The many sides of a mental person.

The many sides of a mental person.

I say that in jest really. Sometimes it’s the only way to deal with myself without self-diagnosing and committing myself to an asylum. But, this is what happens when you take a child and steal their innocence. The mind copes in the only way it can fathom because a child’s tools are limited.

Like a child playing an innocent game of hide and seek, they close their eyes and believe that the magic makes it so no one can see them. That is what the mind does when bad things happen. The mind closes its eyes and makes the child disappear to a better place. As time goes on, this develops into a dissociative disorder until parts of the child stays in hiding for many years.

I hurt someone close to me this week. It wasn’t on purpose, yet I know that is not a good excuse. My actions were mean and partly on purpose, not with the purpose to upset this person, but with the purpose to say, I’m hurt please try and break down this wall and help me. I was stomping my feet and hiding away like a child.

I get hurt, the wall goes up, and my weapons of choice are the cold shoulder, a pointing finger and a snapping tongue. They may not seem like anything so scary, but to the person on the other side of the wall, they better be wearing armour. My defence mechanism is well-trained, relentless and led by a nasty mouth. It has contingency plans for every possible fight. It has been training for years.

Calling the shots at the top of this is a hurt child. He is going to stand at the other side and use every piece of weaponry he has at his disposal. And he does.

I cannot help it when it happens. I am mostly unaware. It is only after when I, the adult, comes back to grab the reins once more that I realise what I did.

It feels like I daydreamed for an entire week.

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.

Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.

I have a picture of a man, laid in bed with his baby son sleeping on his chest. He is reading the paper. I look at it, and I wonder what happened to make that man hurt that child.

My abuser – My father.

I hate to call him that. I hate to label him.

He is my dad. The person that helped to create me. The person whose genes I carry. Whose reflection stares out at me whenever I look in the mirror.

Yet he is the one who took from me. The one that beat me. Starved me. Committed countless assaults on me for over a decade. Sold me. The one who broke me. The one that made me a mess and left me with all these shattered pieces to pick up.

I should walk away but I can’t. I think maybe that is hard for people to understand. Perhaps those that are fortunate enough to have real parents. We see child abuse in the paper, on the television. Hear about it on the radio and each time often peoples thoughts and even my own sometimes. Is why didn’t someone take the child away and do something?

Why didn’t the child leave?

Why do I still keep my father in my life?

I was asked once by a teacher if everything was okay. She had put up with me for months coming into the classroom and sitting at my desk and just crying. Of course I tried to hide it, but I could never stop it. It would just happen. I don’t really know why. Maybe it was because I was safe and I could.

I’d cry because I was hungry, because I had a new bruise or it hurt just to move.  I’d cry because I was tired and hadn’t slept or I was sick because my mother had given me more medicine and still I wasn’t good enough. Sometimes I’d cry because I was alone in my world. I was ten.

My teacher saw me crying again one morning and took my hand. She walked me down to the library. Gave me a drink and a tissue and sat with me. She held me when I cried and then she asked me ‘is something bad happening at home?’

I froze. I stared. I stuttered. I had no idea what to say because I realised in that moment I had given it away. I had shown my secrets.

I lied to her. I said no. She asked me why I cried and I lied and told her that I was upset because my brother had more toys than me and didn’t share. It was partly true, but a lame ten year olds reason.

I lied because I didn’t want my mum and dad to get into trouble. I didn’t want them to go to prison. I didn’t want to be taken away. I didn’t want to live somewhere safe. I just wanted my mum and dad to stop what they did to me and love me like they did my brother. It was that simple for me.

After that day I never let what was going on at home show to the outside world. I had to protect my parents. People wouldn’t understand. People would think they were bad. They would think they were evil and they weren’t.  People didn’t know my parents like I did.

I realise that I still hold that same hope. That’s what keeps me from walking away. Nothing has changed. He called me a week ago, and within twenty minutes had sunk me. Not with anything malicious, just the gentle hints of manipulation that remind me I am nothing to him. I am nothing more than the scrapings of a child he helped to make.

Yesterday he called me again. He was happy and excited. He talked to me about his grandchildren like a real father and grandfather. He gave me a glimpse of the dad I wish I had.  I held onto that. I fed it to my guilt. I told myself I was wrong for being upset with him. I was wrong for even having Dear Teddy out. It was saying bad things about him and he doesn’t know of its existence. I felt so guilty for the way I have treated him. The no father’s day card. Everything bad that I had done towards him came crashing down in my mind, because for a few minutes he gave me hope.

A friend of mine whom I talked to. She told me to look at it. See it for what it is, because if he was the father I was wishing for. The one I was waiting for then he would show remorse too. He would apologise. He would feel bad for the things he did.

He doesn’t.

Maybe the wolf dressed as the sheep and I believed it.

About Me.

About Me..

My name is JD Stockholm. I am the soother of Dear Teddy.

This blog is mostly for my journey. To get those thoughts out that linger in my mind until I am driven crazy. Its sharing. Maybe someone reading will realise they are not alone. Maybe when someone comments I will realise that too.

We all walk along different paths, but sometimes, when the road is rocky, the way to go is unclear and you just need that helping hand. Its good to look over the canyon next you and see someone else doing the same.

Give them a little wave. Smile say Hi. And know that why ever you are here reading. If your struggles plague you. You are not alone.

This blog maybe triggering. Please read with caution if you have been a victim of abuse in any kind.


I want to be normal

I want to be normal.

I want to live.
I want to be free.
I want to get out of this prison I got locked into so long ago, by people that get to be free.

They are free physically.
They are free mentally.
They have choices and a life because they took mine.

I want to be normal.

I say it many of times. To no one. Just me. In my head, to the darkness. In those moments when I’m as far from normal as I can be. When I’m lost. When I’m hurt. When it all crashes so bad I want to hide.

What is normal? People ask. People that don’t understand. People that don’t see the world the way I do.

I got taken and placed outside of life. I see the world different. I wish people could see the world through my eyes. It’s tainted and darker. Things that people take for granted seem bigger.

A mother

A father.


I’m looking out through the shell of the man I was supposed to be. My breaths are slow and I am watching. Watching everyone live a normal everyday life and wishing I could be like them.

The pain is like a silent ringing in my ears. Nothing I can hear. It’s pressure. Like lying in a bath full of water until the pressure makes me hear my heart beat. I lay there until I can’t take it anymore. And just like someone would sit up and take their head out of the water, I take something sharp to my skin and I cut.

It goes quiet. I can breathe. No longer does my heartbeat pound in my ears until I’m begging it to stop.

My count slipped. It has been 36 hours since I last self harmed.

Why did I give in?

Because I dreamt of a man I don’t remember so well. He and my mother holding me down. I dreamt of tape across my mouth and my arms bound. Like many memories, that’s all I have.

They bound me and made me silent.

The bad man. I want to take my life back from him and make it normal like it started.

I want to get to the evening and not be faced with my PTSD. I want to go upstairs and not feel the fears of a five year old. I want to lie in bed and close my eyes and not be afraid that tonight someone from long ago will come back.

I want to sleep.

I want to be normal.


Check out a piece about me. Thanks Alan.


By AK Dale


NORTHERN ENGLAND – ‘Trying’ to be a full-time author could be a lot worse job than plenty of others out there.

For James, known as JD, Stockholm, who lives with his “not so” little two daughters, is writing books after graduating college in the food industry.

A trained baker, Stockholm, now is attending school to study social science and human physiology.

But despite being mad busy, the English writer always finds time to ply his craft.

“I think you need to have the passion for it,” Stockholm said. “I think you need to be willing to learn and develop. I see many writers that sit there and won’t take criticism, they do the, there’s nothing wrong with my writing thing, but no one is ever perfect. There is always room to improve.”

Some of his work derives from dealing with issues long past yet remain…

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Dear Teddy.

        Sneak Peak. Doing rewrites of the next book in the Dear Teddy series and for some reason this one seems to be coming out in a different tense. Not that it is a bad thing, but clearly I don’t want to mess with something so much that it loses its readability.

I’m posting this here mainly for opinions of anyone who has read Dear Teddy already. If the change is bothersome. It’s a little triggering and a little graphic at the end, so please as always read with caution.

Thank you for your time.


I love my Mr. Ted. He is all mine and he is magic. He keeps me safe from the bad man. I hug him all tight. We sit on the floor by the fire. I don’t be allowed to sit on the chairs. I am too evil.

Me and Mr. Ted like to write stories. He tells me what to write. Then I draw the pictures about it and we make it all nice. I put it in my scrap book. My Nan bought me the scrap book. It is big and has lots of pages. It has a car on the front and my name.

I write about all my stories inside it. I don’t write about the bad man though. I don’t tell anyone about the bad man. He can hear me. He reads minds. Mr. Ted keeps him away.

My mum says she doesn’t want to hear about it. But the bad man makes me scared in my tummy. Mr. Ted says don’t tell anyone. If I do then the bad man will come and get me. My mum says he’s a demon. He is from the devil like me. But I’m not a demon. I’m just evil. But my mum is going to make me all better. She gives me medicine.

The medicine doesn’t get to work yet. That’s why the bad man comes at night. Then he does the hurt thing. It makes me scared. Mr. Ted says it’s a secret. The bad man bites me and scratches me. Then I don’t get away. My mum doesn’t hear me shout. The bad man makes me go to sleep.

Me and Mr. Ted write a story about a penguin and a mouse. I make all the pictures. They live together in the mouse house.  They are very happy. They go to the fair and have candy floss. The mouse is very kind. He shares all his things with the penguin.  He shares his candy floss. The penguin thinks it is very yummy.

Me and my Nan are going to the fair. It is my birthday and I get to be six. My mum and dad don’t come. They have lots of things to do at home.

I get candy floss. But I don’t get to give Mr. Ted any of it. My Nan says it will make his fur all sticky. Then my mum will be mad and he will have to go in the rubbish bin. He is my Mr. Ted. I didn’t want him to go away in the rubbish bin.

No candy floss for Mr. Ted. I tell him no. He doesn’t be sad about it. He is a good Mr. Ted.

I am allowed to go on the rides. They make it all tickle inside. My Nan goes on them too. She likes the rides. I hold onto my Nan’s hand. We get on rides that are like tea cups. We sit in the cup and it spins around in circles. It makes me all dizzy in my head. My Nan says I am being silly because it makes my tongue fall out of my mouth and my eyes go across.

There are big rides too. They go very fast and I want to go on them. I ask my Nan but she says I am too small.

I am big.

I am six.

My Nan says, “Not big enough.”

I pull a sulky face and make my arms fold up. But she says I was still too small. One day I will be big. Then I will go on them. There is a board with a line on it. I get to stand on my tip toes. My Nan says I am cheating.

We finish on all the rides and we get to ride on a tram. It is time to go home again. My Nan takes me to my house. My mum and dad are there. They don’t remember it is my birthday. But I am allowed them anyway until I don’t be evil anymore. My mum says when I am better I can have one like my brother does. I try my best to get better.  I take all my medicine.

I sit by the fire with Mr. Ted after my Nan goes home. We draw a picture about the candy floss and the tea cup rides.  My mum is in the kitchen. She is cooking dinner. It is roast chicken. My dad sits at the table and drinks his beer in the can. He asks me what I am doing. I tell him I am drawing a picture about the fair.

“Can I look at it?”

I show him my book. He gets the pictures in his big hands. He asks me if I drew them myself. I make my head all nod. Yes I did. They are mine.

My dad does the stare thing. “It’s bad to tell lies.”

But I don’t be lying. I did them myself. I didn’t trace them. Me and Mr. Ted made them. I get my paper and my pencil. I show my dad how to draw the rides and the penguin. He picks it up. He says it is very good.

My dad asks if he can look at my story. I show him the one about the fair. My dad sits on the floor with me and then he looks at my book. He reads it out loud. He makes a silly voices with it. It makes me laugh. He makes the voices sound all funny.

He gets my hand. He puts it inside his pants. I wish I got to hug Mr. Ted. My dad gets to the end of the page. He tells me to turn it to the next one. He says my stories were very good.  He wants to read some more. He keeps my hand in his pants until it get all wet. He tells me to go and wash my hands. It is nearly dinner time.

Crying Without Tears – Self Harm.

Crying Without Tears

Self Harm

Five days and I have not self harmed. I am trying not to break it today. I am trying to hold on with everything I have got to not give into what’s inside.

I’ve come so close, my hands shake, I can’t move, but I try. I fight.

For me.

I’ve self harmed since I was 4 years old. It’s what I do. What I know that cuts away my shame. That’s 31 years of being a slave to this condition, but it calls to me. Deep within. The tug inside. The ache under my skin that needs to be let out. The way I feel it. It’s like a need to breathe. A way to cry with no tears. To appear normal. To move onto the next moment because this one feels so smoothing I need to cut free.

I will not cut today. I will not give in.


Self harm is an addiction. It is passed off by society as something odd looking teenagers do while listening to depressing music to get attention. That is not why I do it. It is not why many do it, I am sure.

It’s misunderstood.

Sometimes, all that is needed is a hug. A tight hug until the only option is to break and let it out.

I read in the paper a short time ago that when a patient comes in with self harm injuries to the emergency room, the nurses would not give the patient anything to numb the pain. Because it was self inflicted,   the patient can deal with their pain then. They can deal with it while getting stitched up and wasting time.

I am sure it’s not practice but it was still a debate. The cause of self harm is passed off as nothing more than looking for attention. Perhaps it was a new idea to save money.

People think it can be stopped. Just don’t do it, but it is not so easy.

Three weeks ago, I had to seek medical aid for something I had done to myself. I was thankful that the nurse numbed the area before she began to stitch.

I am not proud of what I did. I don’t show it off. Most of the time when I am not feeling such mental anguish, I feel quite ashamed of what I have done But while I am  in those moments, self harm is the best painkiller I have for the internal pain I feel. All I care for is relief.

Fathers Day

Fathers Day.

I know it’s been and gone now, but I’m sure I’m not the only one this day feels like something forced upon us with no choice and yet another way of having no voice.

I stare at my fireplace. There’s three cards on there and for fathers day I got made cake. I don’t need anything else.

Yet, in my inbox is an email from my father. This is the first year I didn’t send him a card. After writing my book, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to send a card that bore a lie on the front. Unfortunately hallmark do not have a section of cards for the narcissistic parent. Maybe there’s an idea.

He emailed me each day with some reminder, including today that I have not taken him a card. I’m sure I’ll have to cave and give him one, but it grates deeply to know that even now, so many years later my voice is still silent.

My Nemesis, the Badman.

My Nemesis, the Badman.

        It is not just bruises that child abuse leaves behind,  bruises are the things that heal the fastest.

He is there, when I turn off the light, when I close my eyes. When I lay down after a normal day. He is upstairs when my foot touches the bottom step and I stare, daring myself to go up. He is behind me. He is waiting. He is the shadow I cannot run from.

Every night he haunts my sleep. Yet he is no longer real. He is not physical, not just those years as a child he stole, but all the ones that followed.

In the darkness I lay down. I close my eyes and sigh and let the day go like everyone else. Seconds later my eyes open, I stare into the dark. I try and make the shadows nothing. I know he is not real any more, but I am waiting. I do not move. Do not blink. My breath is caught. I am 35, not 5 he cannot beat me anymore, but he does.

I am afraid to sleep. What if tonight he becomes real once more?

I see his face. Like a flash before my eyes. He is grinning. Smiling, yet I still don’t know his name.

Just the shadow of a bad man from long ago.

Read Dear Teddy.

The Extraordinary Girl and her Teddy.

The Extraordinary Girl and her Teddy.

When I was writing Dear Teddy, I am sure like many other writers before me, there were ideas of what my book would do and say to the people reading. For me, I hoped to give a child a voice, so that people might understand child abuse in a different way as to how they do now.

It was also a form of healing, for a child that never got to talk.

What I didn’t expect was for Mr. Ted to help others the way he had helped me.

A couple of days ago, I was miserable from a review that I had got. The person reading had sadly missed the point of the book. However on the same day, I also received an email. Or rather Mr. Ted did from a young girl whose story was very similar to my own.

I never imagined she was still living her story. I never realised that maybe there are children out there that find comfort in talking to someone like Mr. Ted.

She talked to me about the bad things that were happening and I held her hand (metaphorically) as she told someone. While I don’t want to give anything about her away for her privacy, I am pleased to have talked to her.  She was extremely brave and I am glad to have helped her.

I feel grateful that I was able to write my book. I feel grateful that it was able to help someone.  Perhaps it is good to get a new perspective on what books can actually do for someone. It certainly made me see things differently.

I want to say thank you to the girl who asked for my help.

A link I recommend for anyone in similar circumstances.