There Are No Turtles: Itching

Itching. Unrelenting, agonizing, itching.

Pacing. Uncontrollable pacing.

But the itching. The itching....

What happened to the turtles?

There's an old story that goes something like this: during a discussion of the world and its place in the universe, a scientist, possibly the philosopher William James, is told by a layperson that the world most certainly rests on the back of a great tortoise - a common-enough myth, vaguely based in Hinduism. "Ah," says he, "but what does the tortoise rest upon?" The layperson, barely pausing for thought, replies, "another tortoise, of course!" Recognizing the layperson's circular logic and seeking to put it to bed, James then inquires what that tortoise should rest upon in turn, and from thence, what that further tortoise could possibly be sitting atop, and so on. The layperson sees the great professor's trap and exclaims: "Don't be silly! It's turtles all the way down."

Ahem. Nudge, as they say, nudge.

While the story may well be apocryphal, the idea is - needless to say, i should hope! - patently ridiculous. The infinite regress of origination is clearly meaningless. Thus, i submit that there is no prime terminus; nor for that matter any kind of support whatsoever for us pitiful, miniscule human beings. If that sounds bleak, so be it. Remember, the universe is mostly empty space.

What's there to talk about, then?

This blog is just a place where i can write about the conundrum in which i find myself here, at the age of thirty-nine, on planet Earth. Namely, i've recently discovered that my long-term girlfriend, the love of my life, is suffering with Dissociative Identity Disorder, most likely stemming from childhood sexual abuse. In short, she hears voices in her head. Occasionally, these fragmented shards of her inner self, which have distinct personalities of their own, will take over her consciousness, causing her to lose time and control over her own actions. Sometimes, she even hurts herself, as self-punishment for what she's been through.

You might not like the idea, and neither do i. But now that i am close to someone who is dealing with this disorder, i no longer have any reservations regarding the matter of just how real this shit really is. Trust me, it gets real damn real some days. Too real.

So i'm writing about it, anonymously (for her protection), so i don't lose my own mind in the process.

She's in therapy. She's dealing with it. That's where we're at.

Cast of characters

Cathy	self-destructive, ~19 years old. Her wilder, younger self, from when she took little care of herself and jumped into trouble with little regard for her own safety.
Charla	little girl. Possibly the innocent girl she was before she was molested.
Bill	protector. Doesn't talk much. Never seems to be around when Cathy's out, but maybe that's just me bitching.
Mom	a mother personality, i think.
Jenny	teacher; new addition as of late March 2011. Always busy with her work.
Dave	an actual friend of hers who died years ago. Disappeared somewhat recently.
Victor	new as of ~April 2011. Lives to frighten, showing horrifying imagery to his host H.

There Are No Turtles

23 May 2011

Itching

No comments:

Post a Comment

Followers

Blog Archive

Popular Posts

Total Pageviews