I am the ballerina
in the music box
bending and twirling.
when you need me,
twist the spindle.
I’ll dance.
Pretty pink shoes
revolving counter-clockwise,
the same way every day and every night.
When you’re done, close the lid
and I will tuck myself quietly
beneath my own body,
folded up neatly where I belong.
Tucked away in my own
felted cave
alone with the rings, the copper
and silver metals.
I am quiet and undisruptive.
I will keep myself contained.
Hidden I stay
in the little juke,
always tired,
always wearing thin.
Until you lift the lid.
Happy I am, again.


Now the World Knows! World Mental Health Day 2016

About a year ago, I was contacted by a media group in the UK asking if they could interview me and possibly publish an article about my experience with Dissociative Identity Disorder. Well, a year later, it’s here.

The Sun, UK has published the interview, as well as the Daily Mail.

What the fuck.

I have mixed emotions…

My main concentration is to raise awareness- with mental illness, DID, suicide prevention, rape… I mean, just things that I’ve personally dealt with. That’s my entire focus. I want people to inform themselves, to know that DID specifically isn’t this silly little game, but it’s YEARS of personal turmoil. It’s trauma, it’s real life pain, confusion and work.

When I started this process of being interviewed, I was in such a different place in therapy, in life, with myself. Now that this has been published, it is actually quite trippy to see my progress.

(I’d also like to point out that there are definitely a few errors on the articles. One of them being that Rogue is a “sex addict.” So not true. )

ANYWAYS, there’s lots I could say on the subject.

And to new readers, yes, I am real. 
Yes, DID is actually a real disorder.
No, I’m not like Sybil. I’m a relatively normal person just like everyone else.

Overall, if you’re curious about Dissociative Identity Disorder, I encourage you to educate yourself.

Here’s a link to an article I wrote regarding DID from a personal standpoint-

And here’s a link off of NAMI:

Welcome Home

On Friday night
I stood 1 inch taller than you in my
stappy heels, in my coral red dress.
The glowing Jesus Lives sign beamed
just below our feet as we gazed over
the buildings, the pulsing lights in the hills.
We stumbled our way to a gay club-
the one with the candy music.
What was his name? Antonio?
Glasses clinking, feet pacing,
we giggled over pets and slaves.
You brushed your hair back
and your shampoo smelled like home.
Exhausted, we left in a black car all the way home.
You fell asleep on the sofa,
but I woke up next to you somehow.

On Saturday
we woke up only to kiss, to eat,
and to satiate the hunger between our legs.
I ventured off to the corner market for
headache medicine and sparkling water.
When I came back, you perched your
body on the bed, crinkled your nose and
dimpled your cheeks.
The medicine worked and you felt better.
I couldn’t help but fall asleep next to you
one more time, even though it was
100 degrees outside.
Around 6 pm we finally stirred from
our lazy daze to brush make up on our faces.
I wore pink eye shadow for once.
You were quiet and pensive,
tangled in nerves about meeting my big brother.
I couldn’t help but smile.
Somewhere within the next two hours
we found ourselves in a warm backyard
with a live band at a retirement party.
I’ve always loved how you got along
with my family.
My brother loved you, despite the mania.
You drove me to a night club
and you looked stunning.
We spent the night spinning and stepping
to the kind of music that always brings
me back to you.
I would be perfectly happy watching you dance
for the rest of my life.

On Sunday
we struggled to peel our eyes open.
I must have kissed you one thousand times.
The sun followed us to Hollywood
to a small remodeled home where they served
us fresh banana bread and coffee.
You wanted me to feel that I was
having breakfast in a home because
it was Father’s Day.
I didn’t want to cry in front of you-
but it was just like my childhood dreams.
(thank you)
We didn’t want to go back home, so
we decided to visit a museum of death.
I held your hand when I felt scared
and I wondered how you were so composed.
I admired the look on your face
when we came upon the medical equipment.
Even the smallest splashes of passion
that explode on your face bring me joy.
We had nearly forgotten that we had
advertised for pets and slaves, so
we spent another few hours thumbing through
nonsensical replies, pictures of men in heels,
and video made just for us.
We laughed and hollered in amusement.
A warm, glittery bathtub called out to us.
We slipped in like mermaids.
At the end, our cheeks were sore
from smiling so much.
You wanted to watch a movie,
I wanted to kiss you in the dark in rows of seats
like two teenagers in love.
So we went and wept like children
at the end of the film.
Finally, you pulled up to my driveway to say goodnight.
This felt like old times.
This felt right.
This felt like something my heart had been
missing for a long, long time.
And as we pressed our lips goodnight,
I could finally breathe again.
You were back home.


The trigger.

I had been a heavy pendulum, rapidly swinging from lamented fragmentation to utter confusion. I believe my breaking point had been on the hardwood floors, thudding my hands against the lenses of my eyes, trying to take control of my body… his hands on my shoulders trying to ground me.

The Rabbit. Hallucinations haunted me. Fear.

Sometime between talking to her on the phone and peeling myself from his arms, we had wielded a knife in his direction.

My mind was swimming with pieces of a memory I couldn’t grasp. Fleeting feelings would burst before my face, yet the shutter was too slow; I couldn’t capture the emotions nor the pictures.

Finally, the release.

The trigger.

I asked him to scare me. His hands wrapped firmly around my throat, slowly cutting off my oxygen. We had done this many times before… several times… then WHAM! His hand met my face. He had never slapped me that hard before. Instantly, my ears rang and I could hear children laughing in the distance… a playground?

(This has happened once before while we were in the middle of a scene. He had choked me to the brink of unconsciousness and I heard the laughter vividly. A piece of a memory…)

The trigger.

The laughter was fading. Not this time. I couldn’t keep doing this- running away from the trauma. I begged him to slap me again- hurt me- choke me- anything to chase the memory.

He did. My face burned and tears exploded out of me. Gradually… I began to remember.

A flashback: my face hitting the tile, the sound of his belt buckle clinking, the zipper, the feeling of him in my mouth…

Rogue, once strong and relentless, has been cemented in suicidality.

In this moment of rocking shut into a fetal position, the emotion would quickly dissipate until I felt numb. He wouldn’t let me dissociate. This is what I had been wanting. He pushed me and pushed me to chase the feeling, hunt it down, and fucking feel for once.

It was as if the room went dark. There was a sofa. I sat in the middle as a spotlight shown brightly on me. Rogue walked into the room, sat next to me, and looked forward at the memory. In front of us was our 14 year old body on the bathroom floor, being orally raped and thrown against the shower glass.

She showed me what happened as she carefully unraveled the memory from her oenomel. Rogue allowed me time to process one thing at a time- the feeling of his hands, the smell of blood, the sound of the zipper, the event itself… walking me through it with great compassion.

The film was over. This is what she had been hiding from me. I wasn’t ready until that particular moment. She kept it locked away because she loved me enough to hold on to it.

I hugged her and told her I loved her in our spotlight. I suppose, psychologically speaking, I was accepting my pain, myself, and my experience. It was the moment that I looked inward and told myself “I love you and you did nothing wrong.”

As I began to awaken from the flashback, I was guided by his voice behind me, “You are not a victim. You’re safe. None of this was your fault. I love you.”

I felt the flames settling on my skin- sizzling. The sadness melted away and all that was left was us. The system. The collection of immovable, determined persons.

And so I did what any survivor would do after reclaiming their experience:

I laughed and lit a cigarette.


Guru Ram Das Ashram

As promised, I’m here today with an update from the Ashram! It was an amazing experience. I hope to go back many more times.


I arrived to the Gurdwara around 3:20 AM. I found parking rather easily for West Hollywood. I stepped in front of the temple, which was playing soft kirtans on the outside speakers. I slipped off my shoes and covered my head with a scarf. When I opened the doors, there was a Sikh meditating on the farthest wall. Later I learned he was the Sewadar- one who guards the Gurdwara 24/7. I was greeted by a very friendly Sikh, Tej. He welcomed me in and kind of showed me around. He briefly explained the schedule for the next 4 hours. I was introduced by a few more people. I felt totally at home.

I walked over to the takhat, where the Guru resides, and touched my forehead to the floor in front of the Guru. I set my intentions for the morning and opened my heart to whatever experience was awaiting.


I found a place to sit in lotus and I began to meditate. I must have been doing that for about 20 minutes or so. I heard chimes, then, and the Sewadar began to stir from his meditative state. He laughed for a few moments, which made me smile. He stretched his limbs out, walked over to me, and gave me hug. I could feel the energy buzzing off of him.

Tej passed out Holy Books for each of us to follow along to while chanting. Tej led the chants along with another Sikh woman. There 7 of us all together seated on the carpet of the temple, chanting for 30 minutes or so. The chimes sounded again and we were led in a brief prayer to set our intentions for Seva.

It was time to get down to business. Tej played some kirtan music overhead as we got out the vacuums and rolled up our sleeves. As my new friend, Jess, vacuumed each and every (large) Persian rug, we all rolled them up and put them to the side. We delicately took apart the takhat and joined in prayer as we moved the Guru from his resting place.

I swept the marble halls. We all got buckets with clean water and on our hands and knees, we cleaned each inch of the floor and walls with a wet rag. Next, Tej took gallons of milk and poured them where the takhat was. Again on our knees, we used our bare hands to push the milk everywhere, polishing the floor.


The funnest part is when we flooded the entire place with buckets of water. The actual act of tossing the water along the marble and out of the temple doors was very healing and symbolic of personal cleansing. We all chanted as we did this.

We grabbed large towels and hand-dried the floor. Then, just as carefully as we had started, we put everything back the way it was.

In the next room, the Guru sat along with his Kirpan, swords. We had a procession as we brought the Guru over and we sang to him.


A few of us sat on the carpet and polished the swords. We bowed to the Guru and touched our foreheads to the floor again.

Finally, we sang kirtans for the next hour with accordions and tambourines.


We prayed a last time. Tej passed out a ball of pudding for each of us, 5 almonds, and chai tea. We ate together, talked a bit, hugged, and went our separate ways.


It was a very beautiful experience and I was glad to be apart of the community. They were all friendly and ensured that I felt welcomed.

PS- My body is super sore today!

Growing Pains

*blows dust off of blog*

Media interviews
Big life changes
Personal growth
blah blah blah

Lucy is back and well. I kind of missed her. Okay, I missed her a lot and I was worried. But she’s okay.

Jumper is a name I haven’t heard in a while. He moved into the system house a while ago… I wouldn’t necessarily categorize him as an alter. Interestingly enough, he is the only male in the system. I saw him in the hallway this morning. He looked a bit strung out and preoccupied.

I think I mentioned this already- I was contacted for an interview with a UK media group. I’ve been working with them for a couple months now answering questions, having Skype meetings, etc. So that’s going well. We’ll see.

I’ve been hanging out with friends a lot more now and gaining my support group. It makes me really, super happy to know that I have genuine people who care about my well being and who are also sober and sane. It makes a huge difference.

Life changes and personal growth. I keep coming up with these huge realizations about myself. More specifically, I’ve come to terms that I have quite a martyrdom syndrome… meaning I sacrifice my own personal mental health and well being in order to make others “happy” and comfortable. I would rather soak up everyone’s pain and discomfort. The more I wake up, however, the more I’m realizing that it’s not healthy for me OR the people I care about.

I hate being an adult sometimes. I hate being responsible. *crawls into a fort to color*

Life sure is a trip. So many things have changed in the month alone. It’s difficult and challenging, but that’s what all good lessons are comprised of, aren’t they?

Twelve -another rape poem

it was the first time of twelve.
the clock’s hand slammed and hammered in
the pulse of his desperate, soused breath.
my blooming plum wept.
they had left the house that day.
December’s paternal comfort was long lost
in the convoluted patterns of wetness,
that which flowed from my mouth-
drooling foolishly at the thought of concern.
sudoral beads bubbled to the tops of
his shoulders, his brow.
this was unfamiliar to me, the ways in which
his eyes looked past me, now.
no longer was I his little gem.
(Oh, the eyes, I will never forget the
infliction- that which infected my matrix.)
now, four months before I knew menstruation,
I bled from the sceptre.
I glared at the back of my skull,
fixing my stare on anything but his big, bright grin.
behind me, my hands flew upward in
a futile attempt to crush his throat.
my face met fire when his hand came down.
minute explosions of starry embers filled
the room. Black, black, black.
my sad, white sheets were destroyed with crimson.
the plum wilted with guilt, lulling with uncertainty.
(should I not have poured out to him?
should I have screamed out?)
soon the palliative tears welled in his eyes.
I, the child of forgiveness, welcomed the man
into my arms, into my chest with budding breasts.
did I not please him?
did I not soothe him?
did I not stay still enough?
did I not say thank you?
he purred into me, onto the floor
and promised one day I would hate him
-for this moment.
my little panties clutched in his left hand.
how could I hate him like this?
so pathetic and woeful.
I licked the lithophanic pearls from his cheeks.
my innocence and bewilderment of the world,
were engulfed in his lust, his sickness.
they live there now in the dark corners
of my childhood bedroom.
they are captured within the stitching of my baby quilt.
they are dying in his brain, the ever-relenting memory
of the virgin blood on his hands.
daughter of abandonment.
daughter of abuse.
daughter of Michael.


Roots with the blue-corn husk
the stalks of weepy spines bend.
He spits into the plum-smoked dusk
where the tired scarecrows tend.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

Here I am, just merely eight.
The wrinkles on my collared dress
have seen my hard Father’s hate
while he rapes me to confess.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

The little synagogue between my thighs
spills with holy water that burns his tongue.
A spinning wheel whirs within his eyes
and I am, there, the helpless one.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

I’ve plucked the threads from my mound
for he would surely punish me.
When he grabs me, full and round
he makes me red and count to three.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

When I stood in the age of sin
with a dead child in my womb,
my father pulled it from my skin
and sent it to its watery tomb.
I could sleep with my palms to the sky.

Thank you Father, for my worth.
I am your baby of a bullet skull.
Tomorrow will be my new birth
when I am shipped to that limbo lull.
I will sleep with my palms to the sky.


24. I am 24 years old today. Go me!


Thanks, Mom, for popping me out. Sure…it was kind of scary. You know, when I had to be weaned off of crack and heroin. But after that I turned out pretty cute 🙂

Life is going well. Hiccups here and there, but everyday I’m getting stronger. I had a moment this past week of feeling “the urge” to be depressed. Don’t get me wrong, I tried! I threw myself under the covers, I listened to my “Songs to Die To” playlist on Spotify. I stared blankly at the ceiling and thought of really depressing things. Then, I just got bored. So I got up and got a snack.

I do admit, however, I had an intense manic episode last week. I wanted to peel my skin off and fly. I haven’t experienced that kind of elation in a long time. Thankfully, I was able to get grounded before things really flew the roof.

Friday night, my girlfriend had planned a birthday party for me at a really fucking amazing bar (nightclub?) in Downtown Los Angeles. I had a lot of fun. Well, from what I can remember. I blacked out at some point. BLACKED OUT. Passed out. He had to carry me over his shoulder like a limp rag doll. And then pull the car over so I could throw up.

Very lady like of me.

But, overall, I still had a ton of fun. It was a great night. We had dumplings the next day and that totally made up for my hangover.

As for today, I’m slightly irritated because my boss has disapproved my temporary schedule change for the play…. meaning I had to pull myself out today. Kind of sucked. I was more upset with the way he handled it, though. The whole thing sucked and I feel angry about it.

BUT it’s my birthday and it’s a good day. I’m going to have fun after work at happy hour with good friends and celebrate being alive and healthy.


I am thinking of the teeth marks
that are stamped across your leather belt.
You were peeling my legs back while
fierce bubbles of spit spumed from my
purpling lips. My throat
became full of breaths, brimming
to the strap, exhausted. With a quick
tighten of your knuckles, the
breaths tumbled backwards into
the washbasin of my stomach.

I am thinking of the threatening heat
in your eyes, settled there- fixed and frightening.
You had encountered your last meal,
fresh and pink with juvenilia.
I was a dead mare.
The neck offered to you, God or Devil,
as a sacrifice on the perch of your throne.
The faint death beat pumped against your
fingertips, beating with anticipation of release.
The dogtooth sunk into the mare.

I am thinking of the low growl,
cruel and inviting.
Part wolf, part incubus. The roses
on my wrists have bloomed in mercy.
On particular nights I can feel the thunder
of your voice behind me.
I am your small child to penetrate,
to destroy and reconstruct (as you see fit).
I am the little doll on the wild lawn
of violet virginity.