The Legacy Of Child Abuse – IDENTITY ISSUES

I have been trying for a long time to figure out how to write about what it is like inside my body with all my alters and I have finally come up with an answer that even I can be satisfied with. I feel like Barbie, a plastic doll waiting for someone to come along and dress/undress her per their whim. The “A” or host me is just a plastic shell waiting for one of my alters to come along and fill it. barbie-history-21

There is this song by Aqua called “Barbie Girl” – Some of the lyrics go like this:

“I’m a Barbie girl, in the Barbie world
Life in plastic, it’s fantastic!
you can brush my hair, undress me everywhere
Imagination, life is your creation….

I’m a blond bimbo girl, in the fantasy world
Dress me up, make it tight, I’m your dolly…”

While I’m not blonde (at least not anymore) and I don’t think I’m a bimbo, everything else in the song feels like me, though. One of my alters comes along and fills the plastic shell that is “A”, then brushes her hair, applies her make-up, dresses her up a certain and create this life for her.  Sometimes the alters stay for only a couple of hours, sometimes they stay for days or even weeks, only to be change out by another one. The real me, the “A” part of me is just a shell, nothing more: without my alters I’m just like a Barbie doll that someone has forgotten to dress. She has no life, because no one has come along to imagine it up for her, she is just a hunk of plastic.

With the alters coming in and taking over I get to be someone, just like Barbie when you dress her up. Did you know that Barbie has been a doctor, a scientist, a pilot, a model, a mother, a sister, a bride, a princess, a business woman and so much more? But that is only because these were the lives that were created for her. My alters have made it possible for me to be a child, a warrior, a mother/caretaker, a business woman/robot, devoted to God, obsessed by God and punishing myself when I don’t live up to unrealistic standards, and a slut all depending on which alter slips into the shell that is me.

It is the reason I can never answer simple questions like what my favorite color is or what I like to eat because I don’t know till one of them tells me their answer to those questions. It’s also why the answers to those question change. Today it could be pink and PB&J, tomorrow it could be black and mac and cheese, or maybe it’s red and pizza, or gray and steak with a shot of whiskey. How am I to know when none of them are really “A” but all of them are me.

Thanks to the child abuse I have been left fractured, split, not sure who or what I am because I couldn’t deal with what happen to me then.


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