#minniganisms

[the-menagerie-hive]

We get bouts of extreme social anxiety due to the difficulties we have socializing, and whenever we go to unpack them it's always like "Bro, why can't you just be normal about things" And then i remember i was socially isolated for Being Weird as a kid and really only started actually trying to socialize as a teen. And Isolation does some pretty wacky stuff to the brain. It's almost like isolation is literally traumatizing or something.

[the-menagerie-hive]

CW: parental relationships

Welp, finally told Mom about the Menagerie.

It's been about two weeks since the most recent "coming out" itch happened, and i finally worked up the courage to tell our mom two nights ago.

All of this, the worry, the fear of loss, Zach (who is closest to our childhood self as any of us could be) having multiple freakouts because this would mean ACTUALLY losing the single brightspot in our childhood and finally admitting that it was actually rotten all the way through, and what do i get after laying it all out for her?

"I'm glad you recognized your issues and sought help."

I try to tell her "Hey, there's more people in here besides me, I'd like you meet them and maybe build a relationship with all of us as you get to know us", and her response was "I'm glad you're getting better".

She might as well have just said "That's nice, sweetie".

Why did i expect anything different???

After all, this is the woman who, when her kid told her they were gay, said "Okay. And???"

Like, i get being chill and all, but there's being accepting, and then there's being Dismissive. All of this worry, just for her to not care? just to find out that this relationship meant more to me than it EVER did for her? That instead of a person to raise and know, you saw a Thing to take care of. That... is just honestly exactly the way childhood always went, always present, never available.

Honestly i don't know why i expected anything else.

[the-menagerie-hive]

Minn here! I've been thinking (Shocker, i know) about our experiences and the system structure for us in general. Lately it's definitely become more clear that we're probably not actually median, not in the sense of "Single person who's frontstuck and the rest popping in to help", because as stress calms down, finally having escaped abusers and living on our own with our husband, i'm finding the switches are becoming less voluntary, less optional. I mean, it works out great for me; one of my biggest issues previously was the fact that i get yanked out front to take any bit of stress that comes our way, but it was getting overwhelming, and the lack of escape was getting to be damaging, especially when i knew i did have others who COULD help and the hits were coming so often. But the more i relax and think of myself as "just another alter", the more true i realize that is. There seems to be this... collective pool of traits that make us up. A bit like a Spice cabinet, i guess? But the thing is, each one of us has a different balance of them, the same way you can make wildly different meals with the same ingredients if you prepare them differently, or how each individual person has a different favorite balance of flavors. We're all Anxious to some degree, but it's most emphasized in Tesh (Who we've come to refer to as our Anxiety holder) and myself, because i am a chronic worrier. We're all intelligent and observant, but it's seen most in Vost and Ori. We all have a temper, but Ingra and Kass show it strongest. And what's more, we all seem to be sourced from different perceptions of self that we've had across our life. Tesh, a superstitious occultist. Ingra, a hard working, reliable craftsman. Ori, an older, wiser mentor. And me. An organized, industrious assistant. Should i feel strange about this? I don't really see reason to, honestly. after all, if we're all people who are part of the same "person", then we've never not been present. it's not like we spring fully formed out of nothing; everything that makes us who we are has always been here, whether we recognized it or not. We've always been a system, we've just not been aware of it until a year ago. Regardless, i'm looking forward to living with all these dorks another year, and every year to come <3

[the-menagerie-hive]

You know, you almost never see a syscovery post from the perspective of any alter in the system but the host. It's always framed as if we simply appear from the aether, fully formed and fleshed out, already knowing our names and our selves as fully as any host would. And for some, I am sure that this is true. But for me, it was quite a bit different. I would like you to imagine, for a moment, that a dark void is all you have ever known. If you had hands, you would surely be able to see them in front of you, and yet you do not. If you should look down, surely you would see a torso? Legs? The nose on your face in that little gap between your eyes? But you do not. Instead, you are a self without a name. A shape without form. An existence without context. Now, let us pretend that one day, there is a Mirror. And in this Mirror is a Person, a head, arms, torso, all of the things a person SHOULD have. And they appear just as alarmed by this appearance as You. You do not know how you know, but you are certain that this Person is You. It must be You. Who else would it be? So you hover. You push. You linger as close as you can to that glass, wanting to get to know yourself. And you see More. A life outside, a world you are witness to, complete with actions, but all you can do is watch. and Feel. You develop opinions on the things you see, values and beliefs. and slowly, over time, you build a sense of who you are. But the You that you are watching doesn't share your beliefs. They do things you don't agree with, and your only recourse is to FEEL things at it until they change. This was my experience. And the experience of many others in the Menagerie. But then, Minn, our..... Host, i suppose. Began working with IFS therapy, and in an effort to get to know their own "parts", created avatars for them, of a sort. And suddenly... There was a space. An idea, a face, an empty vessel i could pour the idea of Me into. And once I found the one that felt closest to me... I did what I had done so very many times before. And I Felt things at them. Changes were made; from my skin, my clothes, my tools... the room this new self resided within shifted to reflect me as well, and Minn, so versed in interpreting the vague ideas of feelings to tangible symbols from years of independent spirituality, brought them to life. And suddenly i was not Them. I was Me. And I was given a name. Our journey is far from over, and I don't know if anyone out there is reading this, questioning how many reside inside your own mind with you. But it's alright if you do not know who you are yet, if your colors don't have lines to define them. You'll find them. Or you'll make them. Either way, You will be glorious. - Stoltz

[the-menagerie-hive]

Unironically love that we talk to each other out loud frequently. I can rest assured that our walk home at night will be completely safe, because no one who sees a 230-ish lb. masc person in a leather jacket having a conversation with themself in funny voices is going to touch that with a ten foot pole.

[the-menagerie-hive]

Living from Home

You wake up in the morning. Some of your housemates are already up, and you can vaguely hear the soft, regular patter of friendly chatter through the walls of your room. Somewhere, someone is listening to a movie OST way too loud. Vivo, you think? The movie about the funny monkey from Cuba. You smile and stretch, planning to get coffee. You do not see anyone. They like to stay in their rooms this early, or visit one another's, avoiding communal spaces until the whole house is awake. It doesn't stop you from dancing to the music, or smiling when you hear a laugh in the background. You love them, even though you're normally the one to take care of the mundane workings of the household. The windows let in the view of the neighborhood, the light of the early morning, and you can smell a neighbor cooking something delicious for breakfast. it makes you hungry. You have to get groceries. You return to your room, getting ready to venture out to the rest of the world, and then head to the front hall. But there is one problem. There is no door. Not on this side of the wall, anyway. Instead, there is a chair, one that You sit in most often, and it feels comfortable, shaped to you, fitting you like a glove. Your housemates do not find the chair to be as comfortable, and they can't sit in it for too long just yet. But to you, it is nearly an extension of yourself. You close your eyes. And Open the Door. The front door opens, and out hops your Simulacrum. Every household has one, and only ever one. Not every household is as big as yours, but you've learned to make it work. Taking turns sating the human need to socialize, even if the powers that be would only ever provide you with a single Sim. You count yourself lucky that yours works mostly-correctly, that the janky controls and slight reaction delay are all you need to deal with; maintenance for more physical issues with the Sim would be expensive and time consuming, and would make these jaunts much more difficult. But that is beside the point. You have things to do. The streets are full of other Simulacra, no one goes outside without one, and the day is bright and warm. You're not sure how it lets you feel things, and it can get confusing, especially when someone touches your real body while you're in the chair. The overlap of the senses takes some getting used to, but with some focus, you can mostly filter out your housemates chatting in the communal spaces as they go about their day. You're walking to the shop, and you carefully use your mouth, your real one at home, to ask your housemates if they need or want anything as the cheery bell of the door to the grocery store jingles when you open it.

"Pickles!" you hear. The voice is far off, childlike, and you realize it must be one of your younger housemates. you can't see them right now, your eyes are being used to pilot the Sim, but the tone and cadence are bright and cheery. "No," replies another, stern and even. "We need coffee. You keep drinking too much of it. I've told you it's unhealthy. Be sure to grab some vegetables and shampoo, we're nearly out." That would be the no-nonsense one, Their voice has always somehow felt Orange. You're not sure why. But you nod and grab the coffee, and reply, "I drink a normal amount, I'll have you know." Another Sim stares at you, unsure of who you're talking to. You're unaccompanied in the shop, so you look around and pretend you've said nothing. Oops. You said that with the Sim's microphone on. You need to get better about doing that. It's easy to forget that most people live alone. It's easy to forget that most people don't know that you have 20 other people living with you. They might not understand that you didn't get a choice. Or that you probably still wouldn't take it if you had. In your distracted state, you find you've wandered by the pickles. You smile. The one who asked for them feels pink, you can tell even if you can't hear them well, the communal space is so far from the front door, after all. Thinking they haven't had a treat in a while, you grab a small jar, but your fingers slip. The jar hits the floor and shatters. PANIC. A worker's Sim nearby stares at you with a mixture of frustration and resignation, and your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. Your thoughts fill with how bad you would feel if that happened the other way, how he must be thinking of you, how much trouble you've just caused. You freeze, unresponsive. "You're alright. Here." You feel yourself pulled back, and you're home, being sat on the little bench by the Chair, watching another housemate climb in. He's short, stocky, older than you, a group dad, his voice rings as inexplicably Red, but you never could figure out why. and you can't help but watch the display near the chair as he addresses the other Sim. "Sorry about that," you hear him say. He's disguising his accent, something vaguely gruff and east-end London. You always thought Cockney, but you were never really sure. "Here, you got a broom? I'll help clean it up." You take a while, your panic is subsiding, but you can't stop watching him handle all this like a pro, and you feel like a failure, like you're weak for freaking out over a jar of pickles. He finishes the shopping and starts walking the groceries home. "You're fine," he says, his tone gentle, caring. He's still there, in the chair, smiling a little as he talks to you, not from the outside, but here. "Just a slip up. we're okay. You good to take back over? It's alright if you want a break." He doesn't find the chair uncomfortable anymore, after all. You think about it, considering stress levels, responsibilities, skill sets. "Nah, go ahead," You nod, sitting with him, "I'll keep you company though." "Heh." he chuckles out loud, "You never could relax enough to leave this thing alone. One of these days you need a vacation. Let the rest of us do this for you. Give you a rest." You smile and nod, but you don't say anything. You know he can feel the relief you're feeling. The soundtrack plays, Pink is enjoying it. Red, usually so gruff, hums along, a smile on his face as he walks the Sim home with the food. Orange complains about your caffeine intake, yet adds far too much sugar to their coffee. But you're smiling even wider still. You're glad you're not living alone. You're glad you don't have to be the only one living from home.

[the-menagerie-hive]

Love Letter to Our System

Valentines day has long been considered a day to give love to others. More commercial in recent years, to be sure, but as long as i can remember, when i hear the word "Valentine", i think about the heart. The paper hearts made in class. The chalky, barely palatable candy hearts given. The hearts broken by silence when you receive none in return. A year ago today was not a time of love. Between our husband and us it was; we'd managed to replace something that had been stolen, a piece of his childhood returned. A piece of his heart repaired.

But ours? I remember laying there in bed, terrified. Not of anyone harming me. But afraid of what lurked inside of me. Inside of Us. I viewed myself as broken, with strangers living in my own head. Talking to myself in funny voices just to make myself feel special. Terrified that more would arrive, but also terrified they'd leave and prove that i was delusional after all. Sensitive. Dramatic. Wrong. Everything our abusers had hurled at us endlessly for decades, proven true. I didn't see Ingra, miserable and chained, hurting from the pain he'd caused us as a child. I didn't see Eddie, hiding behind a mask of false bravado, so afraid of rejection he'd rather be sarcastic than genuine. I didn't see Dav, quietly trying to keep us from collapsing into total depression while succumbing to burnout himself. Everyone had an axe to grind. Everyone had wounds to guard. And me? I laid awake, so afraid of the truth, and of every one of those doomsday scenarios playing in my head. Surely they hated me. Surely it was just a matter of time before someone decided I'm not doing good enough at this whole Host thing and takes matters into their own hands, or i finally find that wicked, sharp little part of me who wants retribution for what happened to us and then they "escape". Because that's all they were, right? Just parts of Me. But i didn't see something very important. Ingra, trying to do as much as he could at work when i couldn't. Eddie, talking me through a panic attack to safety. Dav, pushing me aside to ask a friend how to prove i wasn't making them up when they went quiet. And so much more, too many to list here... But every single one of us who has emerged (or revealed themselves? i'm still not sure how this works) has been hurting, and the thing that saved us all... was love. learning to love these strange things we can't explain. The unusual and unexpected quirks. The ones who can't speak for themselves or overshare at every opportunity, who hate even existing or who demand we make ourselves known. This is to all of us in here, even if i haven't met you yet. And all of you out there, even if you haven't met everyone with you. I love getting to know you. You deserve to live a happy, peaceful life, whatever shape that takes. You deserve to be seen, and you deserve to be accepted. I love you. And i am so glad you made it this far. Good luck, and keep going. You're doing great. <3 -Minn

[the-menagerie-hive]

Ingra here. It boggles my mind when folks talk about not bein' sure they went through trauma that was "bad enough" to cause them to develop a dissociative disorder. As if all it took to break summat were how hard you swing the hammer. Let's say you got a crate, yeah? This crate's made of a bunch of different panels. These'll be our "parts". Sure, you can swing that hammer hard enough to shatter the crate. that's always an option; enough force can overcome any sort of stability. But what if you hit that box right on the corner, where those panels meet? Breakin' it becomes much easier, force goes in all the wrong directions for the crate to hold it together. What if the crate's frozen? Or soggy? Moldy? Warped? The wood ain't in no shape to take a blow like that under those conditions. Hell, some crates fall apart just because they been left in bad conditions for storage too long. So, maybe it ain't about the hammer, yeah? Maybe it can be because whatever conditions you were in got you to the point where all it took was a lil' ol' tap. Or maybe you got hit in just the right place where all it took was that one thing to crack it all apart. So what if it didn't take the big, crashin' hammer swing to hurt you. That don't make you weak. That don't mean you weren't hurt enough. It just means you weren't treated right from the start. Good luck out there, kids. -Ingra