Disorder, to the discovery and management of my own internal system of personality parts. It is about anger, denial and grief, as well as courage, hope, compassion and joy. It explores the question, Who is Suritaplus? and seeks to find answers through my journals, artwork and the session notes of Dr. Mindy Breyer who graciously contributed them for use in this project.

This is a book I wished had been available when I began my healing. I wanted to learn first-hand from those who’d already walked their journeys so I might hear enough similarities to believe I was not crazy and know I was not alone. How did others manage the chaos and confusion that came with discovering their personal histories? Was it possible to feel healed, balanced, healthy? Were they ever able to lead the kinds of lives they wanted? I know everyone’s experiences are different and no two individuals, even siblings, have the same story to tell or keep private. Still, hearing the accounts of others can open up one’s world and may possibly be the key ingredient needed to transform hopeless into hopeful.

This is a story about healing from a childhood of trauma.

Chapter One:

ENDING IS BEGINNING

1994

When I broke up with Alison, my partner of ten years, I realized I’d been trying to keep us together for nine of them. I was frustrated and angry. Nine years of too many conversations abruptly escalating to volcanic heights spewing toxic insults and accusations. In my direction. The details varied from episode to episode but the assumption underlying each argument was always the same. Alison believed I’d been having an affair with Harry, our married neighbor from down the street. If this hadn’t been so outrageous and painful it could have made a great format for a fun question and answer game show. The differences being, of course, this was no game, no fun and the one asking the questions was also the one answering them. It was not me.

What took you so long getting back with the pizza? You stopped at their house, didn’t you!

Who made those footprints in the snow? You had company when I wasn’t here!

If you were home sick, why didn’t you answer the phone when I called?

Why are you so dressed up if you were just going shopping?

I had no questions for her. The situation was clear. We were finally over.

It’s not that I ever had the illusion of the perfect as seen on T.V. marriage where couples always share in decision-making and never disagree on anything. They both always smile and their voices are never raised. On the contrary, I know from my parents’ example that real marriages could be loud, angry, and messy, with stinging insults and ridicule. I was determined not to become my parents. My marriage with Alison would be different and definitely better. After all, we were in love.

When we met, Alison was a returning college student who had gone back to school to complete her degree. She and several other tenants, students as well, lived in a 3-story house near campus. They each had their own private room and they shared a living room, bathroom and full kitchen.

I was an elementary school teacher by day and a ballet student at night. The bank and I owned my first house, a small cottage with a few trees and a large open yard facing the river. I was proud of my successes. Despite this, I had always noticed a dark undercurrent of depression throughout my life, so I had begun seeing a therapist for counseling. I’d recently been introduced to the words Incest Survivor and was learning how those two words applied to me. For the last week’s therapy homework, I’d been assigned to creatively address the issue of self-image and bring it to therapy to discuss. I ended up writing the music and lyrics for a song I titled, Refection in the Glass. It was about talking to the reflection as if it were a child version of myself. What I saw was a frightened child. This is why I had my guitar with me that day when I walked into the waiting room.

Other than the woman sitting on the couch opposite the entrance, the room was empty. Judging by the backpack on the floor at her feet, I assumed she was a college student and a few years younger than my thirty. I took the chair nearest the door and tried not to make a racket as I settled in with the heavy case. It looked as if she’d been writing out a check but stopped mid-way when she heard the door open. Her long blond hair and spray of faint brown freckles caught my attention and I was surprised at hearing my internal dialogue assessing her as she sat there. She glanced my way briefly, politely acknowledging my presence, but instead of returning to the quiet anonymity of a psychologist’s waiting room, her eyes moved immediately to my guitar case. I’d hoped the interest I saw from her wasn’t just for the guitar.

When she finished writing her check, the woman introduced herself, Alison, and started talking. She asked why I’d brought my guitar and then shared that she also played and wrote music. At that point my therapist interrupted us, thanked Alison for her check and invited me into the office. Later, after my session as I opened the door to leave, I saw a note with my name on it on the chair where I had been sitting earlier. Written inside was Alison’s phone number.

On the drive home I thought only about Alison, her hair, her freckles, her easy demeanor. I was surprised by how naturally our conversation had flowed and how unusual that was for me. Even now it takes quite a while for me to feel comfortable with new acquaintances. I’ve never been a people person and I still don’t feel comfortable talking to anyone on first meeting. But with Alison it was different. We had music in common and she seemed self-confident, yet without conceit.

I drove the entire hour home with only one hand on the steering wheel. The other was in my pocket holding the paper with Alison’s phone number.

That coming weekend we had our first date. For me, it also was the first date since realizing I was lesbian. I couldn’t tell if my nervousness was because I’d had little dating experience throughout high school or college or if it was my excitement about being with Alison. I felt an unfamiliar awkwardness. I picked her up at her apartment and drove us to the nearby theater complex where E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial was playing. For two hours we sat in the dark being entertained by the movie and each other. We shared popcorn, soda and M&M’s, and enjoyed tender handholding, shoulders rubbing and knees touching. After the movie we went to the diner and talked past midnight. Back at her apartment house we ended our date the old- fashioned way, with pleasant nervous exchanges and a kiss.

Between our two schedules and the geography between us we didn’t get to see very much of each other during the week. With school still in session, Alison had papers to write and studying to do and I had my ballet classes and modern dance. We tried to make up for that absence with late night phone calls to help bide the time until the weekend, but the hours apart seemed endless. Weekends, on the other hand, held no schedule, no requirements to fill, nothing on someone else’s Must Do list. We met each other’s friends, walked scenic trails, played miniature golf, wandered through museums and county fairs. Our friends commented on how well we got along. So unlike my parents.

During that time, I was on an emotional high. My body wanted to catch up but I knew I wasn’t prepared for a truly physical relationship. Heather had known both of us as individual clients before we met so, believing she knew us better than even we knew ourselves, we sought her advice on moving our relationship forward and scheduled a couples’ counseling session. A major focus of this was centered on my issues as an incest survivor. Not surprisingly, this took up most of our couples’ session. Heather explained that I was a survivor of childhood trauma and advised us to take things slowly. As a result of the trauma I was dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Sounds or actions that could easily go unnoticed by most people might shock or even frighten me. She suggested gentle non-sexual massage as a way of building physical trust and to be mindful that seemingly innocent touches might feel threatening to me at first. We needed to discover together what kinds of touch were okay. We needed to communicate the emotions that may arise with each. Alison and I agreed.

At about this same time, Alison received notice that the house she was living in had been put up for sale and she needed to move. Unexpectedly, Alison was about to be a student with no access to campus and no place to live. I suggested she move in with me, but we both agreed that although my house was fine for occasional sleepovers, it was geographically undesirable for daily commutes to the college. She asked classmates, students and friends if they needed a roommate, checked bulletin boards and postings and school newspapers daily but nothing turned up. Adding to the mounting pressure, the academic year was coming to a close and deadlines for papers and reports were approaching. Alison became increasingly anxious and depressed and it looked more and more as if she would be forced to drop out of school. I couldn’t let that happen. We wanted to be together.

So I decided that Alison’s not being able to find a new rental was a sign from the Universe, telling us it was time to move in together. I suggested I would put my house up for sale and we would use that money towards a new purchase as a couple. Then, in a year or so when Alison would be graduated and working full time, we could design a fair way to share the expenses. It was perfectly logical and seemed like the next right thing to do.

For the next few weeks we were house-hunters and before long we were new homeowners. We had agreed on a two-bedroom house that was small but pretty much an equal distance between Alison’s college and the school where I taught. It was situated at the end of a cul de sac behind which were a few trees and an old wood fence separating our property from the inlet. In the front yard were forsythias and some large clay pots that must have held flowers before having been neglected. We had met the neighbors on one side when the realtor showed us the house. They were a heterosexual couple with two little boys and a baby on the way and seemed unfazed at learning their new neighbors were lesbians.

We did it! We found a place to start our life together. The hard part was over!

We settled into our new home and immediately started planning our Commitment Ceremony. We knew that in our state lesbian and gay couples were denied the legal rights of a traditional marriage, but we didn’t mind. It didn’t matter what it was called because to us the meaning was the same. We were two people in love, promising each other respect, honesty, fidelity, and monogamy for the rest of our lives. We chose to marry on Pride Day. The location was at a pride event near the beach where, in our minds, our guests included anyone else who happened to be at the beach that day. Everything was perfect. In addition to the cooperative weather, we had our officiate, poetry readings, music, friends, ceremony, rainbows and hundreds of beach go-ers blessing us. Alison and I wore purple and lavender and held small purple and white flowers. It truly was beautiful, loving and fun.

In the beginning it was good. Very good. The suggestions at our counseling session had been helpful. Even though Alison didn’t actually understand the purpose of gentle touch without follow-through, she was nonetheless tender and mindful. We discovered each other’s’ hills and valleys with soft subtle strokes and she was careful not to sexualize. For most of my life until then, I had gone out of my way to avoid touch of any kind. I was especially afraid to be in elevators, buses, or any crowded space where someone might even accidentally brush against me. It never occurred to me it was anything other than just one of my silly quirks. But now, with Alison and I in each other’s arms, I felt safe and calm. So much so I was barely aware of Heather’s two words rumbling in the back of my mind like the warning of a not-too-distant storm. Incest Survivor.

After about seven months, I could feel Alison’s attitude towards me changing. In all this time since Heather’s session, I still was unable to relax and simply allow myself to be loved. And Alison did not hide her irritation and impatience. She interpreted my fear as willful resistance and emphatically blamed Heather for her interference in our sex life. Rather than discuss this with Heather in a session, Alison’s solution was to quit therapy entirely. Moreover, Alison feared that if I continued therapy individually, Heather would be able to persuade me to end our union. I reminded Alison how much I loved her and told her I would not let that happen. In response, Alison began her plea with words I was to hear many times thereafter, If you really loved me, you would. . .

Although I disagreed with Alison, I could see how upset she was and my internal conversation was one in which I blamed myself. Had it not been for my personal history, which I believed made me defective, we might not have sought Heather’s counseling in the first place. Following that logic, I held myself responsible for this upset and, to calm and reassure Alison, I acquiesced. I stopped therapy. Unlike what I saw from my parents, I wanted my marriage to have mutual trust, patience, understanding and belief in each other. I believed that by compromising I could prevent conflicts. Having no conflicts meant there would be no arguments. No arguments meant happiness. If Alison and I were happy it would mean we had a good marriage.

In the winter, while out on a walk, Alison met Gretchen who was also new to the neighborhood and lived down the street with her husband. After a while, Gretchen would often visit with us and we’d sit and chat over tea and fruit. Occasionally she’d bring a freshly baked bread or a bottle of wine. She rarely came empty-handed. We didn’t meet Harry until a month or so later when Gretchen invited us over to see some renovations they’d done on her house and the little yard. We walked the property, a glass of wine for us each, and admired the project. They had removed much of the living room wall opposite the bay and replaced it with glass sliding doors opening up to their yard. They had also put in an outdoor pot-bellied heater which I really appreciated on that cold night. They had transformed an ordinary small cottage into quite a lovely place. Still talking about renovations and resale values, we went back inside until the empty wine bottle signaled our time to leave.

I was feeling sleepy and a little fuzzy from even the small amount of wine I’d had but did appreciate the warmth of it inside against the bitter night. If it hadn’t been that Alison was so against our being seen even holding hands in public, I would love to have been walking down the street arm in arm, at least, in that beautiful quiet night. I was walking and waiting, carrying that warm and fuzzy feeling home while looking forward to snuggling up close with Alison and falling asleep blanketed in each other’s arms.

Alison had gotten ready for bed first and was already under the blankets when I walked in and turned out the light. I loved the scent of her lotion, especially in the dark. In hopeful anticipation of my longed-for snuggles and our familiar good night wishes and kisses, I mellowly slid between the sheets to greet her soft smooth body. What I was met with instead, however, was a stern-faced Alison who definitely had something different on her mind. She sat up, faced me, and immediately those warm fuzzy feelings I’d been hoping for were dashed by a bucket of ice-cold accusations thrown in my face as she scolded, Why were you so nice to Harry? You didn’t need to smile at him and be so friendly and you didn’t need to laugh at his jokes! It took a second for me to process what she’d just said before I could even reply, I was being polite.

Actually, I’m sure I was polite and I probably did laugh at one of his jokes but otherwise, I hadn’t paid much attention to Harry. Alison knows I’m not a good conversationalist and that I’m generally, not comfortable around those of the male persuasion.

Yet, she said I was flirting.

Many weeks passed before we visited Gretchen and Harry again. This time we were invited to see their new electric piano. They’d put in a spiral staircase leading up to a loft. The piano sat overlooking the living room where Alison and Gretchen were talking. I followed Harry up the spiral stairs and he let me play with the sound effects keys. I was fascinated by the realistic sound of the harp. Proud of his new toy, Harry showed me some of its other features, including how it was connected to a set of drums next to the wall, the wiring, and the special sound-bending pedals underneath. The loft was narrow and, in addition to the piano and drum set, there were boxes of assorted equipment and accessories taking up most of the remaining floor space. I was on one side of the piano looking under it and Harry was on the other. Neither of us was touching the keyboard. Neither of us was visible from where Alison and Gretchen sat on the couch downstairs. A few minutes later I spiraled myself back down the stairs and joined the others on the couch. When Alison finished her wine, we walked home. Quietly.

That night, as we were getting ready for bed, Alison accused me of having an affair with Harry. Apparently Alison, having heard no sounds from the keyboard and having not seen us through the loft posts, assumed we were hiding under the piano kissing and fondling. My immediate gut response of shock and defensiveness, however, waned as I focused on her face and remembered something she had told me shortly after we’d moved in. Alison had trouble trusting. I sat at the edge of the bed, breathed in slowly and tried to move myself from feelings of insult to those of compassion. Even though Alison’s voice was angry, in her face I saw pain.

I knew that pain. I didn’t have the words for it yet, but I did understand what she felt. I knew because I had loved and trusted when I was younger. I knew the confusion and pain in realizing that the person who professes to love you may also be the very one who hurts you. But unlike my father’s love for me, my love for Alison was clean. It had no strings. I believed, therefore, that by my understanding and patience, I could earn her trust. I could prove my love. She just needed some time to see for herself how much I loved her. In the next breath I assured Alison that she was and would always be my one and only. I loved her and meant every word I said at our ceremony.

The next morning Alison behaved as if nothing life-changing had happened the night before. To me it had been as if the earth stood still, holding its breath in anticipation of total destruction. To her, it was breakfast as usual. Then time to shovel the sidewalk. I wanted to be like that.

Reviews for Quilted

[kbrash1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed reading this book. It is not my favorite, but in my opinion, it serves a specific purpose. For example, the plot is very simple, but the story is sweet and relevant to young lives. The main character receives a quilt made by her parents that was created using squares of fabric from various items used as the girl has grown. “My mother and father made it for me. They used some of my old things. Here are my first curtains and my crib sheet. Sally is lying on my baby pajamas.” She is unable to sleep because she lost her stuffed animal and the fabric on the quilt is exciting and keeping her from falling asleep. On the next page, she falls asleep and her imagination begins to run wild. The plot of this story makes it an ideal candidate for a bedtime story. I feel the text is focused, in large part, on imagination, creativity, and art. In terms of literary enrichment, this story does not offer anything substantial, but from an artistic standpoint, it was very attractive and engaging. For example, on the first several pages, the background illustrations were plain in order to focus the reader in on the quilt. As the main character begins to drift off to sleep, the once stark white background becomes a mixture of royal blue and black, and the stars in the night’s sky begin pouring into her room. When she is dreaming, the illustrations take control of the story. For example, the audience is introduced to a bright color scheme and detailed images of squares of the quilt coming to life, which is evident as the main character envisions the circus, town, garden, lake, forest, and mountains. The big idea of The Quilt is simply to allow your imagination to run freely.

[dukefan86 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This story shows a quilt with family history and a little girl with a good imagination. The illustrations are nice as well.

[raizel_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

On the first night a young girl sleeps in her new grown-up bed, covered with a quilt made by both her mother and father(!) from her old clothes, she dreams that the quilt becomes a town with a circus and other sites and can't find her stuffed animal, Sally.