Soldering Iron

It is not uncommon for abusers to use many different things to insert into a child. With a child being so small and a man so large, they often do not want to fully penetrate child as it will leave obvious signs that she is being abused. One of the things inserted into us, under the direction of my father, was a HOT soldering iron. The pain was unimaginable. I wanted to die.
It was used as a form of control. " If you don't do as we say we will put this in you again. You don't want that do you?" They had complete power and they used it at will. To tell anyone of what had happened would have lead to far worse being done.

The Grandfather.

His name was John but everyone called him Jack. He used to look after us (myself and my sister) during the school holidays while my mum worked. He was a quiet man who never talked too much or even seemed to show much emotion. He was a hard worker and his body showed the years he had spent in physical labour. He smoked regularly and would sweat a lot in the hot weather. We were never close. We remember having to give him a kiss hello and goodbye on the cheek, but other than that I do not recall any affection at all. He lived with his wife, (my Nana), the Matriarch of the family, in a house surrounded by almond tress. 180 if I remember correctly. We spent much of our childhood either helping with the harvest of the almonds, or playing amongst the sour sobs that grew below the trees in winter. There was plenty of open space to play and hide.
Every one seemed to love him. He was quiet and gentle and I don't ever recall him raising his voice. The family always said "he has the patience of a saint" as he used to calmly deal with life and family.
We used to call the grandfather 'Papa", but we cant say it now...not with out much effort. He was all the things I have said above, but he was also much more. When we were 8 years old, he held us down by our wrists on the boot of his car, and with anger I did not often see in him, He Raped us. He seemed angry, he was forceful and it hurt. He went right inside us, hard and pumping. And when he stopped we got down from the back of the car and quietly went away. We felt so much shame, but he didn't seem to care. I hate him for it. He used to push some strange object in to my skin, so it hurt. It was made of wood but had sharp metal ends that would burn. This was not the only time he hurt us.
My name is Claire, I am 8 years old and this is my story.

Melanie's story

This is a video we made with the help of a friend of ours. One of our insiders is called Melanie, she is 9 years old and this is about some of the abuse she suffered at the hands of friends of the family who looked after her during school holidays and before and after school.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0yckRRqPxU4

The Story Behind the Video

In this small sleepy beach community in South Australia her world was turned upside down. While staying there with friends of the family, she was placed in a cage with another girl aged 12. Her name was Michelle Mitchell. They were kept in this cage until the man came for them. He would sexually and physically abuse them and then put them back in the cage when he was finished. We don’t know how long this went on for or how many times it happened. One night Melanie escaped and ran down the beach to hide behind the bridge that leads to the town. She desperately clung to the side of the bridge hoping that her mother would come to her rescue and save her from what had been happening. She didn't.  Instead the man found her and hit her across the head for running away.  He put her back in the cage with Michelle.

Melanie remembers Michelle being shot and dying in that cage. Michelle's blood crept over the cement floor towards her. As Melanie huddles in the corner of the black metal cage, trying to stay away from Michelle’s blood, all she wants to do is curl up and die too, so this will all end.

To Melanie, the blood that we shed when we self-harm tells the truth of what happened to her and Michelle.

Under the bridge runs a river/creek going out to the sea. Richard pushed Melanie into the river. He told her he hated her and wanted her to die. He pushed her head down under the water and held her there about 5 or 6 times. She was gasping for breath. Eventually he pulled her out of the water. She was crying, he said “shut up bitch”. Someone else inside our system took the emotion for her and she stopped crying. She collapsed exhausted on the sand. She lay there for a while trying to get her breath back. He took her back to the shack. He tied her hands to the back of a chair so she was facing it and bending over the front of the chair. He pulled out a cane, and whipped her bottom again and again. He had no compassion. It hurt.

In the Arms of an Angel

This movie is made for the part of us that had to endure being sold for sex at 8 years old. She spent nights alone in hotel rooms with strangers.

  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8Q9-RGqwhk&list=HL1383564804&feature=mh_lolz

Hypnosis

We are a member of many DID support groups online. Tonight, one of the members of one of the groups spoke about how she is upset that the police wont pursue her court case against her abuser due to lack of evidence. They also don't believe she is strong enough to stand up all the cross examination she will have to go through if it proceeds. Once again the victim/survivor is held to account for the perpetrators actions and they go free. In the light of this we are again not happy, and feel the need to set some things straight. We can't do much for the lady online, but we can once again share our truth and hope that in some small way we are breaking the silence, and at the very least setting us free.

This is a big memory for us as it answers a lot of questions, and really shows us the extent of our fathers determination to do this to us. We remember being very very young, toddler age. Lying on a thin bench about adult waist or chest height. Our father was standing at our feet to our right side, and another man was at our feet at our left. There we other people in the room at the time as well. We remember that the man to the left would use hypnosis on us to get us to go into that 'sleep' state so that we would be much more compliant, and they could get us to do what they want. As soon as we were 'under', they would start to fondle us and insert things into us.
We have never coped well with recovery from the operations we have had throughout our life. That place where you are half asleep, but you can hear people talking and feel them touching you . You are not able to do anything and they have control over what happens to you. It is terrifying for us and always has been. We now know that is what it was like when they hypnotised us. We could hear them, and feel them touching us but we couldn't do anything to cry or yell or stop them. After all we were only a toddler surrounded by adults, We had no hope of being able to protect ourselves. When our insider finally showed us this memory, we realised the depths our father was prepared to go to, and that this was no occasional incident that happened when he lost control. This was premeditated and organised. He had educated people helping him, and he was not alone. We also know it profited his business to share us around. We carry the scars.

He hates me!

His finger pressed into the front of my neck. Pushing down on my wind pipe.  He used enough force to make it hard for me to breathe. I could barely lift my chest, barely get the air in. It is such a struggle. My heart is beating so fast. I want to be sick.
He didn't want me to breathe, he didn't want me to have life. I was his to do with as he wanted, not a person. My stomach felt sore, and sick. He was having sex with me at the same time. I am 4 years old. He hates me, he says it over and over again, as he thrusts inside me. He wishes I would die.
 I don't want to be here. Don't hurt me, I try to look away. This is my life.

The choking.

I remember being about 4 or 5, lying in my bed at home. My father sitting on the side of the bed next to me. He had his hand on my neck. He was pushing down slowly choking me. I could feel my heart beat racing, it getting harder and harder to breathe. The body started to get a strange feeling about it, a tingling, almost like pins and needles. Panic set in. Fear. I couldn't breathe. I remember looking in his eyes. He said "I hate you, I hate you."  My limbs were heavy, I couldn't lift them. Things started to go dark, I couldn't see any more. I passed out. He stopped.

A Quick Flash of Truth.

A quick flash of Truth. We were lying naked on a metal table with our arms and legs tied at each corner, and someone (not sure if it was an insider or outsider) said "can't the Dr get someone else?"

I hate my life!

How can this life be real if it doesn't hurt?

We just want to reenact what happend to us again and again. We want to feel the pain of the slap across the face. We  want it to hit so hard it sends our jaw flying. Not just once but many times. We want them to call us names, like we are worthless and a whore. We want them to put us down and make us feel like dirt. We want it to hurt so bad. We want them to have violent brutal hard sex with us, until it leaves us lying curled up in pain, crying in the corner. We want it to hurt and to feel shame, and to know this is where we are meant to be. Just beat us and make us feel better. Just hit us and make us feel right. This is the only life we know and we need it so bad. It needs to hurt or we are just not really alive. We cant feel anything. How can this life be real if it doesnt hurt, if there isnt't blood and pain. We want to bleed from inside like it used to, because he was to big and hard. We want to make it hurt and shame ourselves so we can feel good and know that it is right. We want to know that when we wake in the morning it will hurt and we will have a reminder of just how bad and evil we really are. We want to go and hide and take all our pain and hurt. We want it to go away but we just dont know how.

The Father

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DgD-ldxbFwA&feature=youtu.be

This is part of our story. This is the first video we have made on our own..
From the Many.

Knives

The other night we were having a great time with Diamonds, (our girlfriend, also an abuse survivor) when one of our insiders shared a memory they had from when we were younger. It involves a young man named Richard. He was in his early teens when we knew him and our body was between the ages of 7 to 12. Richard had hurt us before and it seemed a common thing for him to do. This time we remember him chasing after us with knives in his hands. Kitchen knives I think. He chased us up the hall of his house while we were screaming. When he caught up to us he pinned us down, and inserted the knives internally. Alfterwards his mother helped to stop the bleeding and told us never to tell. It answers one question at least. She knew it was going on. At other times he put us in the space in the ceiling until our mum would come and pick us up.

Its horriffic, it breaks us to think of this happening to us and no one coming to our help. We have an insider call Richard. He takes after this Richard in many ways. He is a darker insider. No wonder we often have a desire to cut our genital region. Days like today, when I am feeling grief with my friend, I just wish it would all go away. But I know it wont, it will only get worse.

Self Harm

A friend of mine just put this up on their facebook. I really like it. It expresses well some of the feelings when it comes to self harm. The need to feel bad, to hurt, to make ourselves feel like 'they' used to make us feel. We deserve it and even if we partly feel that we dont, deep down we do and we need it to feel right. We havent felt the need to self harm for a few days now, its been really nice. We havent felt very multiple either, too busy doing outside world stuff. But today things changed. A friend is going through a really hard patch today and we had a bit of a situation. Anyway it has left her in a bad way and made us feel very vulnerable.  Sometimes it seems the only way to make it go away is to cut it out. We hate ourselves for being weak and injured and that what is inside us has so much power. Some days I just want to beat myself senseless, to make these feelings of worthlessness go away.

Its Ok now, we want to die!!

The desire to cut is so strong. The need for pain, the need to see blood, the need for others to know that it hurts, that we are dying inside, . The desperate need for someone, anyone, to see beyond the carefully mastered and manufactured smile. Someone to sit down and say, " I can see you are hurting. Please, tell me your story."
 We want to find some stranger to have sex with, and if it all turns bad, then good, because we deserve that. We deserve for him to beat the crap out of us. It will feel better that way. We want him to slap us across the face, to humiliate us, to take away our dignity. Some how that seems right. I want to scream and rip at my skin. I want to cut myself to pieces, slash my genitals so they too hurt as we need them to. The shame and the pain seem the only way out. Without it we feel lost.

 

When we were young, one of our abusers, threatened to shoot us if we told. This is the view we had as he said it.
Back then we were too scared to tell.
Its OK now,
We want to die.

How Much Am I Worth?

Where to start? There are so many things to write here and I am not sure which one to put first. But I will start with one of the most recent flashbacks we have had.
When we were 8 years old we remember being in a hotel room with another man for the night. We didn't want to be there, and had considered calling our father, Maurie, to come and pick us up. We knew that was not allowed and we had to stay. We remember coming back from the bathroom and
climbing back into bed with this man. (I cannot see who he was)  In the morning Maurie came to pick us up. He was paid $100 for our services. (this was in the 70's and I am told the rough conversion to now is about $700-$800). Maurie was prostituting us out for his financial gain. He had been doing it for many years. This is only one story we have to share, this is only the beginning.

We are many

Welcome to our blog. 'We Are Many' is written by the approximately 200 alters that reside in the body named Chellon. In 2010 Chellon was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) formally known as Multiple Personality Disorder. Since that time she has been on the search to find answers. Why is she this way, how did she get here, and who is inside her? We have slowly been showing her the truth of the life she thought she knew. This is her way of telling the world the truth of what was done to her and us, and why we had to develop DID to survive. We will pull no punches, we will say it like it is, and we will name names. It will be graphic at times. But it MUST come out and the truth MUST be told. WELCOME TO OUR WORLD.