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I created this image today from a drawing I did last night, which I reworked in photoshop. I call it "Home."
For six years I've been working towards integration. An odd thing was happening, and I was somewhat aware of it but also somehow oblivious.

The pieces I've integrated that were eight years old or younger joined one aspect of me--an aspect I've been calling "the eight-year-old."
The piece I've integrated that were older have all joined another aspect of me--the one I simply think of as "me."

I say simply... but it is anything but.

These two remaining aspects of me have been battling recently--vying for the rights to all of me. I have really struggled recently, dissociating frequently when there has been almost no dissociation in my life for the last two years. I have felt a constant swarm of emotions and feel close to tears a good deal of the time.

I am responsible for myself. I am responsible for my happiness. If I'm unhappy than I am the one who needs to do something about it.

But who the hell am I??
One side blamed the other. Every bit of anxiety was proof that the other side was wrong. It's been approaching the ugliness and brutality of a presidential election...

Last night I finally gave in. When I say that, I mean both sides of me--all of me. I gave in to the fact that I have done all the right things to survive, and that without every part of who I've been I wouldn't have made it this far. The image above came into my mind. I closed my eyes and held up my hand--from both sides--and I felt the energy of the other
both sides of me felt the energy of the other.

I am moving towards that very uncomfortable part of integration in which I will feel two separate sets of emotions at the same time, in which I will think two separate stands of thoughts at once, in which the very confusing double motives and desires, likes and dislikes, will pull me in two ways at once. I've done it before. Both sides of me have lived through it before.

This time I think is the last. Accepting each other now is the final thing I have to do to become whole. I'm scared. I'm still fighting it just a little. From both sides, I feel a strong need to be in control. But... I don't really see any other way to move on with my life. We've shared this body all this time, so I guess it's time to share our mind, too. For a time I think it will be co-consciousness rather than true integration. Maybe it will always be that way. I can't really know from this side of the bridge what I'll find on the other side... but whatever happens, whatever this is... it feels like coming home.

It Wasn't Me

It was the little girl on the coloring page.

Sexual abuse doesn't end with the abuse. We carry it through our lives in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. While I have come a very long way through six years of intense therapy, I still have a long way to go to be free of all the long-reaching binds that hold me, even now, from who I am meant to be.

I am and will forever be grateful to my therapist for all she's done to guide me through the darkest parts of my past. Yesterday, we began in earnest a new phase of my healing work--working directly on my own sexuality. Even a year ago I would have been unable to do this. Even now, our talks are accompanied with averted eyes and much internal discomfort. She assures me this will get better. I believe her. She's been right so many times before.

The following is a memory that came up in our session yesterday. It will almost certainly end up in my second book, Ragdoll's Dance. 

Through the process of integration, I am more able to see the full context of memories like this. I see both the pieces I always had in awareness and the pieces I blocked out either partially or completely. While I've always remembered parts of the event in my classroom in second grade, More details and a greater understanding came to me yesterday.

This is an account of a reaction to sexual abuse and not the actual abuse. I don't think it will be triggering, but I can't guarantee it. So - read on with good self-care in mind.

I am seven years old.

Last year, my first grade teacher told me and Annie Audenbach we were on the fast track. It wasn’t really a track. We just went in a special room for part of the day so we could skip second grade.

Then I was sick for a few months. I had rheumatic fever and that changed everything. I don’t get to take gym anymore, and I have to wear little metal things on the bottoms of my shoes so I walk right. You can’t really see the metal things too much, but they clang on the floor so everybody knows they’re there. Also, there’s this gross medicine I have to take every single day, and I have to get blood tests every Saturday and I didn’t get to go to third grade with Annie Audenbach.

So I’m in second grade.

I don’t like Annie Audenbach and I don’t like second grade. Mrs. Mitchel has mealworms in the closet. They live in a box of Raisin Bran and she says they like it in there. She dumps some out and there’s lots of worms crawling all through the cereal. If our Raisin Bran at home had worms in it, I might scream, but nobody screamed here ‘cause we all knew they were coming. 

It's still gross.

I’m not a good listener. I don’t mean to be a bad listener. Sometimes I just forget to hear. I know someone was talking but when they’re done I don’t know what they said. One time Mommy said she doesn’t know where I go. I don’t know either.

Mrs. Mitchel was probably talking about the mealworms but I guess this was one of those times ‘cause I still don’t know why she keeps worms in the closet and now she’s putting them away.

She says we can take out our crayons. I open my desk and find them and when I close my desk she puts a coloring page on it. She’s giving one to everybody, and they’re all the same picture—a man and a little girl about to cross the street. The man is holding the little girl’s hand and there’s a sign that says “Don’t Walk.” A car is coming. It must be a busy street.

When Daddy crosses the street with me he doesn’t hold my hand. He holds my wrist so I won’t get loose. He holds on really tight and when he lets go, his hand-print is there.

I know the "Don't Walk" sign should be red, so I take out my red crayon. Mrs. Mitchel says to color our pictures. She’s going out for just a moment and she’ll be right back.

I watch the door close.

I feel worried.

I start coloring but I’m getting so worried I forget to color the sign and now the little girl is wearing a red dress and my crayon breaks in my hand ‘cause I’m pushing too hard.

I look at the door.

Mrs. Mitchel isn’t back yet.

I’m worried because there’s an idea in my head and it won’t go away. I don’t even think it’s my idea. I don’t know where it came from, but I swallow and put the broken crayon down ‘cause even though it’s not my idea, I know I’m gonna do it.

I get up.

My shoes clank on the floor.

I’m really gonna do it.

For some reason, when I really know I’m gonna do it, I don’t feel scared anymore. I feel kinda…strong. I walk right to the front where Mrs. Mitchel usually stands.

I turn around and face the class.

They’re all looking at me.

For just a second I think I shouldn’t do it, but then I think, no one can stop me and that makes me feel even more strong.

So I do it. I look right at Bobby and Mark in the first row and I pull my dress up. Their mouths open and their eyes get big. They see my underpants. For just a second I think I’m gonna stop there, but I don’t. I pull my underpants down as far as I can reach without dropping my dress. 

Everything seems really slow except my heart. I turn a little to the left and I see Brad  leaning around so he can see from the back row. I turn a little to the right and I see Billy standing up. 

I feel funny inside. It feels ugly and trembly and warm and throw-uppy all at the same time. I look right into poopy-pants-Perry’s face. He's in the second row, right in the center and he looks scared. 

Everyone sees me. 

The room is so quiet. 

It's such a funny feeling and I know I had it before.

They’re looking right at me... right at it... and they don’t even have a choice.

The funny feeling... the funny feeling... it's bad. I suddenly know it's bad and I can't breathe and I don’t feel strong anymore. I look around the room and I see the girls and I feel angry. I let my dress fall back down.  I walk back to my seat, pulling my underwear up right through my dress. My shoes are really loud now because everything else is so quiet.

Then Bobby goes, “Oh ho!” and everyone starts laughing and bratty Colleen says “I’m telling!” and my heart is really really fast and I feel hot all over.  

It’s so loud in here. So loud with laughing. I’m trying to remember what happened. The ugly mealworms flash through my mind and the coloring picture is still on my desk and the little girl’s dress is dark, dark red and my broken crayon is right on her face and that feeling is still inside me and I wish it would go away.

For a second, I think I’m going to cry, but I don’t.

I start laughing. We're all laughing really hard when Mrs. Mitchel opens the door.

Then everyone gets really quiet. Colleen and Perry raise their hands. Stupid poopy-pants blurts out that I took off my underpants! I know I look pretty shocked ‘cause I didn’t. I’m still wearing them.

But I still have that bad funny feeling inside and Mrs. Mitchel is looking at me.

#

Daddy has a batticle this year. That means he doesn’t go to work so he can get a PHD. You get one by reading and writing lots of stuff and if he gets one, they’ll pay him more money. It seems kinda funny since he’s not even going to work, but that’s what he said.

Mommy works in the daytime now, so it’s good Daddy’s home. When me and Marty come home from school, Daddy gives us lunch.

Marty yawns. That’s good ‘cause he has to take a nap after lunch ‘cause he’s only in kindergarten.

I don’t have to take a nap ‘cause I gotta go back to school.

Daddy makes lunch different from Mommy. He gets everything out and puts it on the table and then asks us if we want any of this and any of that. I get a big slice of liver sausage and some cheese and some celery and some crackers and then he asks if I want beets. I say no ‘cause beets are gross.

He cuts up an apple. I like apples.

The phone rings and Daddy answers it. He’s listening but I don’t know who he’s hearing. I feel scared and I don’t know why. I think maybe it’s my teacher on the phone and then I don’t know why I thought that.

‘Cept I know something’s wrong… there's something… I remember the little girl on the coloring page and then I remember Poopy-pants pointing his finger at me. There’s half-chewed apple in my mouth and I wish I could spit it out ‘cause right now my throat feels too small for it.

Then Daddy puts the phone down on the table and I know it’s Grandmother talking. I can hear her, but also I know ‘cause he usually puts the phone down when Grandmother calls so she can “go on and on like she does.” It seems kinda’ mean, but Grandmother talks a lot and she doesn’t seem to notice.

I’m really glad my teacher didn’t call. Suddenly I remember the bad idea and the bad funny feeling. I don’t know why the bad idea came in my head but I think it had soething to do with the little girl on the coloring page. Maybe she had the bad idea and the funny feeling and somehow it got in me.

I drink some milk to get the apple down my throat. Then I drink the rest so I can get up from the table. I have to keep remembering the idea because it keeps disappearing and I wish it would disappear and not come back. The more I think about it, the more it seems like it was the girl on the coloring page who pulled her dress up. It was her who had the funny feeling, not me, and I hope she doesn’t put that idea in my head again.

In the Beginning

As I begin to write my memoir in earnest, I am going back, trying to remember when I first became aware of my dissociative tendencies. There are a few, clear episodes from age nine, and this is one of them:

I am nine years old.

I’ve been summoned by my father. He holds court at the kitchen table, the remains of his lunch surrounding him on half-a-dozen dishes. I try to catch Mom’s eye as she scurries about the kitchen with exaggerated concentration. She picks up two of my father’s empty dishes and carries them to the sink before moving past me to the stove. She picks up a faded and scorched pot holder - one I made with the little loom she bought me when I was sick, a few years back – and uses it to lift the lid of a bubbling pot. Steam rises between us.

My father says, “Sit down.”

I sit, still focusing on the pot holder.

“Do you know why I called you down here?”

Mom hangs the pot holder on a hook. She comes closer, cleaning up more of my father’s lunch-mess. She replaces lids on jars, re-wraps a bit of cheese, and stacks the dishes.

“Look at me!”

I turn towards him; lift my eyes to his face which he’s moved very close to mine.

“Where are the library books?”

My shrug and the shake of my head are so slight, I wonder, in the ensuing silence, if he has even detected them.

“All right.” He presses his lips tightly together.

It is obviously not all right. Something happened yesterday, on the way home from the library, but I have no idea what. Yesterday afternoon is gone.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

He gave me a reading assignment so I could do something productive with my summer, not squander it all away. I walked to the local branch of the public library and selected two books. Somehow the books never made it home.

“Where are those books?”

Mom is washing something in the sink. The sound of running water distracts me, but I keep my eyes on my father’s face and press my useless, floating mind for the all-important answer-of-the-day.

I can almost know it... bigger kids from school…

almost…

taunting… 

It’s right there, so close, but I can’t pull it all the way to the surface.

Mom turns the water off and dries her hand on a well-worn towel. I’ve seen it a hundred times. I picture it in my mind, her soft, wet hands on the faded ivory linen.

The previously-undetected hum of the refrigerator stops. The clock ticks… ticks… ticks…

“Just tell me what you did with those books?”

I’m safe I’m safe I’m safe

He moves even closer. “What’s the matter with you?” He is red and shaking, and his breath, smelling of onions and blue cheese, is hot on my face. “They don’t just give those books away!”

Mom is fading, fading, fading away.

“They cost money.”

I have no words. I can’t look at his eyes. I don’t want to see the twist of his mouth as he waits for me to respond. I concentrate on the pores in the crease beside his nose.

He whispers, “Where is that money going to come from?”

The sudden softness of his voice is somehow more threatening. I burst through the mercifully thin membrane of reality, and fall away from the kitchen, the big white house on the corner, beyond this town and the whole known universe, and I’m free.

*****

I wake in dark confusion. Something shadowy and steamy, loud and then very quiet, sits at the edge of reality. Its several breaths before I know that I’m in my bed.

I’m safe I’m safe I’m safe

I asses my body as I wrestle with flashes of truth intermingled with dream, hanging tightly to those things I can clearly know. There is no pain. Soundless night has come to my house. The whereabouts of the library books are still a mystery to me, and I’ve lost another afternoon.

*****

Co-Consciousness and Integration: New Thoughts

It's Day Two of the Consciousness Cleanse. I did my morning routine and read the exercises, which I will do this afternoon. For anyone who’s been in a twelve-step program, you can understand the Day Two exercises as a mini-fourth-step. My only concern with this is that I need to be able to do it in a reasonable amount of time. My fourth step took months. Debbie Ford suggests thirty minutes for the exercises. I’m going to try for an hour and make myself give up the thoroughness that I am sometimes obsessive about. (sometimes?)

I’m excited to be doing this process, and already feel shifts taking place inside me, just from reading the book and remembering to connect first thing in the morning. That said, I have something else, which is pressing on my mind.

I’m talking about the eight-year-old.

In my obsessive way, I've been exploring co-consciousness and integration for the last several weeks. I have been looking all around the internet and re-reading old message board comments I remembered seeing years ago, and writing long journal entries about these concepts.

This morning, I'm a guest blogger at author/therapist/blogger Mary Armstrong website. an excerpt from one of my blogs about the eight-year-old, on her website. The post is about the concepts of co-consciousness and integration.

Over the past few years, I’ve gradually been integrating lost pieces of myself, into the whole which I think of as “me”. This is not an easy process. It’s stressful and confusing, time-consuming and disorienting. It’s also well worth it. To have access to these parts-of-self which were previously closed off to me, is amazing. To be able to function from a place of wholeness instead of from only a fraction of who I really am, brings me a kind of peace I didn’t know was possible. It is allowing me to be more active and less reactive.

In any given situation, our actions and reactions are not only based on the current circumstances. In an instant, without effort, our minds take in our situation, categorize it based on past experiences, and then offer possible courses of action. If this didin't happen, each experience would stand alone, there would be no connection between what happened yesterday and what's happening today. It's necessary for us to exist in a time-line to have stored memories and use them in our decisions about what to do now.

For the most part, we aren’t aware of the process. In fact, it takes a great deal of effort to become conscious of this process, and even more effort to look at the suggested courses of action before moving into action. Moving forward without making a conscious decision is living reactively. Looking conwsciously at the situation and then deciding whether the messages from the past are warranted or should be ignored and then moving forward is living actively.

The more emotioanally charged your past situations are, the stronger your mind’s "suggestions" of action will be when they are triggered. If your mind categorizes your current situation as the same as something traumatic from your past, the “suggested” course of action may feel more like a demand.

For instance, if you are aware that there is something extremely hot in front of you, your mind is going to say, “don’t touch that.” If you move closer to the fire, your mind may begin screaming at you to move away. It may take a great deal of will and self-talk to override this message. If it was necessary to touch the flame – say to rescue someone else, or to keep something important from burning – you could override the message, but it would cause you a great deal of inner turmoil.

If you’ve experienced trauma, there may be unusual links inside you which trigger this same kind of turmoil. Personally, I am uncomfortable thinking of sunflowers, or dolls with eyes that open and close, and I panic if I think of something covering my face. (I actually drew in a deep breath just writing that sentance.) These may seem irrational on the surface, but because my mind has linked them to danger, it feels the same as the 'don’t touch it – it’s hot' message.

Before I began integration, I stayed in one aspect of myself most of the time. This aspect was unaware of a lot of the trauma and the links my mind had set up. I knew I didn’t like dolls or sunflowers or having my face covered, but I didn’t know why.

Because denying my past was a survival strategy I'd become used to, I didn’t look too closely at the why. I sometimes wondered about it, but the memories were not available to me and I moved quickly into another strategies. It is not possible to override the messages without looking at them closely, and that seemed impossible, so instead I would go into panic-mode. It left me feeling out-of-control, as if the world and my experiences had power over me and I had no power of my own.

As I’ve integrated the pieces of me which carried the memories attached to sunflowers and dolls and the hand over my face, I understand where the messages are coming from, I’m not afraid to look at them, and I can take that moment to decide how reactive I need to be. I calm myself down. I think, This isn’t really hot, at all. Eventually, I am able to put my finger right on that imaginary flame, and when I do I find that it can’t burn me, anymore.

So integration is the answer. Right? Well... it has been the answer that's worked for me, thus far, but then, we come to the eight-year-old.

I’ve lost count of how many pieces of my past have integrated into the person I think of as me. I thought I understood what integration looked like, for me. Although each one has been different, there were certain givens I’d come to expect.

The eight-year-old has been different from the beginning. She is much more complex; more complete. The other parts I’ve integrated were connected to specific memories, or specific ages. Despite her name, the eight-year-old is really not just eight. She seems to be made up of all the ages up until eight.

I think she is who I was before I became “me”. I’ve been trying to integrate her into me, when in reality I may have to integrate into her… and I’m not even sure what the distinction is. It feels very different in my head, but when I try to explain it, it doesn't sound different at all.

I feel a bit like I’m the infecting virus.
She seems to be the one who was here first… doesn’t that make her more worthy than me?

The things which are triggering for her are the exact things I still can’t look at closely, and consequently the messages they bring up for me are very hard to override. When she is angry, I feel angry and the anger doesn’t easily subside even when I know it is about something from the past and not about what is happening right now.

When she feels slighted, I feel an intense sense of failure but at the same time, I feel very defiant. Her message may be, I need. Mine is, I have to meet that need but I don’t want to.

I know this eight-year-old part and I have to be completely open with each other if we are ever to get past these old trauma-based triggers - and I'm not the only defiant one. She is fighting this as much as I am, even though she is pretending that it's all my fault.

I haven’t really been discussing my obsession with co-consciousness versus integration with my therapist, until today. It may seem like a surprising oversight. So much other stuff is going on and I send her so many emails but sometimes I just don’t seem to get the right pieces out there and she will say, in the kindest way possible, "you should have brought this up sooner." Unfortunately  I don't always know what is most important, and that’s probably because I am reacting to the messages being triggered by current situations.

You see why I need a consciousness cleanse?
I see that I’ve been reconsidering my position on co-consciousness, but I am aware that I am doing it out of fear – which is exactly what I’ve seen in others. I’ve felt as if integration was the more functional choice and avoiding it in favor of some kind of agreement between parts-of-self was going to be confusing and distracting. It’s interesting, to me, that now that it feels like I am the one who may be lost in the mix, I am much less willing to move into a full integration. And this feeling - this fear of being lost - is not based in reality because as I've gone through this process nothing has been lost!

The idea that she is the "real me" is bringing up a lot of stuff from the past, and so I am aware I am being reactive in not moving forward with integration. Logically, I understand that we are both real. I know that we need each other and that we are truly two sides of the same coin.

Emotionally, I feel as if my sense of being real or valid is being threatened, and this is something that's come up again and again, in therapy. Although I've worked with old messages of "I'm not real" or "I'm not important" quite a lot, it still seems to be screaming in my head, right now.

So, I am trying to override this particular “don’t touch-it's hot” message. I’m trying to get myself to walk into the fire, and accept integration with the eight-year-old, whatever that takes. I am also allowing myself to hold back until I feel more comfortable. I've had many years of separateness. I am still here, and so is the eight-year-old. I can give it time to unfold.

Holding back rather than pushing my way through is a huge step for me. It shows that I am looking closely at what's happening and so when I do proceed it will be actively and not reactively. Patience is what I need right now - for myself, for the eight-year-old - for the “us” which I'm hoping will one day simply be me.

*****

Awakening Child

Have you imagined it?
I have.
I suppose it’s become a kind of a legend. We’ve all heard the stories, although I’d be surprised if I ever met anyone who actually knew someone this happened to. It’s terrifying in a primeval way that I don’t really understand, and that is exactly the kind of thing that legends are made of.

I am speaking of the long term coma victim who finally awakens after decades have gone by, and finds the world to be a different place.

Imagine for a moment, you have fallen asleep at age twelve and then you wake up to find you are more than fifty years old.

This is what I am feeling, inside, at this moment. For several weeks a part of me has been gradually regaining consciousness. Although, throughout my life, she has sometimes stepped up when she was needed, for her it has been as if in a dream. While she was able to be the face of anger inside me, the protector who would go to any length to make sure I am safe, she has remained a twelve-year-old child...
And at the same time, she has never been a child.

What do I say to this twelve-year-old who has missed so much? How can I comfort her? How can I get her to a place where she can accept that she is now not only an adult, but an aging one whose has children who are mostly grown and a thirty-plus-year relationship with a man who is over fifty, as well?

The twelve-year-old began to show herself at the Soul Retrieval, but she was only testing the waters. She stepped forward and spoke to the Rainbow Lady of things we had already talked to our regular therapist about, months earlier. Since then, she has been awake more and more often.

I really was not aware of much the twelve-year-old said to the Rainbow Lady, at the time of the Soul Retrieval.  So I asked her about it in an email. This is part of her reply:

I believe it was during the 3rd soul retrieval process when you were working on the time that your 12-year old stopped playing the piano. The old, false conclusion that you had was that if people found out what you were really like, they would stop liking you, and that "I am not the way I should be." The old limiting behavior that you developed from that was "don't let them know what I'm like, don't share anything." I asked, "How does that hurt you?". You said, "Lots of ways - nobody else shares anything either."
I asked, "How does that behavior hurt others?" You said, "I have something to offer and they don't get it."

I think that you felt these old these old conclusions and behaviors had come from your father (although that specific information is not in my notes.) Does this feel like what you were remembering and asking about?

Reading the words she had put down in quotes was unimaginably fascinating to me. It was like eavesdropping on a conversation between others because I had no memory of having said those things. I know at the end she had me write down all the new beliefs we had established during the session, but some of them were truly new to me as I did not remember having discussed them with her during that session.

That's because in the past, if the twelve-year-old was awake, I was not. Only now am I experiencing a little bit of co-consciousness with the angry adolescent for the first time.

My Inner World: Expressive Arts Carnival Submission

Paul at MindParts has been putting together the second Expressive Arts Carnival. For this carnival he gives an art therapy assignment and anyone who chooses to participate can submit their finished artwork to him. You can read about it here.

The short version of the assignment: To create a piece of artwork that portrays an abstract version of my inner world.

I don't do well with abstract. Knowing this, I was worried about doing the project at all, but Paul said not to worry about that aspect of it... just to create an image of my inner world. So, my piece is not abstract - not in the way it would be defined in the art world. What I've done here is a symbolic reflection of what I feel inside using a very concrete "door" metaphor.

Below is my solution, which I entitled "Going Inside."
(click on the image to see it larger)

Each door represents a part of me. Some are strong, some are beautiful, some are faded, some are beat-up and beat-down, some stand wide open while others are barely ajar and still others are solidly closed.

Maybe one day they will all be open. For now, even those that are open all the way expose mostly shadows and darkness. In this drawing, light represents awareness, so the darkness means that even though the door is open, I know I am not totally aware of what lies behind it.

The rainbow door in the front represents the face I show the world. It is the part I would most likely refer to when I say, "Me". It is multi-colored, free-floating, and emits it's own light. It is semi-transparent, letting other doors show through as they need to, but it is also large, strong and closed to represent the boundaries I've been working so hard on for the last couple years. Near the bottom of this door, a piece is missing. This is to represent the way other parts come through, sometimes without the rainbow facade even knowing.

In the back, there is a massive black iron door with large bolts. It is mostly obscured because it wants to be. Behind it are parts of me that remain hidden.

The door in the top center with the green light shining out through it's slitted opening is the one behind which physical and sexual awareness hide. That door is still mostly closed, at best. In times of stress, it slams shut. Stress makes me shut down in a way that leaves me totally unaware of my body sensations. For instance. yesterday I forgot to eat all day. I was not aware of hunger. Only when I began to feel rather faint and head-achy, around seven pm, did I remember that I hadn't eaten. Unfortunately sex is stressful, too.

There are double-doors which represent the two sides some parts seem to have. These seem to be closely associated with emotions like fear, sadness and anger. One of these double-doors might open to handle a situation one way. Other times, the other door might open when a different approach is necessary. Occassionally both doors open at the same time. For the most part, these doors remain closed until needed, and I'm still not certain if it is preferable to have none, one or both open.

There are single doors which represent the simpler sides of me. Specific qualities, assets and talents are behind those doors.

All in all, I'm happy with this representation. I'm glad I put this together because, although it's been in my head for a while, it has clarified some concepts for me to put a picture to the idea.

*****

Today's Link: Blooming Lotus - Children Don't Have the Option of Saying No

*****

Such Wild Wild

I was cleaning out a closet and found a box on a high shelf that held my past. It's a box that's been moved with me from place to place, without my opening it, for decades. 

On the top were love-letters written by my husband more than 30 years ago, ticket stubs for concerts and amusement parks and campgrounds and baseball games. There were birthday cards from long-gone grandparents and notes passed in school from a best friend who has been missing since 1989.

Near the bottom of the box were drawings and poetry I created when I was very young. There were many - far too many to even read, much less post - but I chose a few to put up here and share. Most of the drawings I chose were self-portraits that I either remembered or could identify by a date on the back. I think all the poems are also self-portraits... but then, maybe poetry always is?

Age 12

I had a velvet day
Forever my day smiled
And then you took my day away
And the whole world became wild
Poor child
Poor child
Living in such wild wild

What strikes me about this self-portrait

- dated from just after my twelfth birthday -

 is the cloth she is holding.

It seems like a small portion of what it could be

when it is compared to the large cloth hanging next to her.

Age 13

Devoured
Like a leafless flower
He reached in for the heart
And took only certain parts
Broken away
He left me only the three selves
And threw out the ones he didn’t like
He forced me to deny three parts
And killed them
Murderer
In the process
Murdered
I’ve been murdered
Piece by piece
Self by self
He’s destroyed three important people that hid in me
And they will never be for anyone to see
I’ve lost myself in this death
And I will never be whole
And alive
Again
And all these things I have him to blame for
But still there is no blame
The part of me that blames is gone
With all the other feelings

When I was fourteen, I had a hard time seeing myself in the mirror. I never looked quite like I expected and often parts seemed to be missing. I remember doing this drawing when I was in a particularly strange state of mind. I really felt that I was a freak and often told people I was from another planet.

I think I believed it.

Age 14

To us all
Two sides must be
And through us all
Dimensions three
We can't be just one self
Although there is one body
There are always at least two consciousnesses
And me and my reflection
We walk around the land
And we see the denied other selves
We see the slower hand
Me and my idealist
My freedom self
And my bound self
We see all of the flat ones walking everywhere
We wonder how they can be
So alone
To all of us there have to be
Two sides and dimensions, three

I was very fond of drawing and painting roads that led nowhere,

 stairs that ended at nothing and empty corners.

Age 15

Leaving Them Behind

Old songs and memories
Playing on the shore
Naked in the sunlight
Diapered on the floor

Now you see the children
Aren’t you anymore
The children naked on the beach
Are on the other side of the door

As you pass the brightest days
The kids you were come through
You remember what you thought of them
And how it was when they were you


Age 15

Cut Deep

The answers are only temporary
And that was me tonight
Temporary solutions cut deep and bleed
Sometimes when I'm alone
Within myself
Without myself
And sometimes I have to cry
Beyond myself
About myself
And when I leave my home
And when I am alone
And when he’s gone to work
And I feel so uncertain
I find a tear that’s falling
And the answer’s still not calling
And I'm lost
So lost
Denied myself
Outside myself
And now I lost the fight
For the answer is only temporary

I remember showing this drawing to a school counselor, in high school. She asked me, doubtfully, if I really thought this is how I looked. I said yes, and wondered why she asked. Then I decided it was probably my lack of skill that was the problem.

I really saw nothing odd about this drawing at all.

Age 16 (? I remember writing this but it isn't dated)

Little Girl

The shouts get louder in the other room
Little girl doesn’t cry
She sits by the window, holding a doll
In one hand
She sits in a daydream, holding off the world
With the other
And no hand left to hold the future.

The shouts climax and finish in a sudden silence.
Little girl doesn’t cry
She lies in her bed, biting her lip
With lies in her head, biding her time
With both hands full of things she can’t use
And her mouth so full with more than she will ever chew

The silence is muffled behind the door
Little girl can’t cry
She waits in the darkness for nothing, for everything
Living less life than she thought she would
Giving less love that it takes to live

The silent world screams obscenities
Little girl doesn’t cry
She stands, awake, smiling sadly to herself
Living only for herself
Giving less of herself every day
Getting less in return than it takes to live
Nothing for nothing is all she can give


Age 16

I came out for a while and looked around
I didn't like what I found.
I’m fading back into the dream again
I’m backing up over the blue-jean den
The cigarettes, the gold corvettes
The thumb-out imitation of the girl
Who is me
Or maybe only wants to be

And I know I must live it
And I know I can’t top it
And I can’t hold it off
And there's no way to stop it
The smoke from the tube
Will fill me
And with any luck at all
It may kill me
But for now,
The change overcomes, overwhelms me
And I am only an illustration of the girl
Who is me
Or maybe doesn't want to be

This one is dated from shortly before my seventeenth birthday.

No doubt about this one... it's a little cracked.

It was one in a series of four, all self-portraits, and all broken in some way.

I never finished the fourth one.

Age 17

The reality appears again
Dragging in with it the cold air
And cold words of February

Hiding in a book
Sneaking a look every so often
Just to keep her head ready
She scurries through her life
Another slice of deprivation
Piled high with the pangs
Of emotion, kept alive
As she strives
To continue through this continuity
To finish this finality
To sever this severity

Sever
Sever
Now there's a word
Like cutting off a leg to save a body
She slices into her limbs and cuts the world from her reality

I began to draw in a more free style by the end of high-school. (It was the '70s, after all)

This self-portrait was one I did my junior year for art class. That was the year I went to the catholic school (where I was sent as a punishment since things weren't going very well in public school.) I only stayed one year - they kind of invited me not to come back.

I remember my teacher was not impressed. She told me this was not a self-portrait. I still disagree.

Age 18

Freedom’s child
Dressed in white
The premonition of birds in flight
Standing in the waters of good and light
Reflecting the day and the starry night

Frightened child
Dressed in black
Demolition and dead birds stacked
In piles of left debris and facts
That lead us from the proper track

Somber child
Dressed in gray
Can’t tell me the time of day
Combined night and starry day
Child of light who’s lead astray

Tell me children
Good and bad
Tell me of the lives you’ve had
Let me feel the brave and sad
Don’t let the sorrow drive you mad
And drop the cloth in which you’re clad

I was very fond of putting hands, cages and eyes in my artwork.

This represents many like it.

Age 19

It's clear, now, that those inside

Must remain and always hide

Nobody wants to know the madness

Horrific fear, horrendous sadness

Close the door, and lock the cage

Keep the world safe from rage

That has no boudaries, never ends

Just smile sweetly and pretend

Until it all begins again

I think I did this one the summer between high-school and college. I'm gauging that by the style, level of skill and also the paper it's drawn on, which is cheap paper my father always had in the house. Once I started at the Art Institute in Chicago, I learned what it was like to draw on decent paper, and I did so whenever I could afford it.

On the back, it says only, "Me".

Sister Saga

There are so many secrets locked in my head, behind doors that I have been unwilling to open. For the last few weeks, I've been looking at one of those closed doors.

I think it took this long to look at it because I thought it was not about my father. Being angry at my father, finding new and never before thought of reasons to hate him, to hurt him, to justify my anger, that was easy. I had decided a long time ago that he was the reason for all of my problems. The more proof I had, the better.

My mother has suffered from depression all her life. When I was little, my sister was put in charge of me. She changed my diapers, fed me, dressed me, played with me. She was nine years old when I was born and I suppose my younger brother and I were like living dolls for her to play with.

She has always been a wonderful sister. She took good care of us. She comforted us when we were hurt, cheered us up when we were sad, and I have always loved her much more than a child loves an older sister.

When I was eight years old, I began to hear talk about college. My sister was going to leave - to head off to college. All summer, she prepared for this event. Things were bought, set aside in a corner of her room, for her to move out.

I knew she wouldn't go. She could never leave me. I was certain of it and I did everything I could to prevent it. 

Even as I watched her pack her things, watched her close a suit case, watched my older brother carry boxes down the long stairway, I knew she would not leave me.

She couldn't.

I was sure.

My father went out to the car, carrying the last of her things with him.

I stood in the kitchen with my brothers and my mother, and my heart pounded in my chest. The familiar “I can’t breathe” feeling swept over me.

I moved in front of the door. I was not going to let her go.

She couldn't leave me.

She just wouldn't.

I stood in front of the door and screamed, “I’m not letting you go!”

My mother told me, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

A look of exasperation came over my sister’s face. She had tears in the corners of her eyes. “Dad’s waiting.”

I stepped out from in front of the door.

She hugged my mother and my brothers.

I refused to hug her.

She walked through the door, and she pulled it shut behind her, and – in my mind – that door has been shut ever since.

Stages of Grief: Shock

An article at this website talks about the seven stages of grief. This is a common theory, but I liked this particular explanation. The author, Tess Thompson, has this to say about stage one:

1.The initial reaction is usually a state of shock and disbelief on hearing news of a loss or death. Somehow, the gravity of the situation does not register. People in this stage tend to disbelieve the information and try and disregard the facts. They may also try and prove that the harbinger of the news is not a reliable source of information.

Email to my therapist, Wednesday, January 14th, 2008 - one day after remembering "the worst of it":

I so want to cry and yell and get it all out of my system but I just can't do anything. I sit and wait and nothing happens. I feel numb. No reaction at all. Just this undercurrent of tension but even that feels far away. On top are fragmented thoughts that scream at me like a waking nightmare, blocking out my emotions.

I want to be done with it. It's so frustrating to be unable to make it happen.
I can't feel any of it and I can't seem to do anything else either.
I'm just frozen here.

Yesterday there was a sort of counterbalance of feeling that at least I've reached the worst of it. I could see the light on the path clearly ahead, and it felt hopeful.
I wanted to put that hope down on paper and not forget it.
Writing helped some. While I was writing I could focus on that hope for a while.
When the story was done, I didn't feel better. I felt alone with this emptiness.

I can't even climb inside it like I usually do. Usually when I face something big, it threatens to consume me, and I feel it surround me until nothing else exists.
But I’m just numb.
I tried to just sit and think about all the loss and hurt and sadess, but I felt nothing.
I tried to physically destroy the monster with an effigy and my hammer, but I still didn't feel anything. I just cleaned up the mess and walked away.
.
Wouldn't you think that it would be easy to be angry, to cry?
I can't make it happen.
I don't know how.
I can't make myself feel and I can't seem to move on without feeling, either.
It's just too awful to comprehend. It's as stifling as grief when someone has died.
It's too real and yet feels so removed from me.
Its as if the someone who died is me.

I sent two more emails that afternoon, both saying about the same thing. The apathy, the complete lack of emotion was not what I expected. I'd always been such an emotional person – at least on the inside. It scared me to actually look inside and feel absolutely nothing.

Email to my therapist, that night:

I went to the online [CoDA] meeting tonight. That was good. It was a safe place to talk. It's hard around here because I can't talk about it. I don’t want to tell anyone. I didn’t really say what I remembered but I feel like everyone knows. I feel like it’s written on my face, in my words, on my being.

I keep thinking this can't be right, just feeling nothing. I'm so out of it, my thoughts are so disorganized and unrelated. I wanted to try to make some kind of promise to myself for tomorrow, that I would make it a little better, at least shower, dress, make some food, eat something...
I just don't know that I can keep that promise right now.

I still have this feeling that it can't be true. I don't want to believe this little girl inside who is telling me this. How reliable can she be, really? I feel like I'm going to wake up from this and it will go away. It doesn't feel real today.
But then I hardly feel real today.

I'm going to bed.
I want to be done with this day.

Response from my therapist:

I see the grief process in what you are experiencing today. Shock, denial, bargaining are the first steps through. Anger and crying will come. Honor the process. You have not yet voiced (you have only written) the painful trauma. That also will come in its time. You may voice it to me, or you could join a local group for those who have been sexually abused. Again, in its time.
Let me know if you want to talk, by phone or in person. This is an important time for you and I am here to help you through it.



Shock.  It made sense. In a very removed way, I looked at myself and realized I was in shock.
I stopped worrying about my lack of emotion...s and started worrying about what it would be like when everything turned on again.

Email to my therapist, thursday morning (two days after acknowledging "the worst of it"):

It's so hard around here because I don't feel like I can tell anyone what's wrong. I try not to let on how bad I feel, how out of it I am and just - lost. I can't explain it to [my husband] or the kids. How could I?
I can't imagine ever saying the words out loud,. If that's what it takes I may not get through it. I just don't think I can do that.
I know they see that something is up. I know I've been weird this week. Last night I went outside in my pajamas for a few minutes just to feel the cold - just to feel something. January in Chicago – not exactly the time and place to go for a stroll in my pajamas. I knew it, in a very detached way, even then. I just wanted to feel something.
[My husband] was angry. I snubbed him completely, telling him to leave me alone.
Like everything else, we didn't talk about it further. this morning it was like nothing happened.
I feel very alone with this. Very alone and I don't see any way that will change. The numbness is still there, but I'm aware of a strong undercurrent of turmoil that threatens to overwhelm me. It's terrifying. How can I do this alone, and how can I ever tell anyone.

This is a miserable way to live.

You talked about a blanket. I feel a little less silly about something that I've done that last two nights, because you said that. I sort of invited this little child that I saw so clearly in your office to sleep by me. I put a heavy feather pillow up against me and held it and it seemed like it was that child. Safe, protected...
I felt funny about it in the morning, like I was seriously losing my mind - like those women you see in movie-asylums walking around carrying a doll...
I feel a little more than yesterday. In my head I see myself just running out the door screaming over and over. I have to keep promising myself that I will stay warm, eat something, etc. to keep that away. It's as if I can make it all go away if I just do what I'm supposed to do.
But I know, somewhere inside, that it isn't going to work.
It's a long weekend for the kids.
I wish I could leave, go somewhere by myself.
The idea of taking all the ativan and ending up in some hospital for a few days didn't' sound too bad last night. I know that's bad. I know. But I feel so trapped here. I know that it's harder to reach you on the weekends, too.
I just don't know that I can do this.

Another email, that night:


Hey
we all went out for dinner and then to a movie, since the kids don't have school tomorrow. We saw "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button". I liked the movie a lot and it was good to take me away from everything else for a few hours.

As soon as we were home, it all just kind of hit me again. It seems like each time it hits me, I come a little closer to really - knowing.

I still can’t imagine telling anyone my thoughts, right now.
I suppose the first step is telling myself. I'm going to write down everything I remember. I don't know what, after that. I probably should stop thinking three steps ahead when I'm having trouble with step one.

Thank you for all your time this week. It really meant a lot.

The Ugly Little Girl

The Ugly Little Girl

Once upon a time there was an ugly little girl.

She was surrounded by dragons which breathed fire at her and made her feel very small. She was sad and hurt and scared, but most of all, she was angry. She was filled with red hot hate. She knew that this was what made her ugly.

Time passed, and she grew bigger and older, but she knew she was still an ugly little girl. She couldn't let anyone see the truth. She did her best to keep away from the dragons, but also hid from the rest of the world.

One day, as the dragons were being particularly evil, a handsome prince passed by. He turned his handsome face towards her and she knew he was there to save her.  She peered at him from behind her hands, hiding her face. He pulled out his sword and fought off the wickedest of the dragons.  He took her to his castle where he could keep her safe.

The ugly little girl continued to hide her face from the prince. She didn't want him to see that she was just an ugly little girl. As hard as she tried, there were times when she was sure he caught a glimpse of who she really was. Gradually she began to wonder about his eyesight. It seemed he only saw what he wanted to see.

She created a costume, spun of beautiful gold and silver and gems. When she put it on, she looked like the princess her prince deserved. She never wanted to take it off again. Sometimes even she forgot that she was not really a princess, but somewhere inside, she still knew that the ugly little girl was still there, just behind the mask.

The ugly little girl and the handsome prince had a baby. The baby was beautiful and perfect and the ugly little girl loved her very much. She looked at the baby through her princess mask, and the baby never saw that she was really an ugly little girl.

She gave the baby everything she could and taught her everything she knew. The baby learned how to love and be loved. Of course the ugly little girl didn’t know everything or have everything to give, but the perfect baby flourished anyway.

The prince worked very hard, wielding his sword whenever necessary. Slaying dragons kept the prince away a lot, but the ugly little girl was content with her baby. For twenty years she wore the costume day and night. She and the prince lived happily
for a while...

When the baby had been given enough love and wisdom and time, she became whole and ready to be on her own. She wanted to go out into the world.

The ugly little girl was happy that her baby had become whole and ready for the world. She was so proud of all her baby was and would be. She even looked proudly at the costume she had made. It had served her well. The baby had always loved her, and would never have to know that she was really just an ugly little girl.

But a deep sadness inside her was getting harder to ignore. The prince and the baby only knew the costume and the mask. That's what they loved. How could they love her if they had never even seen her? This made her feel very alone.

It had been a long time since she’d looked upon the face of the ugly little girl she knew was behind the mask. She'd always thought that if she just didn't think about her, the ugly little girl would go away. But the day her baby set out into the world, she looked at the mask and felt the sad little girl behind it. It wasn't her fault she was ugly. It was so unfair that she had to live her whole life hidden behind a mask.

That night, she dreamt of dragons and fire and loneliness. She woke up in a cold sweat. The ugly little girl seemed to be tearing at the seems of the costume; pushing hard on the mask. Thinking about her ugly little self, she began to feel anger and hurt and fear and a great sadness. It didn't show on the mask, but under the costume it felt like broken glass and hot coals. 

She wasn't ready to give up her fairy princess illusion. She just wouldn't sleep anymore. No sleep, no dream. No dream, no ugly little girl.

She did everything she could think of to keep from thinking about the ugly little girl. She ran in circles and screamed out loud and hid under the covers but it got harder and harder to keep the mask on. She tried glue and tape and string. She cried and screamed and ran some more.

But that ugly little girl was persistent. She pushed and pulled and wouldn't give up.

She princess kept mending the seams that strained and split. She held the mask on with both hands, but it was no use. Finally the day came when she knew it would have to come off.

She stood in front of the mirror. Her hands trembled and sweated. The mask--the beautiful mask--showed a woman who knew how to love and be loved. It was beautiful and smiling but behind the mask she was crying so hard she could hardly see herself.

She took a deep breath.
She counted one... two... three... and then slowly let the mask fall from her face.

I don't know how it ends.... I'll let you know when I do.

Breach

Last year, after I incorporated the first set of lost memories from my childhood, I did not feel relief, nor did I have a sense of accomplishment. Instead, I had a strong sense that this was only the beginning.

This image came into my head, and to me it seemed to illustrate a feeling that I was just waiting to drown in all that was coming my way.



When my eleven-year-old daughter saw this drawing, she said, "The girl will float up to the top, and when it gets full, she'll swim out."

I do believe she's right.

What Integration Means to Me

Once again, I'm deleting the text that I will be using in my memoir. I've left the image and the comments
~Shen 2-21-12

Gains in Therapy

After I sent the first Alternate Hand Writing I'd done to my therapist, I regretted it. It seemed too strange, too “crazy” and I was afraid she would judge me in some way. This has been a common fear throughout therapy. I was judged so relentlessly growing up, that it’s hard to remember that my therapist has never judged me at all.

As I fretted over what her response to my left/right writing would be, a memory popped into my head out of nowhere. It wasn't a new memory, but for some reason it seemed to have a lot of new emotion attached to it. Maybe it's because I didn't acknowledge my feelings much, as a child. I let them build to the breaking point and the, often, I dissociated from my life. Emotions were a pretty foreign thing to me. Mostly, I didn't acknowledge my feelings at all until I reached the breaking point, and then I often dissociated.

But in that moment so many years later, after doing the left/right writing, I felt anger, indignation, sadness, and resentment all pounding in my head, together. I had to keep reminding myself that this was progress. It sure wasn't fun and it would have been easier to just avoid them in one of the myriad of tried-and-true distractions I'd developed in my life.
But I didn't.

The image is of the Resources, the protective side of me, the nurturing side of me and my "Spiritual Core Self" as described in the DNMS process. The Resourses are holding the two dissociated parts that I felt inside, that day, They are (I am) keeping them (me) safe.

At the same time, it felt as if the Resourses were keeping "me" (the part of me that most often feels like me) safe from the dissociated parts. It was like setting a boundary with my own memories and feelings, so that I could put the work on hold until my next appointment with my therapist.

This is something that has been a real struggle for me - trying to work on things when it is time to work and put them aside when it isn't. And this is a small bit of encouragement that I will not always have to wallow helplessly in every feeling that emerges.

Images and Tools

A Brief Reprieve

For more than a week after Father’s Day, 2008, I had the longest string of good days I had experienced in years. We got two puppies, that week, I spent a lot of time with my children, and I felt generally happy and full of energy. My journal entries were all positive and incredulous, with an underlying fear that the fall would come.

Back to Work

The big drop in mood did indeed come, and a rush of reactive, memory-induced anxiety came along with it. I say memory-induced not because I remembered something specific, but because I was aware that the feelings I was experiencing were not about anything that was currently happening in my life. I knew that they were driven by things from my past.

This understanding was, in itself, a big step in the right direction. In the past I had always viewed my moodswings as something beyond my control - something that happened to me sometimes, often out-of-the-blue, for no apparent reason. Understanding that these mood swings were caused by something felt like hope because it meant I might be able to find the cause and be in control of my life in a whole new way.

One tool I've used a number of times to help me figure out what part of my past is triggering my present anxiety is “Alternate Hand Writing”. Briefly, the idea is to talk to the part-of-self that is being triggered, whether it is a dissociated part or just a set of memories from the past.

With the dominant hand (for me this is my right hand), I ask questions. The questions are directed at the triggered part-of-self as if this was a separate person. With the non-dominant hand (my left hand) I answer the questions.

Every time I've tried this, I would have a nagging doubt in the back of my mind as to whether any answer to my questions would come. I needn't have worried. Almost always, the answer popped into my head soon after I switched the pen to my left hand. It felt almost mystical or magical, the answers almost seeming to write themselves.

This is a tool anyone can use, any time. It can help you identify what you're feeling and why. I've included examples in my memoir, "Through the Tiger's Door".

More Images

I constantly question whether or not I'm right about my past.

Maybe I'm the one who doesn't remember?  

Maybe I'm wrong?

These are reasons sent to me by my therapist as to why I should trust my own feelings about my parents:

Your children have trouble being around them.

Your husband sees their dysfunction.

Your siblings are not running to spend lots of time with them.......

And that is only as your parents are older and less capable of creating harm.

This drawing is meant to represent the boundary between me and my father. The little child is the wounded part of me that doesn't feel safe around him. In the center are my DNMS Resources - the adult parts of me. There is also a "me" watching from the side, to make sure everything is going okay. She is the one that will determine if something is not the way it should be and take action. The child can trust her to set a boundary when she begins to feel overwhelmed and reactive.

Looking at Codependency

The more I beat myself up, the more uncomfortable I am.
The more uncomfortable I am, the less I am able to connect with others.
The less I connect with others, the more isolated I feel.
The more isolated I feel, the more I beat myself up.

I thought I was the only one who lived within that cycle. Because of my codependency, I would assess what people around me expected me to be, and become that person. This was not too difficult to achieve if I was with one other person, or even in a group of people that I usually saw together. However, when two of these people or groups came together, it was impossible to be what I perceived was expected of me by both parties. This brought on anxiety that was overwhelming, and so I avoided situations that might put me in the midst of other people.

Yet it never occurred to me that how I behaved should not be determined by what others expected or wanted.