July 06, 2010
Going Through The Memories
So, I had a request in the comments of my last post that I will try to address here. I know, I know, I still have some guest blog and interview requests that I have yet to fulfill, but those folks aren't exactly coming to my blog every day, either. This is for a reader that I know wants to hear about something specific right now.
I feel very honored, actually. This new reader is coming to my dot com site, Survivors Can Thrive! and my blog at the referral of her therapist. I had no idea anything like that was happening. I'm am touched. And like I said, I feel honored.
This reader wanted to know if I had any advice about how to help her share an abuse memory during a counseling session, but, "not go through and experience it again in my mind." I told this reader that I always hesitate to give advice and that I am aware that each person's healing experience is different.
However, this is a huge survivor healing issue. At times, I am really struck by how much it sucks that someone else did this to us--abused us and caused trauma--but we are the ones who must be responsible for our healing and do the work to recover. But, this is the ironic reality.
Another ironic reality, that I have struggled to come to terms with in my own healing, is the fact that I have not been successful at finding any way to go around the painful feelings associated with the abuse. It sounds cliche, but for me, I have found that I really have to go through it to get to the other side. For me, this "other side" is life more in the moment, feeling safe, having functional (as opposed to dysfunctional) relationships, and no longer feeling completely disabled about the prospect of living my day-to-day life.
Now, before I launch into my battle cry of "feel the feelings; it's the key to healing," and you tune my pie-in-the-sky message out, let me tell you a little bit about how I came to this point and this conclusion.
First of all, you need to know that I have had many false starts in therapy and have really floundered many, many times. One of the reasons I blog and keep my dot com site going is in the hopes that some survivors reading about my story can avoid at least some of the long, drawn out, painful detours of recovery that I've experienced. For starters, I have been working on recovery from extreme child abuse, incest, torture, PTSD and a dissociative disorder for about 15 years. I think you could call me a therapy "veteran."
Now, I didn't even find out I had PTSD until about 10 years ago. Then, it took me a while to realize that a diagnosis of a dissociative disorder was appropriate for my situation. That came about eight years ago. I finally got a really excellent therapist who has a lot of expertise (over 20 years worth) in dissociation in January of 2007. You can read about how I started really (finally) working on my dissociative disorder in this post from 1/07 here.
Back before I found my current therapist--and after my family moved to Colorado--I was given the diagnosis of PTSD. At this time, I attempted EMDR. As many of us know by now, EMDR stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. You can link to some EMDR sites on my dot com site's "Treatment & Research" page here.
My first experience with EMDR started out amazingly hopeful but almost ended in disaster. The practitioner that I went to the first time around promised me that the feelings I would experience surrounding a particular trauma memory that we would process in this way would be significantly reduced, or neutralized so to speak, at the end of a session. I want to say that there were times when I experienced this to actually be the case. Unfortunately, my first EMDR therapist neglected to get me appropriately grounded before we started doing EMDR and I became extremely re-traumatized.
I always tell folks, who ask me what I think about EMDR, how important I feel that the grounding piece is. Now, I'm not a doctor, and I would have a hard time advising anyone on exactly what they would need to do, individually, to get grounded before this type of therapy. But, I do advise that you look into the prospect of finding a T who is an expert in traumatic stress if you want to go this route. That person should know exactly what to do to help you get grounded before EMDR...and will know what this means. My second therapist here in Colorado is an expert in traumatic stress and he taught me many grounding exercises. Some of them I still do, almost on a daily basis. If you want to find one of these experts yourself, there are links to lists of therapists who are board certified experts in traumatic stress on the same Treatment page of my dot com site that I mentioned earlier.
But you know what? Reducing the feeling stress associated with my childhood trauma hasn't worked out to be the key to my healing at all. I didn't hear this battle cry of "Feel the Feelings" until I went down to the Colin Ross program down in Dallas in September of 2006. There is a link to the Colin A. Ross Institute For Psychological Trauma on my dot com Treatment page as well.
Down in Dallas, they were really big on "Feel The Feelings!" I didn't really know why at the time, but after I allowed myself to feel the buried feelings associated with my response to my childhood abuse, I would feel amazingly better. First, I would be amazed that the feelings didn't somehow kill me...then I'd feel devastated...then, slowly, I'd feel better...somehow more healed. One of the "Feel-The-Feelings" exercises I did with materials from the Ross program is talked about in this post here from December of 2006. It really gets into the feelings of grief and loss.
What I later learned is that my dissociated parts were keeping many of the feelings from me in order to protect me. A child just can't come face to face with those kinds of life-shattering feelings during the childhood abuse and still expect to be a kid, go to school, and grow up to be an adult. It was my dissociated parts who really needed to realize (and still continue this process today) that I am now not going to die when I get in touch with these feelings. Also, they need to know that they can now let go of their burden. I am the adult and I can carry it on my own now, with the help of my therapist.
One of the things my current therapist always comes back to, in regards to her training, is something called the BASK model. Unfortunately, I can never find much written about it. If I had a book on it, I would add it to my survivor-to-thriver library. I do know that it was developed by Bennett Braun as a model of dissociation. The letters in the BASK acronym stand for Behavior, Affect, Sensation and Knowledge. You can read a little bit about it using this link here.
Here's what I understand about BASK: First of all, my dissociation kept all Knowledge--the "K" in BASK-- of the sexual abuse and torture from my conscious awareness. But, I started to get clues to how my childhood abuse led to my disorder by my Behavior--the "B" in BASK. One of the classic behaviors I exhibited was gravitating toward other abusers. I had "Victim" stamped on my forehead for years. One of the "Sensation" mysteries that always astounded me was my extremely high tolerance for pain. But later, when I was diagnosed with PTSD and started therapy about my child abuse, I started having body memories of physical pain.
What was missing for such a long time was the "Affect" piece. These are my feelings and how I express them. If you--like me at one time--are walking around like a robot with a smile plastered on your face that doesn't seem sincere, I'm going to guess you are also not yet dealing with the feelings, and have little affect showing at this time.
My therapist firmly believes that I need to join all four of these BASK pieces--Behavior, Sensation, Knowledge and Affect--as they relate to my trauma memories, in order to stop relying on dissociation in order to cope...and to recover and heal. I have to say that I've come to the point where I agree with her.
It's an on-going process. I am continuing the journey. But, I am amazed and truly pleased that I am now finding myself much further down along the path than I ever thought I would be!
I feel very honored, actually. This new reader is coming to my dot com site, Survivors Can Thrive! and my blog at the referral of her therapist. I had no idea anything like that was happening. I'm am touched. And like I said, I feel honored.
This reader wanted to know if I had any advice about how to help her share an abuse memory during a counseling session, but, "not go through and experience it again in my mind." I told this reader that I always hesitate to give advice and that I am aware that each person's healing experience is different.
However, this is a huge survivor healing issue. At times, I am really struck by how much it sucks that someone else did this to us--abused us and caused trauma--but we are the ones who must be responsible for our healing and do the work to recover. But, this is the ironic reality.
Another ironic reality, that I have struggled to come to terms with in my own healing, is the fact that I have not been successful at finding any way to go around the painful feelings associated with the abuse. It sounds cliche, but for me, I have found that I really have to go through it to get to the other side. For me, this "other side" is life more in the moment, feeling safe, having functional (as opposed to dysfunctional) relationships, and no longer feeling completely disabled about the prospect of living my day-to-day life.
Now, before I launch into my battle cry of "feel the feelings; it's the key to healing," and you tune my pie-in-the-sky message out, let me tell you a little bit about how I came to this point and this conclusion.
First of all, you need to know that I have had many false starts in therapy and have really floundered many, many times. One of the reasons I blog and keep my dot com site going is in the hopes that some survivors reading about my story can avoid at least some of the long, drawn out, painful detours of recovery that I've experienced. For starters, I have been working on recovery from extreme child abuse, incest, torture, PTSD and a dissociative disorder for about 15 years. I think you could call me a therapy "veteran."
Now, I didn't even find out I had PTSD until about 10 years ago. Then, it took me a while to realize that a diagnosis of a dissociative disorder was appropriate for my situation. That came about eight years ago. I finally got a really excellent therapist who has a lot of expertise (over 20 years worth) in dissociation in January of 2007. You can read about how I started really (finally) working on my dissociative disorder in this post from 1/07 here.
Back before I found my current therapist--and after my family moved to Colorado--I was given the diagnosis of PTSD. At this time, I attempted EMDR. As many of us know by now, EMDR stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. You can link to some EMDR sites on my dot com site's "Treatment & Research" page here.
My first experience with EMDR started out amazingly hopeful but almost ended in disaster. The practitioner that I went to the first time around promised me that the feelings I would experience surrounding a particular trauma memory that we would process in this way would be significantly reduced, or neutralized so to speak, at the end of a session. I want to say that there were times when I experienced this to actually be the case. Unfortunately, my first EMDR therapist neglected to get me appropriately grounded before we started doing EMDR and I became extremely re-traumatized.
I always tell folks, who ask me what I think about EMDR, how important I feel that the grounding piece is. Now, I'm not a doctor, and I would have a hard time advising anyone on exactly what they would need to do, individually, to get grounded before this type of therapy. But, I do advise that you look into the prospect of finding a T who is an expert in traumatic stress if you want to go this route. That person should know exactly what to do to help you get grounded before EMDR...and will know what this means. My second therapist here in Colorado is an expert in traumatic stress and he taught me many grounding exercises. Some of them I still do, almost on a daily basis. If you want to find one of these experts yourself, there are links to lists of therapists who are board certified experts in traumatic stress on the same Treatment page of my dot com site that I mentioned earlier.
But you know what? Reducing the feeling stress associated with my childhood trauma hasn't worked out to be the key to my healing at all. I didn't hear this battle cry of "Feel the Feelings" until I went down to the Colin Ross program down in Dallas in September of 2006. There is a link to the Colin A. Ross Institute For Psychological Trauma on my dot com Treatment page as well.
Down in Dallas, they were really big on "Feel The Feelings!" I didn't really know why at the time, but after I allowed myself to feel the buried feelings associated with my response to my childhood abuse, I would feel amazingly better. First, I would be amazed that the feelings didn't somehow kill me...then I'd feel devastated...then, slowly, I'd feel better...somehow more healed. One of the "Feel-The-Feelings" exercises I did with materials from the Ross program is talked about in this post here from December of 2006. It really gets into the feelings of grief and loss.
What I later learned is that my dissociated parts were keeping many of the feelings from me in order to protect me. A child just can't come face to face with those kinds of life-shattering feelings during the childhood abuse and still expect to be a kid, go to school, and grow up to be an adult. It was my dissociated parts who really needed to realize (and still continue this process today) that I am now not going to die when I get in touch with these feelings. Also, they need to know that they can now let go of their burden. I am the adult and I can carry it on my own now, with the help of my therapist.
One of the things my current therapist always comes back to, in regards to her training, is something called the BASK model. Unfortunately, I can never find much written about it. If I had a book on it, I would add it to my survivor-to-thriver library. I do know that it was developed by Bennett Braun as a model of dissociation. The letters in the BASK acronym stand for Behavior, Affect, Sensation and Knowledge. You can read a little bit about it using this link here.
Here's what I understand about BASK: First of all, my dissociation kept all Knowledge--the "K" in BASK-- of the sexual abuse and torture from my conscious awareness. But, I started to get clues to how my childhood abuse led to my disorder by my Behavior--the "B" in BASK. One of the classic behaviors I exhibited was gravitating toward other abusers. I had "Victim" stamped on my forehead for years. One of the "Sensation" mysteries that always astounded me was my extremely high tolerance for pain. But later, when I was diagnosed with PTSD and started therapy about my child abuse, I started having body memories of physical pain.
What was missing for such a long time was the "Affect" piece. These are my feelings and how I express them. If you--like me at one time--are walking around like a robot with a smile plastered on your face that doesn't seem sincere, I'm going to guess you are also not yet dealing with the feelings, and have little affect showing at this time.
My therapist firmly believes that I need to join all four of these BASK pieces--Behavior, Sensation, Knowledge and Affect--as they relate to my trauma memories, in order to stop relying on dissociation in order to cope...and to recover and heal. I have to say that I've come to the point where I agree with her.
It's an on-going process. I am continuing the journey. But, I am amazed and truly pleased that I am now finding myself much further down along the path than I ever thought I would be!
Labels: body memories, child abuse, dissociation, feelings, healing, journey, parts, PTSD, recovery, Survivors Can Thrive, therapy, torture, trauma processing
February 17, 2010
A Part Is Born
Well, I was going to write about eugenics and explore "what if I had never been born" for the birthday-themed Blog Carnival Against Child Abuse this month.
TRIGGER WARNING! Some examples of dissociative outbursts and child abuse ahead. Please stay safe.
But, I had what felt like a set-back the other day. I got really triggered and reacted violently. I spent almost a whole day disparaging myself and even had some self-harm return. I tried so hard to pull myself back, but felt so out of control. I pulled out every grounding trick in the book. I did grounding exercises I haven't even thought of in years. But, it still took me about 24 hours to feel like myself again.
I was really disappointed because I allowed some behaviors to come out that I thought I had contracted against with various parts. I've discovered--and begun to work with--two new parts in the last few weeks. Maybe this is yet another new part who has no such contract with me. I'm not sure.
This got me wondering. Just how is a part "born" anyway? Mine seem to have come about for a whole plethora of reasons. Some are like full-fledged personalities and have tried to run away and start their own lives or have pushed me aside and tried to live life their own way with me out of the way, so to speak.
Some parts have very well-defined roles. Many of these roles are quite dysfunctional for my life now, so I've had to define and assign new roles to some parts. Other parts are what my T refers to as "partial splits," without much of a fleshed-out personality of their own at all. These splits seem to have come about for very specific, time-limited functions designed to keep me alive in my childhood's life-threatening situations.
For example, the first part I ever heard of by name--this was three years ago--was Nina. I was told she "comes out when we're in the shower." If you've ever read the account on my dot com site called, "A Fear Of Plastic Shower Curtains," You can understand why my helpless child self might have wanted to create a part just to take over when I need to take a shower. I haven't worked specifically with Nina via any kind of dialogue, but I have done EMDR on the shower torture incidents and I've done a lot of comforting and self-care work in therapy around this daily hygiene challenge.
In the very first chapter of The Dissociative Identity Disorder Sourcebook, Deborah Bray Haddock explains, "In systems where extreme splitting occurs, clients report a host of personality fragments created to do specific tasks, such as cooking, cleaning the house or going to school. Once the task is performed, the fragment becomes inactive."
In the book, The Haunted Self: Structural Dissociation and the Treatment of Chronic Traumatization, the authors talk about "a fragment that has only a minimal set of response patterns to stimuli, life history, and range of emotion/affect but has knowledge for a short period of time." They go on to say that the actions of some of these fragments are very specialized. "Some...have a very specific purpose during traumatization."
In my case, I have another split or fragment, that I don't have a name for, who came about for the sole purpose of helping me hold my breath for a long time when my father would try to drown me in the bath water. I don't know much about these partial splits or fragments, but it makes sense to me that they would not be very developed if their survival purpose was quite distinct and unique to specific situations that I don't repeatedly come across throughout the day as I go about the business of life.
Then, I have some parts who I have named--or labeled--to match their functions. These functions are more broad than the two I've just mentioned, but still don't lead these labeled parts to control the body for any great length of time. There's Sentry, who I first started getting cooperation with in March of 2007. He was a great help to me when some creep followed me on the streets of Chicago once. Sentry is not afraid to get in any one's face in order to protect me. Unfortunately, he was getting up in peoples faces in inappropriate ways that didn't match present-day situations. So, I had to contract with him to stay located in an internal lighthouse and only "come to the rescue" if some stranger approaches me in a dark parking lot, or something like that.
I have another part I call Serena. But, she's not so much serene as she is still. That is, literally, her role: She keeps the body still so that there can be no self-harm or suicide attempts. I haven't felt her around much lately, but I sure coulda used her the other day when I slapped myself in the face seven or eight times. Luckily, I was able to stop myself rather quickly and vowed to engage in no further self-injury, even without any obvious help from Serena.
Whether my part splits are currently helpful in my day-to-day life, or the actions of these fragments are now dysfunctional for me as an adult living in a safe environment, I'm glad I'm learning about them. For a while, I was convinced that unless I found a part who had a high degree of autonomy and emancipation, I wasn't dealing with dissociated pieces of myself. This is one of the reasons why the "Man, I must be crazy" attitude persisted with me for such a long time.
If you are a dissociative child abuse survivor who is uncovering less complex personality fragments and doubting your diagnosis (or your sanity), I encourage you to read the two books I've mentioned in this post. There's a reason why even your smallest, simplest parts were "born" and you very well may be alive today because of them. So, even if I don't have a name for one of these partial personality fragments, I still make it a point to thank them. They helped keep me safe, they helped me stay sane.
TRIGGER WARNING! Some examples of dissociative outbursts and child abuse ahead. Please stay safe.
But, I had what felt like a set-back the other day. I got really triggered and reacted violently. I spent almost a whole day disparaging myself and even had some self-harm return. I tried so hard to pull myself back, but felt so out of control. I pulled out every grounding trick in the book. I did grounding exercises I haven't even thought of in years. But, it still took me about 24 hours to feel like myself again.
I was really disappointed because I allowed some behaviors to come out that I thought I had contracted against with various parts. I've discovered--and begun to work with--two new parts in the last few weeks. Maybe this is yet another new part who has no such contract with me. I'm not sure.
This got me wondering. Just how is a part "born" anyway? Mine seem to have come about for a whole plethora of reasons. Some are like full-fledged personalities and have tried to run away and start their own lives or have pushed me aside and tried to live life their own way with me out of the way, so to speak.
Some parts have very well-defined roles. Many of these roles are quite dysfunctional for my life now, so I've had to define and assign new roles to some parts. Other parts are what my T refers to as "partial splits," without much of a fleshed-out personality of their own at all. These splits seem to have come about for very specific, time-limited functions designed to keep me alive in my childhood's life-threatening situations.
For example, the first part I ever heard of by name--this was three years ago--was Nina. I was told she "comes out when we're in the shower." If you've ever read the account on my dot com site called, "A Fear Of Plastic Shower Curtains," You can understand why my helpless child self might have wanted to create a part just to take over when I need to take a shower. I haven't worked specifically with Nina via any kind of dialogue, but I have done EMDR on the shower torture incidents and I've done a lot of comforting and self-care work in therapy around this daily hygiene challenge.
In the very first chapter of The Dissociative Identity Disorder Sourcebook, Deborah Bray Haddock explains, "In systems where extreme splitting occurs, clients report a host of personality fragments created to do specific tasks, such as cooking, cleaning the house or going to school. Once the task is performed, the fragment becomes inactive."
In the book, The Haunted Self: Structural Dissociation and the Treatment of Chronic Traumatization, the authors talk about "a fragment that has only a minimal set of response patterns to stimuli, life history, and range of emotion/affect but has knowledge for a short period of time." They go on to say that the actions of some of these fragments are very specialized. "Some...have a very specific purpose during traumatization."
In my case, I have another split or fragment, that I don't have a name for, who came about for the sole purpose of helping me hold my breath for a long time when my father would try to drown me in the bath water. I don't know much about these partial splits or fragments, but it makes sense to me that they would not be very developed if their survival purpose was quite distinct and unique to specific situations that I don't repeatedly come across throughout the day as I go about the business of life.
Then, I have some parts who I have named--or labeled--to match their functions. These functions are more broad than the two I've just mentioned, but still don't lead these labeled parts to control the body for any great length of time. There's Sentry, who I first started getting cooperation with in March of 2007. He was a great help to me when some creep followed me on the streets of Chicago once. Sentry is not afraid to get in any one's face in order to protect me. Unfortunately, he was getting up in peoples faces in inappropriate ways that didn't match present-day situations. So, I had to contract with him to stay located in an internal lighthouse and only "come to the rescue" if some stranger approaches me in a dark parking lot, or something like that.
I have another part I call Serena. But, she's not so much serene as she is still. That is, literally, her role: She keeps the body still so that there can be no self-harm or suicide attempts. I haven't felt her around much lately, but I sure coulda used her the other day when I slapped myself in the face seven or eight times. Luckily, I was able to stop myself rather quickly and vowed to engage in no further self-injury, even without any obvious help from Serena.
Whether my part splits are currently helpful in my day-to-day life, or the actions of these fragments are now dysfunctional for me as an adult living in a safe environment, I'm glad I'm learning about them. For a while, I was convinced that unless I found a part who had a high degree of autonomy and emancipation, I wasn't dealing with dissociated pieces of myself. This is one of the reasons why the "Man, I must be crazy" attitude persisted with me for such a long time.
If you are a dissociative child abuse survivor who is uncovering less complex personality fragments and doubting your diagnosis (or your sanity), I encourage you to read the two books I've mentioned in this post. There's a reason why even your smallest, simplest parts were "born" and you very well may be alive today because of them. So, even if I don't have a name for one of these partial personality fragments, I still make it a point to thank them. They helped keep me safe, they helped me stay sane.
Labels: aftermath, alters, birthdays, Blog Carnival Against Child Abuse, child abuse, dissociation, mapping, memory work, parts, self-care, torture, trauma, triggers
December 08, 2009
The Torture Still Torments
Trigger Warning! Also some foul language in the content to follow:
I continue to struggle with the reality of torture in my childhood abuse. At first, I was convinced that the times I was sadistically tortured--when I was nearly suffocated in a plastic shower curtain for instance--was limited to times when my father flew into an uncontrolled rage.
Now I know the truth: Much of the time the torture was systematic and involved mind control and an attempt to completely break my spirit. It often involved forcing a young child into a "choice" situation. Here, I had to "choose" whether to save myself or my twin sister; whether to try to spare my sister pain and torture or allow her to be hurt. Of course, in these scenarios, the real existence of choice didn't exist at all. It was just a mind fuck, and a double, impossible bind.
I have to try and somehow wrap my brain around it, to come to terms with the fact that I was also abused by people outside of my immediate, biological "family." To my knowledge, these were not people involved with the occult or devil worship or any kind of religious-like rituals. Many times, I was "sold" to these individuals in order to perform sexual acts. But, it has recently become revealed to me through retrieved memories, that I was also forced into elaborately set-up torture scenarios (sometimes with my twin, sometimes not).
These scenarios were planned, carried out and viewed by sick individuals who enjoyed seeing a child in mental, emotional and physical anguish. Witnessing my torture is what they got off on. This is how they got their jollies. This is what they threw their heads back and laughed at. This is how they got their enjoyment.
There is still no excuse for it. But, I am really seeing now more clearly how people turn their heads and look the other way. I understand the horrors that people want to deny could ever happen to our children in our culture. No one wants to live in a world where this is even possible.
I continue to struggle with the reality of torture in my childhood abuse. At first, I was convinced that the times I was sadistically tortured--when I was nearly suffocated in a plastic shower curtain for instance--was limited to times when my father flew into an uncontrolled rage.
Now I know the truth: Much of the time the torture was systematic and involved mind control and an attempt to completely break my spirit. It often involved forcing a young child into a "choice" situation. Here, I had to "choose" whether to save myself or my twin sister; whether to try to spare my sister pain and torture or allow her to be hurt. Of course, in these scenarios, the real existence of choice didn't exist at all. It was just a mind fuck, and a double, impossible bind.
I have to try and somehow wrap my brain around it, to come to terms with the fact that I was also abused by people outside of my immediate, biological "family." To my knowledge, these were not people involved with the occult or devil worship or any kind of religious-like rituals. Many times, I was "sold" to these individuals in order to perform sexual acts. But, it has recently become revealed to me through retrieved memories, that I was also forced into elaborately set-up torture scenarios (sometimes with my twin, sometimes not).
These scenarios were planned, carried out and viewed by sick individuals who enjoyed seeing a child in mental, emotional and physical anguish. Witnessing my torture is what they got off on. This is how they got their jollies. This is what they threw their heads back and laughed at. This is how they got their enjoyment.
There is still no excuse for it. But, I am really seeing now more clearly how people turn their heads and look the other way. I understand the horrors that people want to deny could ever happen to our children in our culture. No one wants to live in a world where this is even possible.
Labels: broken, denial, memory work, therapy, torture
November 13, 2009
My Parts Are Alive...
...With The Sound of Triggers!
Quick request, bloggy buddies, for you to send up a quick prayer, healing thought, positive vibe, etc. My therapist has been rearranging my appointments lately (still doing the double-time every week) because her mother is in the hospital. While I certainly feel for her and know she has her own life, this couldn't have come at a worse time.
I've got these little child parts telling me about torture memories that occurred outside the "family" and I seem to have had some parts who held all the triggering noises for me. Guess what? They're all PTSD and flashback-like now. It seems I'm triggered by just about anything that sounds like it has a motor in it.
I'm doing all I can to comfort and calm without the support of my T while she's out of town, but it's just all I can do to keep it together right now. Yesterday, I heard some motor noise--truck, street sweeper, I don't know--and a scared voice came out of my mouth saying, "It's coming closer. Where is it? I have to see it so I know how close it's getting!" This was quickly followed by a tearful crumpling. I've been ultra sensitive to sounds and having flashbacks today as well. So, I've had my MediaPlayer on all day, playing the same soft garden sounds/music over and over to cover up noises and calm my shattered nerves.
I'm doing a lot of work right now, but it can sure be filled sometimes with trauma triggers and fear. Thanks, in advance, for those thoughts, prayers and vibes, all.
Quick request, bloggy buddies, for you to send up a quick prayer, healing thought, positive vibe, etc. My therapist has been rearranging my appointments lately (still doing the double-time every week) because her mother is in the hospital. While I certainly feel for her and know she has her own life, this couldn't have come at a worse time.
I've got these little child parts telling me about torture memories that occurred outside the "family" and I seem to have had some parts who held all the triggering noises for me. Guess what? They're all PTSD and flashback-like now. It seems I'm triggered by just about anything that sounds like it has a motor in it.
I'm doing all I can to comfort and calm without the support of my T while she's out of town, but it's just all I can do to keep it together right now. Yesterday, I heard some motor noise--truck, street sweeper, I don't know--and a scared voice came out of my mouth saying, "It's coming closer. Where is it? I have to see it so I know how close it's getting!" This was quickly followed by a tearful crumpling. I've been ultra sensitive to sounds and having flashbacks today as well. So, I've had my MediaPlayer on all day, playing the same soft garden sounds/music over and over to cover up noises and calm my shattered nerves.
I'm doing a lot of work right now, but it can sure be filled sometimes with trauma triggers and fear. Thanks, in advance, for those thoughts, prayers and vibes, all.
Labels: aftermath, alters, child abuse, comfort, dissociation, memory work, PTSD, therapy, torture, trauma, triggers
July 21, 2009
A Systematic Breaking of The Spirit
I am really struggling right now. I'm trying to process a new memory that I retrieved recently. It involves so many of my parts that it is taking more time and some extra therapy.
**Trigger Warning**
I'm going through the "Realization Stage"--Yeah, I get it. This happened to me. And it really felt that bad.--on several counts. One is that it was very systematic, my parents' way of breaking my spirit. And, although I was not abused by members of a cult, my parents did utilize some brain washing, mind control-type techniques.
The memory I retrieved recently was something they forced me to say: "Nobody cares about me." and "Nobody cares what happens to me."
This comes on the heals of a memory that I've been working on--on and off--for literally years. My father, on many occasions, tried to drown me in the bathtub. Sometimes it was a joke of his. Sometimes it was a life-or-death struggle to survive. It didn't think my mother knew about these near-death torture situations. But, she did.
For so long, it's been hard enough to break through my denial and accept the realization that she was aware of all the sexual abuse my father forced on me. I figured she was okay with sexual acts that she did not want to be obligated to perform herself. But, now I have to face the fact that this monster man who was my father could have done anything to me. He could have killed me. He could have done anything his twisted mind could think up and my mother would do nothing to step in and protect me.
This is so final. So infinite. Nobody cares what happens to me. Nobody cares...no matter what.
The worst part is how much I still believe it. This is such a core belief.
It is seared to my soul.
I don't know what it is going to take to undo it. I don't know if it is possible to erase it. My logical mind knows that people now care about me. But, this was ingrained into my very being. My gut, my heart, my soul are taking a lot longer to reprogram the message.
I'm doing my best to comfort parts right now. But many of them are just about inconsolable. The anguish is huge. If I don't get around to some blogs for a while, please forgive me. I am just in the depths of grief right now.
**Trigger Warning**
I'm going through the "Realization Stage"--Yeah, I get it. This happened to me. And it really felt that bad.--on several counts. One is that it was very systematic, my parents' way of breaking my spirit. And, although I was not abused by members of a cult, my parents did utilize some brain washing, mind control-type techniques.
The memory I retrieved recently was something they forced me to say: "Nobody cares about me." and "Nobody cares what happens to me."
This comes on the heals of a memory that I've been working on--on and off--for literally years. My father, on many occasions, tried to drown me in the bathtub. Sometimes it was a joke of his. Sometimes it was a life-or-death struggle to survive. It didn't think my mother knew about these near-death torture situations. But, she did.
For so long, it's been hard enough to break through my denial and accept the realization that she was aware of all the sexual abuse my father forced on me. I figured she was okay with sexual acts that she did not want to be obligated to perform herself. But, now I have to face the fact that this monster man who was my father could have done anything to me. He could have killed me. He could have done anything his twisted mind could think up and my mother would do nothing to step in and protect me.
This is so final. So infinite. Nobody cares what happens to me. Nobody cares...no matter what.
The worst part is how much I still believe it. This is such a core belief.
It is seared to my soul.
I don't know what it is going to take to undo it. I don't know if it is possible to erase it. My logical mind knows that people now care about me. But, this was ingrained into my very being. My gut, my heart, my soul are taking a lot longer to reprogram the message.
I'm doing my best to comfort parts right now. But many of them are just about inconsolable. The anguish is huge. If I don't get around to some blogs for a while, please forgive me. I am just in the depths of grief right now.
Labels: aftermath, alters, betrayal, broken, child abuse, child parts, comfort, denial, memory work, torture
March 27, 2009
Free The Slaves!
Today is International Free The Slaves Awareness day.
I was definitely a sex slave to my father. If I did not perform one of my "job duties" to his satisfaction, punishment (torture) was swift, cruel and inhumane.
Even before I retrieved the repressed memories of my childhood sexual abuse, I always remembered the verbal abuse, physical abuse, spiritual abuse, emotional abuse, etc. I have always felt like my birth guaranteed my parents free slave labor.
With my mother, it was free domestic labor. My sister and I would stand on chairs, as we had the sole responsibility of the family dish washing starting at age seven. We were not yet old enough to reach the kitchen sink. I got so good at scouring toilets, scrubbing bathtubs and mopping floors, that by age 11 I decided to farm out my cleaning skills to the neighbors and I actually got paid for it.
After my parents divorced, the duties I was expected to perform for my mother increased. Her two favorites were forcing me to give her foot massages and rubbing her head when she had a headache (which was daily).
You may call these childhood memories "incest," "parentification," "not age-appropriate" or simply, "chores."
What these memories feel like to me--then and now--adds up to pure slavery. I had no freedom. I had no choice. I had no means of escape.
It seems to me that, when we think of slavery on a large scale, we think of The Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. We think of Africans being shipped across the ocean, sold, forced to do menial labor, beaten, whipped and treated as less than human--treated as animals, or even below animals. Many of us in the US think of Abraham Lincoln, The Civil War, and The Emancipation Proclamation of 1862.
We think it's over.
Indeed, slavery is illegal world-wide. But, it's far from over. In fact, as the United Nations recognized its International Day of Remembrance of The Victims of Slavery on Wednesday, March 25, it reminded us that some 100 milli0n Africans were forced into slavery in the 200 years of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade.
Today, FTS--Free The Slaves--estimates that 27 million people are enslaved at the present time.
Folks, that's Right Now!
Have you heard this statistic about modern-day slavery? Think you heard wrong? Well, have you heard any of these terms: child labor, exploitation, trafficking, sexual slavery, child soldiers? These are all forms of modern-day slavery. If you go to the Unicef website, at www.unicef.org, you will find a whopping 22 pages of related articles on modern-day slavery, sprinkled with the terms I've mentioned above.
Since many of us haven't thought of slavery since our US history classes in school, let's do a refresher on the definition of slavery. FTS defines slaves as being "forced to work without pay under threat of violence and unable to walk away." Think this is something that only happens on some remote island, far, far away? FTS provides a glogal map of modern slavery occurrence. There, the US is highlighted prominently, along with China, Russia, India and South American and African countries. Each country/region gets categorized as "slave labour used both internally and exported" or "receiver of slave labour and products."
Here are some statistics you may not know, from the FTS "Top 10 Facts About Modern Slavery:"
FTS believes that we could totally end slavery within 25 years. But we must educate ourselves about the problem. We must raise awareness. Below, I've listed a couple more sites that you can visit to educate yourself about modern-day slavery and raise your own awareness. If you want to help us raise awareness in the blogosphere, go to Bloggers Unite.
I was definitely a sex slave to my father. If I did not perform one of my "job duties" to his satisfaction, punishment (torture) was swift, cruel and inhumane.
Even before I retrieved the repressed memories of my childhood sexual abuse, I always remembered the verbal abuse, physical abuse, spiritual abuse, emotional abuse, etc. I have always felt like my birth guaranteed my parents free slave labor.
With my mother, it was free domestic labor. My sister and I would stand on chairs, as we had the sole responsibility of the family dish washing starting at age seven. We were not yet old enough to reach the kitchen sink. I got so good at scouring toilets, scrubbing bathtubs and mopping floors, that by age 11 I decided to farm out my cleaning skills to the neighbors and I actually got paid for it.
After my parents divorced, the duties I was expected to perform for my mother increased. Her two favorites were forcing me to give her foot massages and rubbing her head when she had a headache (which was daily).
You may call these childhood memories "incest," "parentification," "not age-appropriate" or simply, "chores."
What these memories feel like to me--then and now--adds up to pure slavery. I had no freedom. I had no choice. I had no means of escape.
It seems to me that, when we think of slavery on a large scale, we think of The Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. We think of Africans being shipped across the ocean, sold, forced to do menial labor, beaten, whipped and treated as less than human--treated as animals, or even below animals. Many of us in the US think of Abraham Lincoln, The Civil War, and The Emancipation Proclamation of 1862.
We think it's over.
Indeed, slavery is illegal world-wide. But, it's far from over. In fact, as the United Nations recognized its International Day of Remembrance of The Victims of Slavery on Wednesday, March 25, it reminded us that some 100 milli0n Africans were forced into slavery in the 200 years of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade.
Today, FTS--Free The Slaves--estimates that 27 million people are enslaved at the present time.
Folks, that's Right Now!
Have you heard this statistic about modern-day slavery? Think you heard wrong? Well, have you heard any of these terms: child labor, exploitation, trafficking, sexual slavery, child soldiers? These are all forms of modern-day slavery. If you go to the Unicef website, at www.unicef.org, you will find a whopping 22 pages of related articles on modern-day slavery, sprinkled with the terms I've mentioned above.
Since many of us haven't thought of slavery since our US history classes in school, let's do a refresher on the definition of slavery. FTS defines slaves as being "forced to work without pay under threat of violence and unable to walk away." Think this is something that only happens on some remote island, far, far away? FTS provides a glogal map of modern slavery occurrence. There, the US is highlighted prominently, along with China, Russia, India and South American and African countries. Each country/region gets categorized as "slave labour used both internally and exported" or "receiver of slave labour and products."
Here are some statistics you may not know, from the FTS "Top 10 Facts About Modern Slavery:"
- At least 14,500 slaves are trafifcked into the United States each year
- Slaves work in fields, mines, brothels, restaurants...even homes
- Slave owners use many words to avoid the term slavery, such as "debt bondage," and "bonded labor"
- Around the world, the average cost to turn a human into a slave is only $90
FTS believes that we could totally end slavery within 25 years. But we must educate ourselves about the problem. We must raise awareness. Below, I've listed a couple more sites that you can visit to educate yourself about modern-day slavery and raise your own awareness. If you want to help us raise awareness in the blogosphere, go to Bloggers Unite.
- While FTS is a movement/charity in the US, Anti-Slavery is international
- Justice Sunday is this Sunday, March 29. Get details at UUSC, The Unitarian Universalist Service Committee
Labels: abuse, advocacy, awareness, Bloggers Unite, child abuse, child labor, freedom, human dignity, human rights, inhumanity, sexual slavery, survivors, torture
November 14, 2008
The Drug of Dissociation
As I promised in my last comment on my previous (October--yikes!) post, here is an update on me.
For the first time ever--at least that I'm aware of--it doesn't look like I'm going to get a break between the "end-of-the-summer/back-to-school freak-out" and my annual "holiday freak-out." Good God! Can we really be coming up on Thanksgiving already? I can't begin to describe to you my exhaustion.
I've also been dealing with a lot of body pain lately. My therapist says they are body memories. I had no idea that my goal of being in my body would be so much fun. Not!
I want to go on record, right here and now, of saying that I officially apologize to anyone on this planet who deals with chronic pain. I'm sorry that I could not empathize with you before. Having been out of my body for most of my life, I must admit that I thought chronic pain sufferers were a bit on the weak side. Of course, I couldn't know their pain--couldn't empathize--because I didn't know pain. If one is not in one's body, one does not know physical, body pain very well.
I also want to admit that I can't take much credit for giving birth to my son without the help of pain killers. It was my goal to have a birth experience that was natural, and not have any drugs in my system or that of my newborn's. Even with back labor, I did not have anything to take the edge off. Now, I'm not saying that I didn't feel anything. And I did have a doula to help me. But, I did get through what must have been some pretty agonizing pain without any drugs, and it wasn't that hard.
I guess, all along, what I had was my drug of choice: it was the drug of dissociation.
Well, guess what, folks? My lifelong drug is wearing off! And, right now, the withdrawal really sucks!
As I think I said in a previous post, this "back-to-school freak-out" season, I've managed to stay out of the hospital. What I've done instead is a shit-load of therapy. Some days have required three hours of therapy. Some weeks have required as much as five hours.
We're getting down to the nitty-gritty of the most heinous torture aspects of my child abuse. I won't get into the gorey, triggering details, but the body pain has been freaky. I've especially had a lot of pain in my wrists, ankles, neck and back. A really weird one is sudden pain at the top of my head...in my scalp! If you can imagine the logistics of immobilizing and torturing a body, you get the idea of maybe why these particular body parts would be telling their story through pain.
And they are telling their abuse story. The good news is that my therapist and I really are getting a lot done in trauma processing as of late. I just don't have much energy for anything else right now.
And sometimes I revert back to the place where I think these memories will kill me. I think, what I did is learn to dissociate at a very early age. I guess I'm convinced that the pain, fear, and knowledge of the abuse will kill me because--through my dissociation--I don't realize that I've actually lived through it already.
Just this Wednesday, I was at the end of my regularly-scheduled therapy session, and I was so consumed by the horror and actual, physical pain of an emerging torture memory, that I got white as a sheet and broke out in a cold sweat. I excused myself and went into the bathroom. I could see in the bathroom mirror that all the color had drained from my face. I felt a bit better when I returned to my T's office, but she was so worried about me that she insisted on walking me to my car. Outside, the fresh air revived me a bit. After sitting in my car for a while, gulping fresh air, I was able to drive home.
Because my T had a cancellation that day, we were able to make another appointment for three hours later. That way, I was able to get some completion on some of this particular trauma processing, and not have it hanging over my head until next week's session.
This is what it's been like for me, being in my body lately.
The upside is that I've been much more consistent at taking care of, pampering, and comforting my body as well. I've been utilizing a lot of these comforting techniques and products these days: deep-penetrating cream for muscle pain, over-the-counter pain meds, calcium and magnesium supplements, my heating pad, massage from my wonderful husband's healing hands (when I can tolerate it), hot tea, soothing music CD's with nature sounds, the cascading water in my fountain, fresh flowers, various types of aromatherapy, cozy, soft pj's and loungewear, stuffed animals...and comfort food. Diet, be damned! As a matter of fact, I'm going for some mac 'n' cheese as soon as I'm done with this post.
When the pain starts to get to me, I've just got to remember some of these cozy, yummy, positive aspects of now being in my body.
Please continue to be patient with me as I continue to comfort, cocoon and convalesce. Thanks!
For the first time ever--at least that I'm aware of--it doesn't look like I'm going to get a break between the "end-of-the-summer/back-to-school freak-out" and my annual "holiday freak-out." Good God! Can we really be coming up on Thanksgiving already? I can't begin to describe to you my exhaustion.
I've also been dealing with a lot of body pain lately. My therapist says they are body memories. I had no idea that my goal of being in my body would be so much fun. Not!
I want to go on record, right here and now, of saying that I officially apologize to anyone on this planet who deals with chronic pain. I'm sorry that I could not empathize with you before. Having been out of my body for most of my life, I must admit that I thought chronic pain sufferers were a bit on the weak side. Of course, I couldn't know their pain--couldn't empathize--because I didn't know pain. If one is not in one's body, one does not know physical, body pain very well.
I also want to admit that I can't take much credit for giving birth to my son without the help of pain killers. It was my goal to have a birth experience that was natural, and not have any drugs in my system or that of my newborn's. Even with back labor, I did not have anything to take the edge off. Now, I'm not saying that I didn't feel anything. And I did have a doula to help me. But, I did get through what must have been some pretty agonizing pain without any drugs, and it wasn't that hard.
I guess, all along, what I had was my drug of choice: it was the drug of dissociation.
Well, guess what, folks? My lifelong drug is wearing off! And, right now, the withdrawal really sucks!
As I think I said in a previous post, this "back-to-school freak-out" season, I've managed to stay out of the hospital. What I've done instead is a shit-load of therapy. Some days have required three hours of therapy. Some weeks have required as much as five hours.
We're getting down to the nitty-gritty of the most heinous torture aspects of my child abuse. I won't get into the gorey, triggering details, but the body pain has been freaky. I've especially had a lot of pain in my wrists, ankles, neck and back. A really weird one is sudden pain at the top of my head...in my scalp! If you can imagine the logistics of immobilizing and torturing a body, you get the idea of maybe why these particular body parts would be telling their story through pain.
And they are telling their abuse story. The good news is that my therapist and I really are getting a lot done in trauma processing as of late. I just don't have much energy for anything else right now.
And sometimes I revert back to the place where I think these memories will kill me. I think, what I did is learn to dissociate at a very early age. I guess I'm convinced that the pain, fear, and knowledge of the abuse will kill me because--through my dissociation--I don't realize that I've actually lived through it already.
Just this Wednesday, I was at the end of my regularly-scheduled therapy session, and I was so consumed by the horror and actual, physical pain of an emerging torture memory, that I got white as a sheet and broke out in a cold sweat. I excused myself and went into the bathroom. I could see in the bathroom mirror that all the color had drained from my face. I felt a bit better when I returned to my T's office, but she was so worried about me that she insisted on walking me to my car. Outside, the fresh air revived me a bit. After sitting in my car for a while, gulping fresh air, I was able to drive home.
Because my T had a cancellation that day, we were able to make another appointment for three hours later. That way, I was able to get some completion on some of this particular trauma processing, and not have it hanging over my head until next week's session.
This is what it's been like for me, being in my body lately.
The upside is that I've been much more consistent at taking care of, pampering, and comforting my body as well. I've been utilizing a lot of these comforting techniques and products these days: deep-penetrating cream for muscle pain, over-the-counter pain meds, calcium and magnesium supplements, my heating pad, massage from my wonderful husband's healing hands (when I can tolerate it), hot tea, soothing music CD's with nature sounds, the cascading water in my fountain, fresh flowers, various types of aromatherapy, cozy, soft pj's and loungewear, stuffed animals...and comfort food. Diet, be damned! As a matter of fact, I'm going for some mac 'n' cheese as soon as I'm done with this post.
When the pain starts to get to me, I've just got to remember some of these cozy, yummy, positive aspects of now being in my body.
Please continue to be patient with me as I continue to comfort, cocoon and convalesce. Thanks!
Labels: anniversary, body connection, body memories, child abuse, comfort, dissociation, holidays, pain, self-care, Thanksgiving, therapy, torture, trauma, trauma processing
October 06, 2008
On Giving Up and Getting Up
Yeah, I know. I haven't been around much...and I've been saying that for months. Pathetic, huh?
Well, let's see. Would I rather be pathetic, or full of platitudes?
What's a platitude, anyway? My dictionary says this: plat-i-tude, noun
trite or commonplace remark, esp. one solemnly delivered.
Well, let's see. Would I rather be pathetic, or full of platitudes?
What's a platitude, anyway? My dictionary says this: plat-i-tude, noun
trite or commonplace remark, esp. one solemnly delivered.
- see CLICHE.
- platitudinous see BANAL.
Doesn't sound too good, does it?
What I'm about to tell you may not sound too good, either...at least at first. I'm about to be painfully honest here. Please use caution; there are words about not wanting--and then, wanting--to live ahead. This could be triggering for some! Or, you may want to scroll down to the good message--"Don't Give Up" and "Don't Quit"-- at the end of this post.
There was some very recent planning on the part (no pun intended) of at least one or two of my parts (I know! They are part of me; I'm responsible). It involved a possible suicide plan or what I call one of the many "running away" plans.
Now, before you send the white coats after me, because I'm a "danger to myself or others," please hear me out. I had a therapist back in Illinois--years ago--who said that "thoughts of suicide" had really become just a habit for me. At first, I was quite defensive about her comment. But, then I understood. What she meant was that suicide had become a type of "fail-safe" option for me, when it seemed I had no options left in life.
Doesn't that kinda make sense--albeit, in a morbid sort of way? If one has no options left in life, then "LIFE" no longer seems like an option, right?
When I was down at Timberlawn in Dallas, doing the Colin A. Ross program in outpatient mode a couple of years ago, one of the things they kept harping away at was: "You always have options!" They were also quite fond of saying things like, "Use your discernment; you always have options." They really liked the words, "discernment" and "options." At the time, I bit my tongue and kept from saying, "Yeah, I may have options, but all of them suck!"
Ever felt that way? I betcha you have. Well, I sure have plenty of times, I'll admit. I've felt that way quite a bit over the past two months. I told you about my recent, really big-time dissociative episode, didn't I? Well, after I finally, slowly came down out of that dark cloud, I realized that I had pissed a lot of people off. (This is IRL--in real life, folks.) Some still aren't talking to me. I was feeling like I was never going to be forgiven. Sound familiar? Yep, it reminded me of the many ways my mother aka "egg donor"--as my twin likes to refer to her--used to heap spiritual/religious abuse on me as a kid.
The thing that was really pretty crazy about it (my life crazy? naaahhhh!) was that this was one of the more "acceptable" dissociative periods I've had. Like I said before, I managed to stay out of the hospital this time...and most of the time, the part that was out was a part I have that I nicknamed, "The Professional." She's really quite efficient and "manages" things quite well most of the time she's allowed some freedom.
Gee whiz! I can only imagine how much people would hate me now if one of my "less functional," or "more rude," or "more crazy-acting" parts had been out a lot recently. I'd really be crucified then, I guess.
But, there's the rub: I didn't go into the hospital this time and a lot of people saw me acting nuts. So, I've spent a lot of time lately feeling even worse about myself than usual. I feel like, God forbid, I inconvenienced people. God forbid, I made people feel uncomfortable. God forbid, I annoyed people. God forbid, I should ever be a burden to anyone. Whatever...you get the picture. Sooo, then I felt like I was very much: judged, condemned, and crucified.
I guess, when you already feel condemned and crucified--um, ya know, like DEAD--that old familiar feeling of wanting-to-be-dead isn't too far behind, eh?
And that brings me to something I want to qualify here: I don't usually feel out-and-out suicidal.
Instead of having any desire to actually kill myself, I often feel like I simply don't want to live...here...alive...on this planet. I've talked before about feeling like an alien here, haven't I? Or maybe that was on my short-lived blog, "Silence The Shame!"
Anyway, I was just going about my business, trying to process this type of shitty self-esteem stuff with my therapist, when the PTSD symptoms returned big time. The nightmares were especially horrific. These led, of course--oh, goody!--to more, new torture-related memories.
This leads me to another thing I want to qualify about not always wanting to live. The feeling, or "logic," often goes something like this: The Universe, Divine, God, Goddess...whatever...has made a mistake. For some insane reason, my soul or some other powers-that-be, decided my spirit could take on this life of horrors. "Bring it on, Universe! I can handle it!" That musta been what my pre-human soul said to someone in charge. "The ultimate in child torture? No prob. The most hideous of the heinous? Got it covered! The most terrifying of the terror? I'm all over it! Whatever this life throws at me, I'm there!"
Uh. Hello? Somebody stop the world! I wanna get off! Who was it who decided I could handle all this crazy-ass shit in this lifetime? I'm sure it wasn't me. I want a re-do! "Do-Over!" Unfortunately, nobody seems to hear me. So, I start thinking of checking out...giving up...getting out. At the very least, I just stare off into space or play Solitaire or Mahjong on my computer for hours and hours.
I get down and give up because, now, I've decided instead: "I can't take this life. I've changed my mind."
So, here's what I just figured out. I allow my part(s)--at least the ones who are really revving to the above, "stinkin'-thinkin" credo--to brainstorm ideas for "a plan." It's usually not a suicide/death plan at my own hand at all. It's usually something more like, "Maybe I'll just wander off into the wilderness and Mother Nature, or God, will just take me." I have no strength left. Maybe I can just fade away.
Well, this is really a big clue that it's one of my parts scheming. Like that would ever happen, right? Like death--just as life--would ever be that easy! Oh, contraire!
But, the new-to-me point is that I allow the plans to be made to a certain extent. But, I only allow such scheming/planning for a set amount of time. AND--very important--I don't allow any consideration of any such plan to be scheduled to be put into place for at least one week. I tell my parts something like: "Okay. Now if we all agree that there's no other choice but to put this plan into play after one week has passed, we'll reconvene and discuss this 'option' some more."
Almost immediately--when I allow myself this mental/emotional exercise--I begin to feel much better. After all, I now have a plan. I now see an option, no matter how "negative" an option, or how you want to look at it.
Well, less than one week has passed since I went through this whole process last. And guess what? I'm glad I waited. Sounds crazy (no matter which way you may look at it), but it's true. Instead of giving up today, I decided to get up off my butt. I actually had more energy when I awoke this morning than I've had for weeks.
And, then, here's what happened: I pulled out a pad of paper to make a grocery list, and guess what I saw? A version of the "Don't Quit" poem printed there. I got to looking around on the Internet and saw lots of stuff on various versions of this poem (attributed to so many authors, I wouldn't even know where to begin--so I won't). There's a YouTube video montage with the "Don't Quit" poem that I'll paste up below. The poem is printed as a prayer on the back of St. Jude Holy Cards you can find at this site here. There's even a website called The Don't Quit Poem dot com. Many sites claim the poem is simply "anonymous."
Now, on my paper pad, the "Don't Quit" poem is quite different from the above-mentioned poem sources. The notepad doesn't have any author credited at all. But, this poem version is a lot shorter than the other one I've mentioned, so I'll stick it right here:
Don't Quit
When your luck is down
and your world goes wrong,
when life's all uphill
and the road is long--
keep your spirits high
for through thick and thin
you must carry on
if you are to win.
Never mind if things
slow you down a bit;
you'll come out on top--
but you mustn't quit.
So here's the deal. For today, anyway, I commit not to quit. Now I don't want to simply offer hollow platitudes here, but I hope that at least some morsel of this may inspire, motivate, help, comfort or in any other small way just show empathy for you out there...and what you are going through. Because I know, for many of you, it could be really shitty. And, I know, for at least some of you, all your options look like they suck right now.
But, at least for today, decide not to give up yet. Just for today, decide not to quit. That's what I did. At least for today. Who knows? Now, I'm not going to tell you, that if you just don't quit, you'll win the lottery tomorrow...or you'll meet your new best friend...or you'll find true love. But, if you just wait, there may be something good left in you that you will discover. If you just wait, there may be something sweet for you to yet taste in life. If you just wait, your child may do something so adorable, you decide you're glad you didn't miss it. If you just wait, you may be struck by some awesome beauty in the natural world around you.
If you just don't quit today...if you just wait...you never know...
Labels: child abuse, don't give up, don't quit, hope, inspiration, motivation, nightmares, poem, Poetry, PTSD, self-esteem, self-worth, suicide prevention, survivor, therapy, thriver, torture
December 13, 2007
Mourning that Abused, Dissociated Child
So, for those of you who were wondering: I did go to the Christmas party Saturday night. I even wore something kinda sexy. But, I went with a girlfriend. Yes, I had a very nice time. No, I did not get rip-roaring drunk. I actually enjoyed some meaningful conversations with some other women there.
Unfortunately, that night I got home and the wine I had did not help me sleep. Neither did it keep the nightmares away. I had one of those dreams that goes on and on, like you're watching a three-hour movie. A new twist on my torture-themed dreams is that this time my husband and I were both being tortured. It reminded me of watching my sister suffer as a child. It was a dream that took place in some third-world country and we kept being detained; weren't allowed to cross the border into safe territory. Both of us were abused, even tortured, by our captors while we were being detained. Aaaaaacccckkkkk!
I wish there was some kind of pill one could take to never have a nightmare again!
But, Monday I had my therapy appointment. (Ya know, I have 'em twice a week, so they come up pretty often :P ) I even brought in a print-out of some of the comments I got on my blog for our discussion. I got a lot of good work done with my therapist and then I came home and sobbed my eyes out. It's painful and it sucks, but the grieving--the feeling of the feelings--is healing for me. Of this I am sure.
There are two major developments that I'm really mourning over right now: First, there's the ongoing facing of the "mom-was-involved" betrayal. It is huge! It's one of the toughest realities that I've ever had to face. I guess, since I'm now a mother myself, I just can't seem to wrap my brain around the fact that this woman facilitated and shamed me for my abuse after carrying me inside her. I was once part of her own body! How does such betrayal, abandonment and inhumanity work? I'll never figure it out, of course. That's one of the things I have to keep working on--the urge to try to "figure it out." Even when it's obviously impossible.
The second thing--and this is huge, too--is that my sister and I have both discovered recently that our abuse did NOT end when our father left the house after my parents divorced. This just shakes my world, I gotta tell ya. So much of what I'd assumed for years is now proven false. I'll have to get into this one later. I've just scratched the surface of it.
What I am delving more deeply into is an issue that ties both of these recent recovery developments together: After the divorce, my mother allowed us full, overnight, unsupervised visitation with the monster who was our father. She did not fight the visitation one iota. Their divorce was solely for my mother's personal preservation and selfish reasons. It had nothing to do with finally protecting her offspring.
To say that I'm feeling enormous amounts of anguish is a vast understatement. When I had my huge crying jag Monday, I kept hearing this little girl wail, "She didn't see me. She never saw me. She didn't see me!" (Talking about the egg donor who we called "Mom.") I kept trying to reach in, but didn't feel very successful. I kept saying aloud, "I see you. I see you." But, I'm not sure anybody heard. To say that I'm feeling guilty and conflicted about not being able to reach in, scoop up and comfort the littlest of my child parts doesn't come close to what I'm feeling either.
I guess I've achieved a little bit more empathy for myself after getting in touch with what I wrote about in my December 7 post. So that's a good thing. But, after being in touch with--and being able to describe--the horror that I wrote about in that post, I realize that I'm seeing this reaching-in challenge as almost a physical impossibility. Trying to scoop up these little girls is like grasping at shadows. They keep slipping through my arms. Their charred little souls have turned to ash. They've been reduced to dust and have blown hither and yon. I'm running in every direction trying to find them, but there seems to be nothing to hold onto.
How does one return the ethereal to viable flesh and bone?
Unfortunately, that night I got home and the wine I had did not help me sleep. Neither did it keep the nightmares away. I had one of those dreams that goes on and on, like you're watching a three-hour movie. A new twist on my torture-themed dreams is that this time my husband and I were both being tortured. It reminded me of watching my sister suffer as a child. It was a dream that took place in some third-world country and we kept being detained; weren't allowed to cross the border into safe territory. Both of us were abused, even tortured, by our captors while we were being detained. Aaaaaacccckkkkk!
I wish there was some kind of pill one could take to never have a nightmare again!
But, Monday I had my therapy appointment. (Ya know, I have 'em twice a week, so they come up pretty often :P ) I even brought in a print-out of some of the comments I got on my blog for our discussion. I got a lot of good work done with my therapist and then I came home and sobbed my eyes out. It's painful and it sucks, but the grieving--the feeling of the feelings--is healing for me. Of this I am sure.
There are two major developments that I'm really mourning over right now: First, there's the ongoing facing of the "mom-was-involved" betrayal. It is huge! It's one of the toughest realities that I've ever had to face. I guess, since I'm now a mother myself, I just can't seem to wrap my brain around the fact that this woman facilitated and shamed me for my abuse after carrying me inside her. I was once part of her own body! How does such betrayal, abandonment and inhumanity work? I'll never figure it out, of course. That's one of the things I have to keep working on--the urge to try to "figure it out." Even when it's obviously impossible.
The second thing--and this is huge, too--is that my sister and I have both discovered recently that our abuse did NOT end when our father left the house after my parents divorced. This just shakes my world, I gotta tell ya. So much of what I'd assumed for years is now proven false. I'll have to get into this one later. I've just scratched the surface of it.
What I am delving more deeply into is an issue that ties both of these recent recovery developments together: After the divorce, my mother allowed us full, overnight, unsupervised visitation with the monster who was our father. She did not fight the visitation one iota. Their divorce was solely for my mother's personal preservation and selfish reasons. It had nothing to do with finally protecting her offspring.
To say that I'm feeling enormous amounts of anguish is a vast understatement. When I had my huge crying jag Monday, I kept hearing this little girl wail, "She didn't see me. She never saw me. She didn't see me!" (Talking about the egg donor who we called "Mom.") I kept trying to reach in, but didn't feel very successful. I kept saying aloud, "I see you. I see you." But, I'm not sure anybody heard. To say that I'm feeling guilty and conflicted about not being able to reach in, scoop up and comfort the littlest of my child parts doesn't come close to what I'm feeling either.
I guess I've achieved a little bit more empathy for myself after getting in touch with what I wrote about in my December 7 post. So that's a good thing. But, after being in touch with--and being able to describe--the horror that I wrote about in that post, I realize that I'm seeing this reaching-in challenge as almost a physical impossibility. Trying to scoop up these little girls is like grasping at shadows. They keep slipping through my arms. Their charred little souls have turned to ash. They've been reduced to dust and have blown hither and yon. I'm running in every direction trying to find them, but there seems to be nothing to hold onto.
How does one return the ethereal to viable flesh and bone?
Labels: abandonment, betrayal, child abuse, child parts, grieving, inhumanity, inner child, mourning, nightmares, therapy, torture, trauma
December 07, 2007
The Tragedy of the Abused, Dissociated Child: The Soul Has Retreated; The Light Has Gone Out.
This post is lifted from my Microsoft Word journal.
I gotta get some of this down on paper. This will be long and rambly, so I'm going to type it rather than hand write in my spiral journal.
Right now, I'm really oscillating between: being depressed that the fantasy escape cruise is over (getting the stomach flu as soon as we returned didn't help); wanting to continue "going about my business" and acting like I'm perfectly normal...whatever that is; and feeling scared about I'm not sure what.
I wonder if I'm afraid that Lisa--my rebellious, young party-girl part--is going to wreak havoc. I've got this Christmas party on Saturday that I'm going to solo (David's leaving for an out-of-town conference). Part of me wants to walk to the party (it's only blocks away and then I'd have no worries about drinking and driving) and get really drunk. I've lost 15 pounds since May and I look better than I have since before I got pregnant with Daniel. I've lost the weight this time in a healthy way, and without smoking, too! I've kept the weight off, even with Halloween candy, birthday cake, a Thanksgiving feast, even the gourmet food on the cruise. I went out and got some new clothes--jeans that are fairly low cut. I look kinda sexy. Uh oh! Danger! Unsafe! Scary!
I dunno. Lisa's been pretty quiet. I have to give her credit: She's done a wonderful job of compromising and living fairly comfortably with the fact that David is my husband and Daniel is my son. I think she's actually starting to like David somewhat.
I don't think it's Lisa. What am I so scared about? Is it Christmas? I know I'm feeling overwhelmed. We came back from the cruise and BAM! All of a sudden we're in the thick of it--it's the holiday season. I haven't purchased one gift. The Christmas cards we ordered need to go out. We were four days late on our advent calendar. December? How could it be December already? At least I got the rotten pumpkin thrown out and the scarecrow and fall wreath put away. At least I put up a Christmas wreath. But, I have no interest in putting up the Christmas tree. If it weren't for Daniel, I wouldn't buy a single present.
Yeah, I'm frustrated and overwhelmed with Christmas, but I don't feel any urge to run away. No, I don't think that's it either.
There's definitely a lot of fear. Maybe it's not about what might happen now or in the near future. Maybe it's from the past. (Oh, gee, ya think?) I got really scared the other day about taking a shower. (Good God, how much trauma processing and therapy am I going to have to do to finally get rid of that fear?) David was even here with me--his turn for the stomach flu and he stayed home that day. After I forced myself into the shower, I felt okay with the water on my body. But, the prospect of putting my head under the water to wash my hair got my fear all going again.
I really had to ground myself. The lavender body wash aromatherapy strategy didn't work at all. I smelled it and felt slightly nauseated. Weird! I did use the aromatherapy hair conditioner, though. It worked well. And I told myself that, if I could just get the shower in and look presentable, I could go to the mall, get the advent treats, get myself a treat and buy myself some new, properly-fitting jeans. That seemed to work. I got it all done and picked up Daniel on time from school.
I was feeling scared and not wanting to get out of bed yesterday. Some fear is still lingering. What is it? For some reason, I think it has to do with my mother. Why? Hhhmmmm....maybe it was that dream the other night. It was an horrific nightmare that was really gross. My therapist used the word "icky" in therapy yesterday. That describes it: "icky." Why should I feel so afraid about something gross and icky? Shouldn't I just feel nauseated instead? Why scared?
Come to think of it, I was nauseated recently. Of course, it was that flu bug. I didn't vomit like David did, but I sure felt like it with that stomach flu. I don't know if I'll ever get over my fear of vomiting. I still do anything I can to avoid it, no matter how sick I am. Maybe it was the flu that brought on the dream; it was really sick and gross. It was more gross and "icky" than it was violent and scary (although it was those things as well).
*****WARNING: MAJOR GRAPHIC, DISTURBING CONTENT TO FOLLOW. USE CAUTION!*****
(Disturbing content will be bracketed for your protection and convenience.)
It was one of those "movie" dreams where the characters are strangers to me. The two main characters were these obese women who looked like nobody I've ever seen in real life before. I guess, since there was the obesity, they could have symbolized my mother. But, there were two of them (sisters?) and they were much younger than my mother. Physically, their features looked nothing like my mother or anyone else in our "family."
It was violent, as usual. It involved knives, as usual. (Will I ever figure out what the hell that's about?) There was one scene where the perpetrator-type woman was slicing the other woman's cheek with a knife. It was bloody and terrifying.
But, it was the yucky grossness that bothered me more. In once scene, the two women were naked and writhing on the ground, their bodies distorted and grotesque. They were doing this writhing, but they were not in pain. What was that about? A big mass of fecal matter comes out of one of them. Then, something else comes oozing out. What was it? Did I know at the time of the dream? I guess I've conveniently forgotten. Whatever it was, it was even grosser than shit. Both times, the excreted mass was enormous. This wouldn't be physically possible in real life...I hope. The thing that stays with me the most is the fact that both of these women seemed proud of their disgusting nature. They seemed to revel in grossing somebody else out.
***END OF THIS GRAPHIC CONTENT***
This aspect of the dream is confusing to me. In the attitude about grossing people out, the two characters seemed together--in on it together. But, in the violent scene, one obviously seemed to be in the role of perpetrator and the other victim. Maybe this has to do with my confusion over discovering that my mother was much more than just another victim of my father--she was a collaborator.
Yep. The fear is about my mother. I was thinking about this as I was waiting for a slice of bread to toast yesterday morning. Would I really be that afraid if I faced my mother today? Yes, absolutely. The fear was still quite palpable when I saw her at my cousin's funeral a year-and-a-half ago. I was scared to death of her. But, I handled the confrontation so well. I took care of myself and kept myself safe. I didn't even allow her to touch me or chit chat with me. I could do it again. I could be a strong, resourceful adult and take care of myself(ves).
As I stood there, at the kitchen counter, I thought about what I would say if I chose to confront my mother. I said it aloud: "How could you allow your husband to torture your child, and then make her feel guilty for it as if it were her fault, telling her she was bad, dirty and evil? How could you do that? How could you do that to your own precious, beautiful, innocent, defenseless little child--the child you once carried inside you?" Fuck! No matter how many times I think, say or type the words, it's just incomprehensible!
The temptation to ask the ridiculous, answerless question, "How could you?" is so strong because the concept is just so incomprehensible. It just seems like an impossibility for any human who ever had any empathy, compassion, nurturing instincts, mothering tendencies...basic humanity.
I was thinking about this and talking about it in therapy yesterday: I've faced the inhumanity, as frightening as that is. I've faced the horror. I've dealt with the terror. I've processed the torture. I've looked at the fact that I was treated as less than human. I've faced the fact that, as a child, I had no basic human rights. Is facing this "icky" grossness as bad as all that? Can that be even more scary than what I've already looked at?
Well, maybe it's more related than I first assumed it was.
*****LOOK OUT BELOW! MORE GRAPHIC CONTENT, INVOLVING DEATH*****
It popped into my head like a flash: something I only watched on TV the other night for a matter of seconds, and then quickly turned the channel. It was some crime show about serial killers. They showed photos of the victims in a mass grave they had discovered. Aaaahhhh! Oh my God, this one picture hit me really hard. I'm sure you've seen photographs like this yourself--even worse, they were probably real photos (not something made up for a television show). Maybe it was a photo from the Holocaust or some war photograph. You know how you react, when you see a picture of a charred body of a person who's been burned to death, or maybe the skeletal remains of a victim who was starved to death? All you really see is a skeleton--a heap of bones. It's become such an "it" rather than a proper "who." It's like it's not really a human person you're looking at anymore.
Yeah, that's it. It goes back to the inhumanity again. This is what I just can't truly admit to having been through. This is what I'm struggling so hard to face. This is what I am so afraid of. Now, what I have here is just a different way of looking at it. This is simply a different spin on the same inhumanity issue I'm struggling with. Yeah, and it's more than just the actions of those people--those people who were supposed to be my guardians--that were inhumane. It's the fact that they saw me as less than human. My status was less than that of a dog. I was that black, charred heap of body parts. I was nothing more than flesh draped over bones. No wonder I've always felt like garbage tossed on the trash pile.
That's what happens, you know. That's what happens to bodies that used to be people. That's what happens in war, to those "others," those unlucky saps who found themselves on the other side. That's what you see in those mass graves, in the clean-up from the remnants of the gas chambers. You see piles of corpses. Your eyes become slits as you squint to look at the photograph. What is that? It can't be human. And it no longer is. The light has gone out of the eyes. The twisted, contorted expressions on what used to be faces are monstrous, not human. Was there ever a person really in there? It seems unlikely.
*****END OF GRAPHIC, DISTURBING CONTENT FOR THIS POST*****
(If you haven't been able to read the above, just go to the comments section and leave me a cyber hug, will ya? I could really use some cyber solace. I feel so scared, devastated and alone.)
The real tragedy is to search a face and find no human there in someone who is actually still alive. Oh dear God, maybe even a child! The soul has retreated. The light has gone out. No ordinary human could endure such inhumanity.
So we became something else. Didn't we?
I know some of you know what I mean.
I gotta get some of this down on paper. This will be long and rambly, so I'm going to type it rather than hand write in my spiral journal.
Right now, I'm really oscillating between: being depressed that the fantasy escape cruise is over (getting the stomach flu as soon as we returned didn't help); wanting to continue "going about my business" and acting like I'm perfectly normal...whatever that is; and feeling scared about I'm not sure what.
I wonder if I'm afraid that Lisa--my rebellious, young party-girl part--is going to wreak havoc. I've got this Christmas party on Saturday that I'm going to solo (David's leaving for an out-of-town conference). Part of me wants to walk to the party (it's only blocks away and then I'd have no worries about drinking and driving) and get really drunk. I've lost 15 pounds since May and I look better than I have since before I got pregnant with Daniel. I've lost the weight this time in a healthy way, and without smoking, too! I've kept the weight off, even with Halloween candy, birthday cake, a Thanksgiving feast, even the gourmet food on the cruise. I went out and got some new clothes--jeans that are fairly low cut. I look kinda sexy. Uh oh! Danger! Unsafe! Scary!
I dunno. Lisa's been pretty quiet. I have to give her credit: She's done a wonderful job of compromising and living fairly comfortably with the fact that David is my husband and Daniel is my son. I think she's actually starting to like David somewhat.
I don't think it's Lisa. What am I so scared about? Is it Christmas? I know I'm feeling overwhelmed. We came back from the cruise and BAM! All of a sudden we're in the thick of it--it's the holiday season. I haven't purchased one gift. The Christmas cards we ordered need to go out. We were four days late on our advent calendar. December? How could it be December already? At least I got the rotten pumpkin thrown out and the scarecrow and fall wreath put away. At least I put up a Christmas wreath. But, I have no interest in putting up the Christmas tree. If it weren't for Daniel, I wouldn't buy a single present.
Yeah, I'm frustrated and overwhelmed with Christmas, but I don't feel any urge to run away. No, I don't think that's it either.
There's definitely a lot of fear. Maybe it's not about what might happen now or in the near future. Maybe it's from the past. (Oh, gee, ya think?) I got really scared the other day about taking a shower. (Good God, how much trauma processing and therapy am I going to have to do to finally get rid of that fear?) David was even here with me--his turn for the stomach flu and he stayed home that day. After I forced myself into the shower, I felt okay with the water on my body. But, the prospect of putting my head under the water to wash my hair got my fear all going again.
I really had to ground myself. The lavender body wash aromatherapy strategy didn't work at all. I smelled it and felt slightly nauseated. Weird! I did use the aromatherapy hair conditioner, though. It worked well. And I told myself that, if I could just get the shower in and look presentable, I could go to the mall, get the advent treats, get myself a treat and buy myself some new, properly-fitting jeans. That seemed to work. I got it all done and picked up Daniel on time from school.
I was feeling scared and not wanting to get out of bed yesterday. Some fear is still lingering. What is it? For some reason, I think it has to do with my mother. Why? Hhhmmmm....maybe it was that dream the other night. It was an horrific nightmare that was really gross. My therapist used the word "icky" in therapy yesterday. That describes it: "icky." Why should I feel so afraid about something gross and icky? Shouldn't I just feel nauseated instead? Why scared?
Come to think of it, I was nauseated recently. Of course, it was that flu bug. I didn't vomit like David did, but I sure felt like it with that stomach flu. I don't know if I'll ever get over my fear of vomiting. I still do anything I can to avoid it, no matter how sick I am. Maybe it was the flu that brought on the dream; it was really sick and gross. It was more gross and "icky" than it was violent and scary (although it was those things as well).
*****WARNING: MAJOR GRAPHIC, DISTURBING CONTENT TO FOLLOW. USE CAUTION!*****
(Disturbing content will be bracketed for your protection and convenience.)
It was one of those "movie" dreams where the characters are strangers to me. The two main characters were these obese women who looked like nobody I've ever seen in real life before. I guess, since there was the obesity, they could have symbolized my mother. But, there were two of them (sisters?) and they were much younger than my mother. Physically, their features looked nothing like my mother or anyone else in our "family."
It was violent, as usual. It involved knives, as usual. (Will I ever figure out what the hell that's about?) There was one scene where the perpetrator-type woman was slicing the other woman's cheek with a knife. It was bloody and terrifying.
But, it was the yucky grossness that bothered me more. In once scene, the two women were naked and writhing on the ground, their bodies distorted and grotesque. They were doing this writhing, but they were not in pain. What was that about? A big mass of fecal matter comes out of one of them. Then, something else comes oozing out. What was it? Did I know at the time of the dream? I guess I've conveniently forgotten. Whatever it was, it was even grosser than shit. Both times, the excreted mass was enormous. This wouldn't be physically possible in real life...I hope. The thing that stays with me the most is the fact that both of these women seemed proud of their disgusting nature. They seemed to revel in grossing somebody else out.
***END OF THIS GRAPHIC CONTENT***
This aspect of the dream is confusing to me. In the attitude about grossing people out, the two characters seemed together--in on it together. But, in the violent scene, one obviously seemed to be in the role of perpetrator and the other victim. Maybe this has to do with my confusion over discovering that my mother was much more than just another victim of my father--she was a collaborator.
Yep. The fear is about my mother. I was thinking about this as I was waiting for a slice of bread to toast yesterday morning. Would I really be that afraid if I faced my mother today? Yes, absolutely. The fear was still quite palpable when I saw her at my cousin's funeral a year-and-a-half ago. I was scared to death of her. But, I handled the confrontation so well. I took care of myself and kept myself safe. I didn't even allow her to touch me or chit chat with me. I could do it again. I could be a strong, resourceful adult and take care of myself(ves).
As I stood there, at the kitchen counter, I thought about what I would say if I chose to confront my mother. I said it aloud: "How could you allow your husband to torture your child, and then make her feel guilty for it as if it were her fault, telling her she was bad, dirty and evil? How could you do that? How could you do that to your own precious, beautiful, innocent, defenseless little child--the child you once carried inside you?" Fuck! No matter how many times I think, say or type the words, it's just incomprehensible!
The temptation to ask the ridiculous, answerless question, "How could you?" is so strong because the concept is just so incomprehensible. It just seems like an impossibility for any human who ever had any empathy, compassion, nurturing instincts, mothering tendencies...basic humanity.
I was thinking about this and talking about it in therapy yesterday: I've faced the inhumanity, as frightening as that is. I've faced the horror. I've dealt with the terror. I've processed the torture. I've looked at the fact that I was treated as less than human. I've faced the fact that, as a child, I had no basic human rights. Is facing this "icky" grossness as bad as all that? Can that be even more scary than what I've already looked at?
Well, maybe it's more related than I first assumed it was.
*****LOOK OUT BELOW! MORE GRAPHIC CONTENT, INVOLVING DEATH*****
It popped into my head like a flash: something I only watched on TV the other night for a matter of seconds, and then quickly turned the channel. It was some crime show about serial killers. They showed photos of the victims in a mass grave they had discovered. Aaaahhhh! Oh my God, this one picture hit me really hard. I'm sure you've seen photographs like this yourself--even worse, they were probably real photos (not something made up for a television show). Maybe it was a photo from the Holocaust or some war photograph. You know how you react, when you see a picture of a charred body of a person who's been burned to death, or maybe the skeletal remains of a victim who was starved to death? All you really see is a skeleton--a heap of bones. It's become such an "it" rather than a proper "who." It's like it's not really a human person you're looking at anymore.
Yeah, that's it. It goes back to the inhumanity again. This is what I just can't truly admit to having been through. This is what I'm struggling so hard to face. This is what I am so afraid of. Now, what I have here is just a different way of looking at it. This is simply a different spin on the same inhumanity issue I'm struggling with. Yeah, and it's more than just the actions of those people--those people who were supposed to be my guardians--that were inhumane. It's the fact that they saw me as less than human. My status was less than that of a dog. I was that black, charred heap of body parts. I was nothing more than flesh draped over bones. No wonder I've always felt like garbage tossed on the trash pile.
That's what happens, you know. That's what happens to bodies that used to be people. That's what happens in war, to those "others," those unlucky saps who found themselves on the other side. That's what you see in those mass graves, in the clean-up from the remnants of the gas chambers. You see piles of corpses. Your eyes become slits as you squint to look at the photograph. What is that? It can't be human. And it no longer is. The light has gone out of the eyes. The twisted, contorted expressions on what used to be faces are monstrous, not human. Was there ever a person really in there? It seems unlikely.
*****END OF GRAPHIC, DISTURBING CONTENT FOR THIS POST*****
(If you haven't been able to read the above, just go to the comments section and leave me a cyber hug, will ya? I could really use some cyber solace. I feel so scared, devastated and alone.)
The real tragedy is to search a face and find no human there in someone who is actually still alive. Oh dear God, maybe even a child! The soul has retreated. The light has gone out. No ordinary human could endure such inhumanity.
So we became something else. Didn't we?
I know some of you know what I mean.
Labels: child abuse, dental fear, Holocaust, inhumanity, murder, nightmares, therapy, torture, trauma, victims
