Inner Light
Recently Paul from Mind Parts, posted about an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation called The Inner Light. When I tracked down the episode, I was stunned. This episode of a science fiction television series resonated with me; more so, than any of the shows about DID.
Shows depicting DID generally include varying degrees of sensationalism about how a dissociative lives and the etiology. They often concentrate on a slice of the dissociatives life, rather than the totality. One of the key things that I’ve found to be missing in many of these media portrayals, is hope. Hope that dissociatives can heal and navigate this world successfully. Even if there is a hopeful message, it is often a brief note at the end, rather than an overall theme.
When I’m curled up in a ball, hurting from self-injury or memories, I need hope.
So, how does this episode offer hope? First, there’s the basis of the storyline… Morgan Gendel (writer), named the episode after a song written by George Harrison, which was in turn, based on the 47th chapter of Tao Te Ching:
Without going outside his door, one understands (all that takes place) under the sky; without looking out from his window, one sees the Tao of Heaven. The farther that one goes out (from himself), the less he knows. Therefore the sages got their knowledge without traveling; gave their (right) names to things without seeing them; and accomplished their ends without any purpose of doing so.
I understand this as meaning that we have the resources within ourselves to heal. Yes, we may need outside assistance along the way, but this is as a guide and anchor, rather than them doing the difficult work for us.
I admit to struggling with this concept greatly. At times, it encourages despondency… if I have all of the resources, why haven’t I “healed” already? I’m motivated to change, and have been told that I’m doing the work from people I trust, so why am I still struggling? Then, I remember that having the resources, doesn’t necessarily mean that I know how to utilise them. This is where guidance from people such as therapists come in, they help us find ways to access and use our internal resources in positive ways.
Within Inner Light, hope is represented through a tree planted within the community courtyard during Picard’s time on Kataan. Despite the water shortage, each community member voluntarily gives up some of their water to ensure that the tree survives. The tree is described as a symbol of survival and an affirmation of life, because “hope is a powerful weapon against anything” (Batai). As time goes by on Kataan, the tree flourishes, despite the drought around them. To some within the system, this was a powerful message… for others, it’s an affirmation of their work.
The idea behind the community tree, taps into the idea of working together for a common goal. I’m going through some difficult memories at the moment, which is causing a great deal of confusion and divisiveness amongst the system. Pulling together and working towards a common goal is what I’m aiming for, no matter how out of reach it feels at the moment.
One scene in particular was quite emotional for me… near the end of Picard’s time on Kataan, a time capsule is launched by the people on Kataan. At the launching, there is a gathering of the different people who have interacted with Picard during his time as Kamin… people who have supposedly long since passed on. It is then revealed that the time capsule being launched is carrying the hopes, dreams and memories of this long lost civilisation.
Batai – “We hoped our … [time capsule] … would encounter someone in the future – someone who could be a teacher, someone who could tell the others about us.”
Eline – “Now we live in you. Tell them of us…”
I’m not quite sure how to describe it, but this is how they see my role as host of the system. To tell others of what happened, not to recount their experiences as such, but to validate their existence and feelings. This isn’t easy, as we navigate through layers of denial, flashbacks and old coping mechanisms. But then, I have the knowledge that I survived those experiences, and I had the resources to cope in a creative way… that means I have the strength and ability to heal as well.
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As a note: I’ve looked at a few things within the episode that resonated strongly for me; but there are others that are relevant for my experiences with DID and trauma… issues around memories, several realities co-existing and an empathy for children who won’t get to experience a rich, full life. As with anything, this episode may resonate with you, or it may not. The main thing it offered me, was hope. I need some of that right now.
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Now playing: R.E.M. – Stand
via FoxyTunes
PDF Moving & a quick update
Last night, through wizardry of the programming kind, this blog was moved to a new domain – scatteredpieces.org I am assured by said wielder of wizardry, that you will still get this update through your RSS feeds. But it will mean that those of you still interested in reading my ramblings, may have to update your RSS feeds, and your email address book to castorgirl@scatteredpieces.org
I am still in the process of testing all the links etc to see if any are broken, so please be patient, and feel free to report any issue you find to the email address above.
There has been a great deal happening over the last two weeks, much of it lost in a haze of too much work and not enough sleep. In addition, last week Cloudie passed away. Cloudie was my neighbour during my childhood, she would work in her garden and not reject my attempts to join her. Her funeral is tomorrow in my home town, I won’t be going down for it, as it will be too triggering and is a private funeral. Instead, I’m hoping to take the afternoon off work and go take photos in the local gardens.
On the good news front, I have confirmation from ACC that are going to continue to support my therapy. When I see the people around New Zealand that have struggled, and failed to get continued assistance, this places me in a position of gratitude and guilt.
At the end of the week, my team leader arrives back from her holiday. Hopefully then, I can breathe and catch-up on life.
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Now playing: Osmo Vänskä & Minnesota Orchestra – Symphony No. 3 in E Flat Major, Op. 55, “Eroica”: I. Allegro con Brio
via FoxyTunes
Consistency
The one consistency during my childhood were the inconsistencies. People around me were unpredictable in their attitudes and behaviour towards me and each other; one moment they were positive, the next there would be abuse of some sort. I never had any sense of solid ground beneath my feet; and no cushion of unconditional acceptance to fall back on when I stumbled.
Instead, I created consistency through the dissociative system.
When the dissociative system went beyond it’s ability to cope, and instead showed disordered behaviours and thinking, I needed to seek consistency outside of the system again. I had to start looking to those around me. I looked to partners, therapists, and people at work to act as that anchor. As with many people from dysfunctional and abusive backgrounds, I continued to select partners and friends who were dysfunctional and repeated the negative patterns I was familiar with (e.g. husband, my American friend Matthew). I slowly moved away from these old patterns and found new people who seemed healthy (e.g. cynical workplace friend, Allison).
Because these new people have shown consistency over time, it confuses me when they become inconsistent.
Earlier this year, my cynical workplace friend started having an affair with a married man. The one person in the office that I could talk to, and laugh with, was now showing the dysfunctional behaviours from my past. This triggered so many old and new emotions. It made no sense. She admitted that it was fun, and therefore didn’t see a problem with it. Any issues within the marriage, were for him to sort out with his wife. It had nothing to do with her. Suddenly she wasn’t consistent anymore. She was seen by the system as being selfish, short-sighted, and not thinking of the family she was becoming involved with. What about the man’s nine year old daughter?
While she had shown the usual mistakes involved with being a human in the past, this was a deliberate decision that she made. Parts of the system found it incompatible with the person we knew and laughed with. I know it’s about old emotions – the mother was convinced that the father was having an affair. I know it’s about feeling let down by someone we trusted and respected. But probably one of the biggest blows, was to our sense of trust. Our poor lack of judgment in people, was again shown to be true. I still can’t trust myself.
So one of my anchors was cut loose. Yes, we still laugh and talk. But it’s different now. I’m not sure if she feels it or not, but it is.
What’s interesting about this concept of consistency and anchoring, is that within the survivor community, I see it as much more fluid. At one point I will be an anchor for someone; at another, they will be mine. I think this is mainly because of different expectations we have for each group. I understand when fellow survivors are struggling with behaviours and thought patterns. I can empathise and offer acceptance and validation. We’re on the same journey of learning who to trust, what the boundaries are and what our place is within the world. These similarities make the survivor friendships so vital. Although they may serve a different purpose than the consistent anchor, they offer an insight and validation that the anchor may never understand or comprehend.
Consistent anchors don’t have to be therapists or people who know anything about our past. They are people who you rely on to be there. It can be something as simple as the person in the coffee shop smiling to you each day, to a friend you can laugh with about everyday life that seemingly has nothing to do with the past; but has everything to do with healing.
It’s the combination of these types of connections and consistency that I think will help us through.
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Now playing: The Verve Pipe – The Freshman
via FoxyTunes
Confusion
My head is a swirling mass of thoughts and memories…
I should clarify, that the word cancer is there because our old neighbour is dying of cancer and doesn’t have much longer to live.
Note: Yes, there was an major Earthquake in New Zealand, but we’re well away from it. My heart goes out to all of those affected…
The “S” word…
Note: This entry may trigger due to issues around suicide being discussed.
I’ve been fairly open about my levels of suicidal ideation on this blog over time. But the last week or so, I’ve been dancing around the subject. The reason why… on the 2nd and 3rd of August I tried to commit suicide.
I’m still trying to make sense of the attempts, and the triggers which precipitated them.
The main things I remember about Monday, are that I didn’t work my usual late shift, and that I was very tired… very, very tired. So tired, that it made perfect sense to come home, empty a pill bottle into my hand and swallow them down with a caffeine drink.
I vividly remember looking at the pile of pills in my hand, and thinking… “This will help me sleep”.
This terminology is significant… “This will help me sleep”. Usually, my suicidal ideation and intent is termed “running away”, so I wonder if the change in phrasing was an indication that different ones were driving the attempt, or whether I was just really tired?
In the past, whenever there has been even a suicidal gesture, a protector has come forward and immediately called for help. But not this time. This time, I climbed into bed and waited for sleep. That was at about 6pm. The next thing I remember, is waking in a panic at 2.45. I wasn’t panicking about the pills that were now well absorbed into my system… Oh no, I was panicking because I wasn’t sure if it was morning or night, and I was worried about missing work!
The details are fuzzy, but somehow we ended up in ER. ER’s always seem so bright… so well lit… super bright… I know this is a medical necessity, but it’s also about our fears. We hate hospitals. We feel ourselves get smaller, younger and more tongue-tied in hospitals… It’s hard to hear what people are asking of us, and we become more robotic.
As an indication that there was still come cognitive thinking happening, we’d remembered to bring our iPhone with us. Hours of playing Boost 3D, Euchre, Hell’s Kitchen… Anything to try to keep calm! Then the unspeakable happened, the iPhone battery ran out… This tipped the scales back to crazy.
- We removed the lure ourselves and went to the nurses station, asking to leave. They took us through to the observation lounge instead. Yay… power points for recharging the iPhone :)
- WPT came and visited us in the ER, and we brushed him off… told him we were fine and not to worry about us…
- When we were assessed by the psychiatric team… I say “assessed”, but to the system, it felt like a grilling. They asked about family relationships, abuse history etc.
- By the end of the assessment, angry protectors were up front and they ripped up the discharge papers as we walked away from the nurses station.
Yes, we were released with no follow-up or safety options mentioned.
When we got home, there was still the need to sleep. I think one of us called the crisis team, but gave a fake name… I remember the crisis person yelling at us that they were sending the Police around. This was the wrong threat to make, as it gave the protectors hope that help was on the way. They became less vigilant…
We sat down at the table with enough pills for a fatal overdose. It was very mechanical and quick. Again, there was a need to have enough pills to “get some sleep”. Once these were consumed, we went to bed. Again, a panicked waking a few hours later and a ride in an ambulance.
This time it was serious… I knew that because of the number of nurses around. I remember looking over when they took my blood pressure, and saying how good it was (53/45). Usually my blood pressure goes through the roof in hospitals due to anxiety (the next day it was 195/146). I asked if I could go home, because my blood pressure was so good, and it was all just a silly mistake…
I remember the nurses being nice.
I remember them wheeling me down corridors to a ward.
I remember a nurse sitting in a chair at the end of my bed all night.
We called the mother, asking her to come up because we needed help. Our cat needed food…
We were kept in for a couple of days, and again had a psychiatric assessment, this one was much more gentle. They asked about safety and stressors. They gave us options – they suggested hospitalisation, or respite. But the psychiatric ward was fairly full, and the respite place would be different to the one I’ve been to previously. Instead, we were released to the mother (a former nurse) at home.
The thing that blew me away about the medical ward, was their compassion and understanding. I was there for an overdose, but they didn’t judge. They had almost no knowledge of mental health issues (I had to tell them how to spell “dissociative”), but they were respectful of me as an individual…
It’s now over a week since the attempts, and I’m still on shaky ground. Last night, R was very present. I know it was him, because I could clearly see what he wanted – to be wearing just jeans, standing in the middle of the road, in the pouring rain, arms up, yelling (in pain, release, anger???).
I’m very aware that I’m still walking along the cliff edge. One little push will send me over.
It’s times like this that I realise how amazing the people around me can be… WPT came to see me in hospital (twice); while my blog friends have been a steady, calm voice of reason when I needed it desperately… thank you!
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Now playing: The Freshman – The Verve Pipe
via FoxyTunes
Becoming unstuck
Please note that this may trigger.
It feels like I’m falling into a black hole…
Over the weekend, the dissociative fog was still hanging over me… everything very detached and unreal… Then, in acts of what I can only consider self-sabotage and self-injury, I sought out ways to break through the fog. It wasn’t smart, it wasn’t pretty, and if it hadn’t been for a good friend, it probably would have led to some seriously stupid actions on my part.
It started off in the morning by going to the shops and buying some L&P, Salt and Vinegar chips and lollie cake… otherwise known as food triggers from my childhood. I didn’t consciously buy these things, but they were amongst my groceries when I got home. This stirred things up internally, but I didn’t really think much of it… the dissociative fog was still keeping everything very separate and numb.
Then, in actions that were so stupid, they’re ridiculous… I read an article about ACC’s mishandling of a clients psychological reports… I watched a 20/20 special on CSA… then one on a religious sect in America… then, to top it off, I read several blogs that talked about either consensual sex, or CSA…
Stupid, totally stupid… That whole concept of telling others to take care and look after themselves… totally lost on me.
After reading a blog about consensual sex, I lost it… Flashbacks came through like a freight train… Sounds filled my head… and the smells… the smells… stomach churning, repulsive smells.
I have no idea which young one it was who carried the memories, but she was hurting so much… The blind panic, the inability to breathe, the need to run… The overwhelming confusion, the pain…
Too much… just too much.
What does my head in about the memories, is why didn’t I say anything about what was happening? Why wasn’t my behaviour picked up as being odd by my teachers or doctors? Was I that good at hiding it all? Maybe I was, I don’t know… Maybe being part of a white middle class family meant that those sorts of things weren’t meant to happen to me?
Yesterday I remembered a new piece in the puzzle as to why I didn’t tell… At the rugby club where the father was manager, they had regular raffles. Each of those raffles had to be drawn in the presence of the Police. Each time there was a draw, the father used to take me to the Police Station. I remember that the Police used to joke with me that if I was bad, they’d have to lock me up. They showed me the cells. Put me in them and closed the door, so I’d know what it was like. I know they did this in jest and teasing. It wasn’t meant to be abusive. The always laughed and teased the blonde haired girl tagging along with her father.
This is why I believed the implied threats that I would be locked up if I ever told. That I wouldn’t be believed. That I was the bad one in the equation…
We went into see Allison today, hoping to talk about all of this. But we talked about a safety contract instead. I know safety is important, but I’m scared… I could feel the resentment and resistance to the idea of a contract and our behaviour being “controlled” through reward and consequences. I worry about what the backlash against the contract is going to be. Allison says she’s expecting a reaction… which is fine for her, she won’t be the one experiencing it.
I feel like an open wound… I feel like this… If you close your eyes and listen, it takes you places…
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Now playing: Wilhelm Kempff plays Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata
via FoxyTunes
Looking into the future
One of the hardest things that I’ve been asked to do in therapy, is imagine what my world would look like in the future when I’m “healed”… that magical point where I feel as if I determine how run my life is run. When you’re a survivor used to living moment to moment; have lived with abuse in one form or another nearly all your life; where chaos is the norm; and you find your mental health issues driving your every action… imagining a life of self-determination is difficult. I’ve had few positive role models around me, so I have no real terms of reference for what “healthy” looks like.
So, when this months Carnival Against Childhood Abuse came out with the theme of Independence, I thought I’d challenge myself to think about what freedom (or independence) may look like. As I’m making this challenge up, I’ve decided to go for a list of 5 things I’d like to see in a life of self-determination…
1. Free from abuse
This may sound obvious, but I have a proven history of being attracted to people who are abusive, either as friends or as partners. So, establishing healthy relationships is a key aspect to my well-being. This is tied to boundary, attachment and a whole raft of other issues; so I know it will take time and testing. I’m taking baby steps with this through my online interactions…
Free from abuse, also means being free from self-injury in all of it’s forms…
2. Like who I am
I know that this should say “love” rather than “like”, but one step at a time :)
I’d like to feel comfortable in myself – my skills, abilities and who I am as a person. To work through the shame, guilt, disgust, etc., to a point where I can look in a mirror or walk down the street with my head held high. To not make unfair comparisons about myself, but instead, notice differences without judgement. To value those differences in myself as much as I value them in others.
3. Trust
Trust in myself and those around me. I realise that trust is heavily linked to points 1 and 2 above, but it’s such a big issue, I think it needs to be separated out.
I currently have little trust in my decision making… I can make decisions, but second guess myself all the time. I’d like to get to a point where I can listen to the internal messages without fear, and act on those messages appropriately. Usually my internal compass about people is fairly accurate, but I tend to drown it out with self-doubt.
I know that not everyone in this world can be trusted, but I’d like to be open to the possibility that some of them can be.
4. Enjoy life
I’d like to wake up in the morning, feeling positive about the day. I realise that life will always have the natural flow of ups and downs; but I want to reach a point where I have the skills to help me ride out the negatives without it causing a downward spiral.
5. Be creative
More importantly, be creative without fear!
I think this is my main goal in life… to work towards a place where I’m not living in fear.
Whose driving?
The last two days have been kind of rough.
Heading into Thursday, I was feeling good and had managed to pull myself onto some sort of steady ground. That all fell apart late Thursday afternoon, when I got an email from the other team leader, calling into question the quality of my work. That email sent me plunging back into self-doubt, self-hatred and all the other associated negative thinking. My cynical friend told me to forget it; but it was such a back-stabbing insult that I couldn’t brush it off. To make it worse, my own team leader wasn’t around to reality check the content of the email, and I didn’t want to run to the manager about it. This spun me out to the point where I knew I wasn’t safe to drive home. I stayed on at work for a couple of hours, before driving home and losing most of the evening to the dissociation.
Then, on Friday morning during my drive to work, we went past a “hurt” cat in the middle of the road. I always dread this sort of thing; not only does it stir up the system because an innocent animal has been hurt, but it’s a trigger for some of the younger ones. Like a deer caught in headlights, we can never look away… we started reciting “it’s just a jumper that fell out of a car”, hoping that this will change how we see the cat… it doesn’t. This means we now have adult parts smarting from the insult to our work, and young ones upset that an innocent cat has been hurt.
So we’re now driving down the road reciting out loud “it’s just hurt, it’s ok, it’ll get up soon and the people who love it will come get it and take care of it”. There was also a promise that we wouldn’t drive home that way, just in case it hadn’t been moved.
Work on Friday is mostly a blank… I know we had a morning tea for the two new people, and that the manager made a triple layer banana and pineapple cake (which did a rather spectacular topple over during the cutting process). I also know I played around with the iPhone app kooaba, as we’re looking at new ways to try to deliver information through technology such as QR codes and visual recognition apps. This was fun because we were going around the library, taking random photos of books, CDs and DVDs to see what information kooaba would return.
Then it came to the drive home… all the way up the street where we should have turned off to avoid going by the stretch of road where the cat had been hurt, we were consciously thinking of turning. Then there was this little mind fit, and we were suddenly past the turn off. I could hear the panic, but there was also this firm voice telling me to stop being so silly, that there will be nothing there, and it will all be fine.
Thankfully the cat was no longer there, but that didn’t matter, the panic had set in. We were switching all over the place and I could feel our throat closing up. Little Michelle came forward full force, meaning that we couldn’t really drive, talk and only barely functioned enough to get home in one piece. Because we live in a high fenced section, no one saw us getting out of the car shaking like a leaf and stuttering about it hurting.
We got inside, fed Winnie, turned on all the lights, curled up in the corner of the lounge and tried to ease the shaking. I had no real sense of what was happening, but there were obviously body memories. The throat was closed off, and no matter how hard I tried, I could barely stutter. I managed to take some anxiety medication and send the following email to Allison…
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hide
turn all the lights on an hidehide got to hide
he’ll find us
I think we finally went to bed at about 8am (it was naturally light by then) and slept for a couple of hours.
Saturday had been good… we’d talked to a friend and took some pictures of the stuffed toy we got for the young ones as their reward for going through the divorce proceedings…
This made me think that tonight was going to be easier… the fear seemed to have eased. But it’s now 1am Sunday and all the lights are on again. Little Michelle is ok as long as all the lights are on. We’re also ok as long as we don’t even think about going to bed.
One of the big problems with this scenario, is that it opens us up to further dissociation and self injury. We’re so switchy and shaky…
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Now playing: Missy Higgins – Where I Stood
via FoxyTunes
The birthday
I am the youngest of four children. The mistake at the end. I was a difficult birth, and apparently screamed non-stop for the first six months of my life. I was told this many times as I was growing up. It was usually in a joking way, although how you can joke about a child being a “mistake at the end” is beyond me. These stories and jokes chipped away at my self-esteem, to the point where I soon realised that I was worthless and an annoyance.
As I grew up, the father’s drinking became more of a problem. Those parts within who believe he abused us, link his increased drinking to his abuse of us. Those who don’t believe he ever touched us, link his drinking to alcoholism. No matter what the cause, his drinking became worse over time. This meant that it wasn’t safe to bring the few friends I had, to the house.
What does all this have to do with birthdays? Well, this environment set me up to hate my birthday. My birthday was a chore for those around me. That’s if they remembered it. The disadvantage of having your birthday at the start of the month, is people often forget to turn over the calender. So often, people forgot my birthday. My favourite grandparents never sent me a birthday card on time. I was the queen of getting belated birthday cards. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated those cards, but a part of me saw this as being yet another way in which I was inconveniencing those around me by existing.
As I was growing up, I did have birthday parties (I don’t remember them, but have photos as proof). Usually my two cousins who were of a similar age to me, and sometimes someone from school as well. But a school-friend was always dicey, as if my father was home, he would be drinking. I always tried to protect the people I knew at school from my house. They didn’t need to see the secrets.
My siblings both liked and hated my birthday parties. It meant they got to eat all sorts of good food, but it re-enforced the concept that I was the favourite child – especially for my sister. My sister’s birthday is very near Christmas; that usually meant combined birthday and Christmas presents. She always got a party as well, but she always hated my birthday parties. Well, she just hated me.
As my self esteem was chipped away, I gave up on birthdays. By the time I finished primary school, I hated my birthday. But there were still some parts who secretly loved them. I think they used to call out the names of those who was having a birthday in the coming week at school assembly, I remember a young one beaming when our name was read out – someone saw us, someone cared!
By the time I reached my teens, birthdays were actively hated. They were a chore for those around us, and another reason for the sister to pick on us. On my 14th birthday, my sister didn’t want to go out with the family for my birthday dinner, she wanted to go out with her boyfriend (who was abusing us) and her friends. She first told my parents that she didn’t want to go, but they told her she had to ask us for permission to not go. Of course, we told her to go with her friends. Why force her to be somewhere she didn’t want to be?
Just before my 16th birthday I was assaulted. This was the last straw in ever wanting anything to do with my birthday for the teen and adult parts of me. The birthday become a traumatic anniversary. It was decided that it was best to ignore it and move on. Over the years this worked well, the mother would still send gifts and occasionally the rest of the family would remember as well. It became a habit to have the week of my birthday off, as I knew my functioning around that time diminished significantly. Quite often the mother would come up for a holiday during that week, which forced a level of functioning within the system, as a way of self-preservation.
Which brings us to this year. This year, the mother didn’t come up. This year we weren’t forced to function, and things fell apart. Leading up to the birthday, there was lots of lost time and dysfunction. Then on the birthday there was pain, lots of pain. Not from the adult ones, but from the young ones who needed some reason to keep on living. On our birthday, we got a supportive email from a friend, a present from the mother, and a manipulative email from our sister.
Apart from the manipulative email, we appreciate the acknowledgements we received. But what really hurt the young ones, was that we didn’t hear from either brother. The brothers were idolised by these young ones. At times they were an island of safety in an otherwise chaotic life. This lack of contact re-enforced our belief that if we were gone, no one would notice. The entire day was spent trying to fight those messages.
I realise that this all sounds attention seeking; but it’s about us trying to work through what happened and why. It’s about us being more in touch with those young ones who were hurt by the people they care about, not reaching out to them – and yes, we do send messages and cards to those people. It’s about being perceived as a bother and inconvenience to those around us. It’s about not having an adequate support system around us. It’s about not believing we have any right to a support system, and being terrified to try to build one.
It’s about not being worthy of… anything, everything???
Boundaries
I’m not good with boundaries… I know this. When the dissociation and switching increases in frequency, my scant understanding of appropriate boundaries goes out the window. This was (yet again) evident earlier this week, when Matthew Branton asked (a perfectly legitimate question) about having a place within the blog where new readers could get an understanding of my background and the experiences that brought me to this place in my healing. This question, in conjunction with reading Matthew’s account of his past, and Faith Allen’s series of posts about her past on Blooming Lotus; meant that a part of me took this question very literally… Suddenly there were over a 1000 words on a new page within the blog which described my family and what I have been told about my childhood up until I was a toddler. There was a real drive to write this history out, but that need came from a part of me that didn’t understand the implications for the rest of the system. They are a part of me that always obeys a suggestion or request without question. The ultimate people pleaser.
You’ll see that the page is no longer on the blog, I’ve hidden it. I realise that I do need to write out my history, but I need to write it out for Allison’s eyes only. It would be too easy to piece together my history, and find out who I am in real life from the detailed account that was being generated… that just can’t happen! I would risk losing my career and being labelled with all of the negative stereotypes that those with mental health issues carry. I hate the stereotypes and misinformation about those who deal with mental health issues every day, but I’m not in a strong enough place to fight it. Also, to be blunt, librarians are a bunch of close minded, gossiping old biddies… if they discovered that I have DID, I would never get another job within New Zealand.
After talking to a friend, I realised that I can still write a summary here about my past, but I don’t have to go into so much detail. This is where I need to learn about the appropriate boundary. How much do readers of this blog really need to know about me? Does it matter that I’m the youngest child? Does it matter that I have no memory of what any of my family looked like as I was growing up? These are the questions that I need to ask myself, and take my time answering. So, I will put up a new page that carries a summary of my experiences, but it will take me some time to come to an internal agreement as to what I can reveal safely.
The other boundary issue I’ve been facing this week, is the re-decorating of my rented house. I knew that the landlords were going to re-decorate the house sometime soon, but on Monday I got a call from a painter saying he’d be starting Tuesday; so, could I leave a key to the house under the mat to allow his team access to the house. Now, I know I should be grateful that the landlords are doing the work – the wallpaper was peeling. BUT, STRANGE MEN WERE GOING TO BE IN MY HOUSE WHILE I WASN’T THERE. They were going to be moving my stuff. They were going to be walking in my house… the house that I worked so hard to try and make feel safe. It caused havoc within the system.
On Tuesday when we came home, the wallpaper had been stripped from the walls, but the house wasn’t too messy. We could cope with a great amount of deep breathing and locking all the windows and doors – then re-checking them every hour or so. But on Wednesday when we came home, they had painted the woodwork, which caused a huge mess. They’d been careless with our possessions – our cats food and water bowl were spoiled with paint dust, there was paint on our wooden dresser and they’d carelessly knocked over our things in the bathroom. We’d also had to do some teaching that day, so it was all too much… What I’m really proud of though, is that we didn’t self injure! We were in a mess, but One remembered Paul’s oil pastel artwork, so found our old pastels and got us to draw instead of injure. This is what we drew…
Swirl
Black Red
I’m not really aware of what happened as we were drawing these, or even what they mean. But, I know that there was a great deal of energy used on the second one.
We were hoping that they would be finished the redecorating on Friday, but it looks like they didn’t do any work at all that day. This, in combination with a rough day at work and being the anniversary of when Sophie and R were born due to an abusive event in the past; meant that last night there was a total loss of control. I only came back to any sort of awareness late Saturday morning.
What’s interesting about this latest event, is that I’m being told “You won’t tell that b@t@h Allison about this.” I’m not sure if this is a statement of fact, a challenge, or a derisive comment on my inability to talk about the tough issues in therapy. But I know that this time, I do need to tell Allison… I need to get outside help for the dangerous dysfunction. So, that’s what this weeks therapy is going to be about… wish me luck!
This latest round of confusion and self-injury, has made me aware of how little internal communication I now have. The dissociation has ramped up several notches, and my old skills have been lost (or maybe misplaced). Trust has gone, and it feels like I’m starting from scratch again… For some reason I was reminded of this old Telecom ad… Maybe it’s the message about communication being the first step… and maybe about communication starting with the children/young ones… Or, as is now being suggested internally, maybe I’m just a sap :)
Oh, and on a positive note… I’m the lucky “god-fearing” person chosen by Miss Linda to help her money launder retrieve $22 million from her fathers estate. The poor man was poisoned by his business colleagues (nasty men), and her only hope to get the money out of the Ivory Coast, is through me. I’ll be the lucky recipient of 15% of this sum, so it’s all good… my money worries are over! This is also a much better offer than last weeks one from Mr Philip, a lawyer from England… Strange how a lawyer would track me down as a long lost relative, when I never use my real name in any of my email addresses… but then, he’s a lawyer with wicked mad skills apparently ;)
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Now playing: Cat Stevens – Where Do The Children Play?
via FoxyTunes
