The Protector Series Part One: An Introduction -- Coming out of the Closet

Okay. Let's face facts. In a way, even people who do not have a dissociative disorder have 'parts'. People are professionals at work, family people when they are at home and... perhaps they appear to be someone else entirely when they are out having a couple of drinks with their buddies. From my observations, it seems to me that this is the way people are. And then there are folks like me who have parts that might take over their perceptions, feelings and behavior in certain situations when it is not necessarily appropriate or socially acceptable to do so. Some of them will run me over with a car to be able to do it, too. Or slap me down like a cat off some curtains. These parts are usually children. And then there is a protector. He would only run me over with a car and become truly dangerous in an extreme real-time emergency, but he does see it as part of his job to clear obstacles that would stop the children inside from being able to come forward in certain ways. He is VERY protective of them. He even complains to me sometimes about things I do that might be impeding them. Though he has other interests all his own (he likes the ladies - but we ain't goin' there right now), his main job is to protect those who are young, vulnerable or injured. He is passionate, sometimes embarrassingly so, but he is my integrity. I call him this because integrity, to me, means wholeness and togetherness. Fostering these things, for the purpose of integration, seems to be his main mission on the inside. His main gig on the outside is to protect children. MY children. So of course I love him. I have had occasion to be slightly irked with him in the past few days, but he's a keeper and a good egg.

There have been a few embarrassing incidents, though. Having him scream obscene threats at someone on my cell phone in the drugstore where I was waiting to pick up my crazy drugs is one such example (and I don't take those anymore as he forbids it). And no, he had NOT just randomly gone psycho when he had that outburst. He was speaking with a business associate who likes to say dirty things to women (he picked the wrong woman) and my protector has zero tolerance for sexual harassment of any kind and he gets especially infuriated when it is directed at women, children, the elderly, the disabled or people who are gay. Even so -- I was mortified and there was NO WAY IN HELL I was laying claim to nut drugs after an outburst like that in front of the pharmacy staff (sent the husband to pick them up later). My protector also took over a phone conversation and loudly dropped the F-bomb at work one day when a mortgage broker wanted to make a HUGE stink out of a ten dollar issue (my client was vulnerable - a disabled vet). That was a loud and passionate conversation ("Where were you when he was bleeding in the sand in your place? Where WERE you? And now you want to bust his balls over TEN BUCKS. WTF is WRONG with you? Where is your heart? You don't HAVE to do this to him..."). My co-workers knew me as someone who was always very professional, polite and mild-mannered and that whole scene in the office was a bit shocking and embarrassing. Thankfully, my client ended up being treated fairly, but I wanted to crawl under my desk when I heard what was coming out of my mouth that day and then looked around to see the stunned faces of my co-workers. But I couldn't stop it as I was not the one in control at that moment. I could only watch and wonder if I was about to be fired from my job and how I might support my family without it (I wasn't fired -- I was actually commended). As you can see, some people might think my dear protector is a clod with no manners, but I love him. Usually, anyway. :-)

In the next post in this series, I will explain how I came to discover my protector and how others discovered him -- even gave him nicknames -- before I was even aware of what the hell they were talking about. 'The Bulldog', 'Madame Fury' and 'The Terminator'? I didn't get it, but now I do. And *I* call him Rambo. Because he's on a mission to free the prisoners of a very old war and bring them home where they belong. He works hard for me and he has finally netted me a therapist that I can really work with. He is the one who went out interviewing. Here is an excerpt from the interview process with the current guy: "Any therapist who hands me a bucket or any other container in which to store my feelings will end up wearing said container on his/ her head right after I pee in it." Rambo has a way of dispensing with niceties for the purpose of cutting right to the chase. :-) Discovering and seeking to understand his presence has led to a greater communication between us, fewer embarrassing outbursts, and a little bit more diplomacy. I am choosing to write about him in this series because I understand him better than I understand the others. And because his mission sometimes scares the bejesus out of me. If he scares you, too, please remember that readers of this blog have read his stuff. Many of you have even corresponded with him, even if you didn't know it. And there have only been three casualties in more than four years (two were proselytizing forgiveness junkies and one abused a mutual friend). So... read on, my friends. He is friend, not foe.