Scattered pieces

The theme for this months Expressive Arts Carnival is:

Through drawing, painting, or any other visual means, create an image that incorporates your personal hopes and dreams.

I’m not sure why, but I found this activity really easy to do.  This, of course, makes me incredibly suspicious… did I not think it through properly… did I focus too much on the happy, cheery aspect of it all… did I do the exercise when so dissociated, that it will make no sense in an hour/day/week… That sort of self-doubt is the kind of thing that I hope to one day not live with so strongly.

When I was thinking of how to sum up my hopes and dreams visually, my immediate thought was to have an image of a woman confidently smiling into the camera. This is my ultimate hope… to be able to look people in the eye, with a smile on my face, and without the need to dissociate in order to accomplish it.  Because, if I can do that, then I will have confidence and a sense of self-worth; and I won’t be living under the cloud of shame that envelopes me and directs so many of my actions.

The problem with this, was that it was based on having a photo that could represent that feeling/image.  I can’t put an image of myself on this blog, and I felt uncomfortable finding a representative image.  I’m not quite sure why there was resistance to doing so, but I think it was because it would be having someone else’s face represent my hope for the future.  As a result, I purposefully moved away from images, and instead created the following Wordle…

These are my long term hopes… so closer to the 10 year, rather than 5 year time-frame.  Some are about where I want to be physically (healthy and by the ocean), but a majority are about my mental health.

In many ways, my hopes and dreams are about possibilities… just daring to have hopes and dreams is about the possibility for a future.  Then, to have that future possibly be better than what I currently experience, is another possibility.  It is possible, because anything is possible.  Add to that my determination to have a life worth living, and I definitely think it’s possible.

I remember sitting on the mat, near the front, and to the left of Mrs B.  It was the first day of the new school year, and I’d just been moved into “The Unit” – two classrooms joined into one, in the middle of the junior primary school.  Possibly because it was the first day of school, everything seemed so noisy.  Other children were talking to their friends they hadn’t seen since school got out the year before.  A couple of boys were running around the large room, while one of the younger teachers was loudly telling them off.  But, I looked straight ahead, blocking out everything as I looked at Mrs B. talking.

Mrs B. started to called out the role.  My name wasn’t on it.  I continued sitting there, frozen in fear… confused as to what this meant.  I thought that if I stayed quiet enough, no one would notice that I wasn’t meant to be there.  What was one more child to a teacher, anyway?  I didn’t like the look of the other teachers, they were younger and didn’t have the kind eyes of Mrs B.  So I sat there, trying to sink into the mat.  Then, the inevitable happened… a boy from the group I was meant to be in, came looking for the me.  In a daze, I followed him to the group I was meant to be in.  I didn’t look over my shoulder, I’d learned not to look back…

I sat with the rest of the class that I was assigned to be in, dazed and unsure.  I didn’t like this new teacher, she was the one who had been yelling at the boys.  Her face was full of harsh lines, nothing like the softness of Mrs B.  She told me to sit at the front… possibly so that I wouldn’t escape from her again.  That is all that I remember of that teacher… her harsh face and voice.

Throughout the year, the classes intermingled to some extent.  If you needed something, you were to go to your assigned teacher first, but could ask one of the others, if yours wasn’t available.  My main memory of this class, besides the noise, was the writing we were asked to do.  This was the first time we were asked to use our imagination to write a story.  We were to then take our story to a teacher to have it checked.  I hated having my work checked… my spelling has never been stunning, and creativity was never my strong suit.  On one occasion, I took my story to be checked by Mrs B.  She read it through, and showed me how each of my sentences started with the same word.  She suggested that I go and re-write it so that it wasn’t all the same.  I remember being crushed by her criticism, because I liked Mrs B., I wanted everything I showed her to be perfect… I saw perfection as the only way that anyone would like me.

I don’t remember how long it took me to re-write my story, but I was one of the last to go and get it re-checked.  I felt numb as I approached Mrs B. a second time.  I bit down on the inside of my mouth as she read my story.  I stood silently, waiting.  When she raised her arm, I flinched… I remained like stone as she draped her arm around my shoulders, pulled me up against the side of her body, and hugged me.  It was only as she started praising me, that I relaxed… I still remember her voice telling me that she knew I could do it.  She gave me one last gentle squeeze, before releasing me and writing an A on my paper.

As I walked back to my desk, I was beaming… I’d finally done something right.

These are the main memories I have of the first teacher who showed me kindness.  Other teachers since Mrs B. have shown me kindness, but I’ll always remember that hug.  I don’t know if she hugged other children, I imagine she did…  I don’t know if she realised the importance of that hug for me, I doubt it.  I imagine that for Mrs B., it was something she did as a reward for good work… for me, it was about being touched in a safe way, acceptance and kindness.

Thank you Mrs B.  Thank you for showing an awkward child that there was such a thing as safety in this world.

The Expressive Arts Carnival this month is to provide three words, and a hex colour code to contribute towards a healing word cloud.  My three words are: safety, acceptance and kindness.  I chose purple as the colour for my words, because for me, it represents protection and safety.

Thank you Paul… I needed the reminder that healing doesn’t always have to be painful.

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Now playing: Counting Crows – Rain King
via FoxyTunes

The theme for this months Expressive Arts Carnival is:

Through drawing, painting, photography or any other visual means, create an image about mechanisms you have used to cope when you thought you could not.

I admit it, I have a love/hate relationship with coping mechanisms.  I’m often told by mental health professionals that I know plenty of coping mechanisms…  I’m often told by the crisis lines to “go do your coping techniques”…  Both of these statements have a tendency to annoy me.  While they’re both true, I also see them as a cop out.  So I know plenty of coping mechanisms, does that mean I can’t learn any more?  Yes, doing various coping techniques help me when I’m feeling overwhelmed; but by the time I’ve called the crisis lines, I’ve usually been doing them for at least 12 hours straight and need some support beyond what the coping mechanisms can provide.  So while I see the need for coping mechanisms, I sometimes approach them with a sense of dread.

Even after all of these years, I still label the activities “coping mechanisms”, which can sometimes cause an odd tension.  I know that I need to do them in order to help keep me present and safe; but because of the connotations surrounding their use, it feels as if they are assigned a label, and trotted out on special occasions.  This is even for the techniques I have managed to build into my life as part of my routine and attempts to enrich my life.  One week I may go out and take photos because I feel like it; but the next week, taking photos becomes a coping technique which must be carried out in order to keep the crazy at bay.  Same activity, but totally different meanings.

It can be challenging to use coping techniques.  They can act as a distraction from the emotions which threaten to overwhelm, but they also encourage you to sit with the emotions without “checking out” through the use of the old, less healthy means of coping (self-injury, etc).  It can also be challenging finding ones which work… something that works one day, might not work another.  Even realising that you are worthy of using a healthy coping mechanism, instead of self-injuring, can be difficult.  There are times when no matter what I try, I’m still swept along with the old ways of coping… but I’ve found that the more I get angry at myself for that, the more anxiety there is the next time I begin to get overwhelmed.  That’s not to say that I accept that the self-injury has happened, I don’t; instead I try to learn from it.  The more I can learn about the triggers and the motivations, the more likely I am to recognise the warning signs, and try different coping mechanisms before it’s too late.

My entry for this months carnival is an indication of my attempts to learn about new ways of coping.  Last year, I underwent a psychiatric assessment to determine my level of impairment.  I don’t react well to any assessment, but this one was particularly difficult.  I wrote a history of my abuse… something that I’d never done before, and it caused a great deal of turmoil and confusion.

I knew beforehand that I might react badly to the assessment, so I made plans to try and help myself cope with it all.  I arranged for some time off work, asked my mother to stay, and organised a trip by the sea as a reward for getting through the assessment.  On one level, these arrangements made sense… I was unlikely to be able to function at work, so arrange some time off work, etc.  But, on another level, they were also attempts at self care and utilising positive coping mechanisms.  Trying to understand my limits, and working within them.

Not everything went as planned, and there was some serious bumps along the way.  Probably the most challenging time was when I went away for the trip.  What should have been a restful time at the beach, turned into a messy contradiction in terms of coping and safety.  At times, I could go for a walk along the beach and feel the sense of peace; but at times, I was swept away by the emotions which were stirred by the assessment.  After one particularly bad night, I forced myself to pick up my camera and go for a walk.  I walked for hours… something that is rare for me, as I usually need a purpose when going out.  During that walk, I took the photo below.  It’s not my best photo, but it represents a time when I was struggling so desperately to stay present and safe.  If I’d been more present, I would have chosen a different angle, and camera settings… but as it is, the photo shows my attempts to connect to the environment around me. It’s not perfect, but it stills works… especially if you squint a bit, and tilt your head to the right.

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Now playing: Natalie Merchant – Wonder
via FoxyTunes

The theme for this months Expressive Arts Carnival is:

Through drawing, painting, photography or any other visual means, create an image representing your relationship with “safety”.

As I’ve described before, my relationship with safety is tenuous and rather dysfunctional.  Allison asked me last week whether I felt safe in her office, I asked her what safe was… This interaction sums up my confusion towards safety.  Intellectually I know the definition of safety, but I don’t have a framework to put that experience in for myself.  At times, I consider it safe to be in the middle of an open field or park, where I can see if someone is coming to get me.  Sometimes I consider it safe at home with all of the windows and doors locked.  Other times, I consider it to be safe to be in the middle of an abusive event – there is a sense of having control over the situation.  So yes… dysfunctional.

Internally there is little sense of safety.  The closest I get to the feeling is when I’m out taking photos, or watching the ocean.  This is when I get a sense of calm.  The internal noise quietens down, and there is a sense of being.  This feeling is rare, and even when I’m doing those things, I don’t always feel it.  This highlights for me that safety can only be reached through a combination of factors, but most important are the internal ones.  If I can be in exactly the same situation twice, with one time feeling things slowing down, and another time them still racing… it indicates that my reactions are the deciding factor.  The problem is trying to establish why there is a different reaction.

I know that trust plays a big part in my feelings towards safety.  The ability to trust those around me, and myself.  I second guess the motivations of those around me, because I don’t understand that people would want anything to do with me, without wanting something from me.  I wish I could say that these are all old feelings, but they’re not.  I’m often only sought out at work to fix something for someone, or to do extra work… rarely is it for anything else.  Yet, I also know that I encourage this sort of impersonal interaction… if the “go away” neon sign above my head was any bigger, it would topple over into the razor wire topped concrete wall that surrounds me.  Yet, I still don’t feel safe inside my wall…

This is why I keep on doing the difficult work of healing.

This is why my entry into this months carnival is menacing, rather than optimistic.  Safety feels like some out of reach ideal that only happens to good people…

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Now playing: Tracy Chapman – All That You Have Is Your Soul
via FoxyTunes

The activity for this months Expressive Arts Carnival is to:

Write your memoir using only six words and present it as an image.

I’ve been trying out different ideas for this activity for the last few weeks, and I’ve found it a useful tool in helping me to understand where I am in the moment.  Each day, I would think of six words which described my day, feelings or experiences, and put them into Wordle to see if I could generate a graphic of what was going on internally for me.  In some ways, this exercise is a link between my Polyvore sets, which  are a visual representation of my experiences; and this written blog.

Here are a couple that I’ve created over the last week or so…

Pain

Expectations

I was going to submit one of these, but then I clarified with Paul whether the autobiography was to be descriptive words, or a sentence.  Strangely enough, he considered an autobiography to be (at least) a sentence **Please note: Paul doesn’t expect a sentence, there was a bit of miscommunication going on**.  As it was identified when I reached university that I was unable to tell a complete sentence from an aardvark, I didn’t see this as a huge stumbling block… incomplete sentences are my forte, although they tend to be  incoherent, rambling marathons; rather than anything pithy.  But grouping random words together with an ellipses thrown in for good luck, seemed doable.  Here’s the result:

The first half of the sentence describes how the expectations, needs and wants of others, defined me for so long that I seemed to get lost, and become almost like a puppet…  I did my undergraduate degree, not because I enjoyed the subject, but because I got good grades in it.  I got married because society expects a woman in her thirties to be married.  I stayed silent when I should have screamed, because I didn’t want to hurt or inconvenience others…  These are all indicators of my abusive past, and I’m still very much under their influence; therefore the words representing that past are so dominant.  But I’m now starting to redefine the distorted self image, even though that redefinition is feeling a little shaky and unsure; as can be seen by the smaller second half of the sentence.

After I completed this activity, and reflected back on it, I could see those old dysfunctions coming through.  As you can tell in my descriptive word exercises, I’m feeling quite disconnected from things at the moment, so use the more impersonal “self” instead of “myself”.  It’s also a much lighter colour – almost like I’m scared to come forward and be seen/heard.  I used the term “redefining” instead of “defining”, to indicate that it’s all a work in progress.

As with all of the Arts Carnival activities, this has helped me understand a little more about myself.  It also helped to establish a little bit of reflective connection in an otherwise disjointed month.  Even if you don’t submit anything for the Arts carnival, I’d encourage you to give this exercise a try, it’s been interesting seeing how the words changed over time – and noticing which ones have stayed the same.

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Now playing: Sarah McLachlan – Angel
via FoxyTunes

When Paul announced that the topic for both the Carnival Against Child Abuse, and Expressive Arts Carnival would be “your truth”, I was excited. I struggle with what my truth is, almost on a daily basis; so saw this as a great way to explore my reactions and issues around the concept.  Then the reality of writing about the topic hit me… literally.  I published a post about my truth last week, which received some negative feedback, and all my insecurities came out and had a party.  It became a fight about whether I would look more foolish keeping it up, or taking it down.  I decided to take it down.

I consider truth to be an amorphous concept.  What I wrote last week, was my truth at that time.  What I write today, will be different because I’ve learned from last week’s experience, and gained more understanding about the situation.  If I write another post on this topic in a week, month or year, it will be different again.  Truth isn’t set in stone.  Truth is derived from the understanding of our experiences… but that understanding comes from our perspective, bias, values, etc.

Truth also has political, economic and cultural importance.  This is where I start to get confused – not because I think I’m of any great importance, but rather because so many people seem to have a vested interest in my truth…

• The False Memory Syndrome Foundation and DID deniers are vocal in their opinion and research that they say proves you cannot repress traumatic memory in the way that many DID cases are presenting.
• Extreme supporters of DID tell you to seek out each memory and believe it as the truth.
• My family don’t know what to believe, but they are tired of having a daughter who is unwell.
• Work doesn’t care as long as they get more than my contracted hours of work, and I don’t inconvenience them with my phobias.
• ACC accepts that I have issues related to sexual abuse, but would prefer this to have been “resolved” long ago so that they didn’t need to keep funding my therapy.

I find it impossible to ignore all of these conflicting messages and theories.  In some ways, I think it’s dangerous to do so.  Each group has something to teach us… FMS helped to place a check of poor therapeutic practice; our family show us how confusing our experience can appear to the outside world; and so on.  But, I don’t think that it’s up to us as individuals, to get caught up in the debates and arguments.  I think that we owe it to ourselves to be an informed consumer; to gain power over our own healing, and to play an active part in that healing process.  But we shouldn’t hurt ourselves in the process.

I’ve read much of the FMS material.  I’ve debated with the DID deniers.  I’ve questioned the beliefs of the extreme supporters.  Each of those interactions has come at a personal cost.  I begin to doubt my truth.  I become conflicted and destabilised.  Opponents to DID, would argue that this destabilisation was due to the house of cards that I have built my life on, being threatened.  The thing is, the intellectual part of me likes this reasoning.  At times I embrace denial for all it’s worth.  Events which I know occurred are minimised, or I detach emotionally from them.

But, this doesn’t explain how I continue to react to things.  Even in the midst of my denial, I still avoid the smell of tyres on a hot summer day, I must have my back to the wall… the list goes on.  I can appear bright, happy and be super-functional; yet internally I’ve compartmentalised the turmoil, and can dangerously self injure within the hour.  This is where my intellectual/autobiographical truth, and the truth of my sensory memory collide.  For me, healing comes, not from trying to uncover every single memory, but rather in coping with what I am facing in the present – it’s about symptom management, not chasing memories.

It’s my intellectual part that needs to know what happened to me; but this has never been where my healing has occurred.  My greatest leaps in healing have always come from working through a trigger in the present.  It’s shown the wounded parts of me that it is possible to be safe.  Ironically, this safety has often led to more sharing of emotions, and yes, sometimes memories.  But these were shared from a place of strength, not chaos.  They didn’t have the power to sweep me along on an emotional tidal wave.  That’s not to say that I don’t get swept away, I do.  But I’m learning how to cope in the present in a more proactive way… a more emotional way.  It’s uncomfortable, it’s scary, but the benefits are showing.

So what is my truth?  I was hurt in the past by people who should have protected me.  That betrayal of trust now influences my life in significant ways.  I get confused, distracted and hurt by the controversy that is associated with the diagnostic label that a psychiatrist assigned me.  I am trying my best to heal from the wounds of the past, understand the controversy, and (more importantly) live a life.  Isn’t that what most of us are trying to do?

What is the truth… or are they both the truth seen from different perspectives?

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Now playing: Collective Soul – December
via FoxyTunes

Note: The images in this entry could be triggering.

The activity for this months Expressive Arts Carnival was:

Through drawing, painting or any other visual means, create a self portrait. Please also include a couple of sentences saying what the process was like for you.

Over the years I have done a few self portraits – many of my Polyvore sets are forms of self portraits, although I’m rarely aware of it at the time.  So to approach an activity with the intent of creating a self portrait, was oddly intimidating.  It’s difficult to portray to the world how you see yourself, when you know that your self image is so twisted.  I can see myself as innocent, guilty, fat, thin, ugly, dirty, disgusting, etc all at once.

There is an added layer of confusion, when you see yourself as a reflection of those around you.  The most obvious example of this is when I was growing up, I was constantly comparing myself to the sister.  She always seemed to be able to garner the attention of the parents that I so desperately wanted.  I never seemed to be able to get it though, no matter how much I tried.

So, I entered into this exercise with a great deal of trepidation.  I had no idea what I was going to do, until I read back over a couple of blog entries, and spotted my comment about the sister and I both receiving identical dolls with different coloured outfits for Christmas.  Then it became fairly easy.  Purchasing identical dolls was as simple as going to The Warehouse (Target or Walmart equivalent).  But then came the task of creating the difference between the two dolls.  In many ways, what I ended up creating was the exact opposite of how we appeared to the outside world… the sister was “the bad one”, who always got into trouble; while I was “the good one”, who always appeared perfect.  But with the dolls, I created how we appeared in my mind…

Self Portrait

The front doll is the sister, and I’m in the background.  She’s looking straight at the camera, getting the attention she deserves; meanwhile, I’m  obscured, blurry, looking down, trying to be invisible.

You might be able to tell that I “altered” the doll representing myself.  This alteration, is a reflection of how I see myself – as damaged goods.

Eye

I was amazed that I was able to damage the doll, and fairly easily.  All of the toys I purchase, are left in their packaging, usually with the price still on.  I’m not allowed to open or touch them due to how I might contaminate them with my filth.  Yet, with these dolls, they were opened and one of them basically destroyed within a very short time.  It was cathartic, and slightly disturbing.  I now have a damaged doll… I’ve no idea what I’m going to do with it.

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Now playing: P!nk – Family Portrait
via FoxyTunes

The activity for this months Expressive Arts Carnival was open:

Because of the holiday season, this month’s theme is “OPEN”. Any survivor art is welcome! Please try to send a sentence or two of text you would like to accompany your art, but this is by no means a requirement.

The Spiral.

It represents the healing journey, with all of the bumps and pitfalls that are encountered on the way.
It shows the connections, and lack of connections that we feel internally and externally.
It shows the darkness we feel we are going towards, instead of away from.

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Now playing: Mama Cass Eliot – Dream a little dream of me
via FoxyTunes

The activity for this months Expressive Arts Carnival is to:

Draw a wall using any medium, and show what is on one or both sides. Please also write a couple of sentences saying what the process was like for you.

When I was seeing Liz (about a year ago), I created a Polyvore set which I titled Barriers, and showed what my defense mechanisms and walls were…

This shows my walls as being the razor wire fence, behind which hurt and angry ones can be seen.  What’s interesting, is that an abusive event can be seen fairly clearly, almost as if the memory is the defense against looking closer at the hurt ones and their emotions.  A hidden, and shameful part of the wall is sex; while the more obvious things that make up the wall are my education, work, food, perfectionism, alcohol, cutting and the idea/memories of the perfect family.  The protector with the knives, is one of our more heavy handed protectors, and indicates how out of control we were at the time…

Today, I drew another wall with oil pastels.  I love oil pastels because of their tactile nature.  But I also hate them, because they’re not “precise” enough for me… they have this annoying habit of not having straight lines and bleeding into each other.  Ok, so may be I don’t know how to manipulate them correctly to get the blending done precisely… or, may be that’s the point of them, to be imperfect.

This is what I drew…

Wall

The green and purple are the colours in front of the wall.  These are the colours that protect the rest of the system, and the outside world, from the wall and what is behind it.  The purple acts as a warning, and the green as a grounding colour.  Then there is the black wall.  This wall must be strong and impervious.  The bright red, or anger, is the first thing bashing against the wall, then the shame of blue; before the black emptiness of the unknown.  Each of the colours is separated by mini black walls, to try and keep layers upon layers of protection occurring.

I’m struck by the contrasts between the images.  The first is controlled, yet descriptive; while the second is controlled and abstract.  I often describe my internal world behind the wall as either a gaping chasm of nothingness, or a swirling mess of emotions… neither quite fit the image that I’ve drawn.  I’m not particularly grounded today, so that could be the reason for the disparity.

To add to the oddity, I deliberately chose Missy Higgins’  version of Stuff and Nonsense to go with this entry – a song about knowing/loving in the present, but not being able to guarantee anything in the future.

I sometimes wonder if I’m looking for meaning when there is none, or whether I’m missing the point.  One day, I may find out, but not today.

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Now playing: Missy Higgins – Stuff and Nonsense
via FoxyTunes

The activity for this months Expressive Arts Carnival is to:

Draw or paint your breath.

On one sheet of paper, draw or paint your breath in the moment. Then, immediately after, listen to some soothing music (if you want), close your eyes (if it is okay) and focus on your breathing. Do this for a couple minutes and try to relax.

When you are done with the breathing exercise, come back to the drawing and draw your breath again on the other paper.

When I thought of this activity, I had a very preconceived idea of what I was going to draw.  I had the patterns and colours planned.  I was “set”.  In my minds eye, the two images looked similar to these photos that I took awhile ago.

This is typical of what happens when I do conscious breathing.  I become calm and return to a central place of being where everything flows.  So when I sat down to do this exercise, I went with these images in my head.

What I drew, was nothing like I intended.

The first drawing was very easy, and very symbolic.  My breathing can become very shallow, choppy and quick.  It feels like I have a huge blockage in my throat that prevents my breath from going down into my lungs.  While the exhalations are short and sharp.  There’s very little fluidity about my breathing, and I can be like this for hours or days if my stress levels are high.

After doing the conscious breathing and relaxing, I came back to the paper ready to draw my nice flowing swirls to indicate how centered and aware I was.  I used finger paints, because I thought it would help me to blend the colours and feel as if I was more in touch with the whole experience.  I had six colours to chose from, and was going to cut this down to five by removing the black punnet – black didn’t fit into my view of the flowing picture I was about to draw.  But there was a strong internal message about being a censor if I didn’t allow for the possibility of black to be used; so it remained in front of me.

I’m aware that I started off with a central core of yellow, then moved outwards to the other colours.  The next thing I was aware of, was sitting back and looking at the image below.

Not quite the flowing picture I had in mind.

But in that moment, this is what was happening.  When I relaxed, the emotions came forward and were expressed through the drawing.

I think the only reason that some colour remained, was because there was an internal conflict, or backlash, about erasing another ones work.  I know I took a risk in using finger paints, I could tell there was curiosity about them.  The last time I used finger paints was probably in kindergarten.  I was aware of smiling as I dipped my finger in the yellow punnet of paint.

What’s interesting, was that there was a need to eliminate the yellow colour first.