Scattered pieces

I’ve talked briefly about Allison’s encouragement of a formal safety contract (see Becoming unstuck); well, something happened about a month ago which forced the issue, and a safety contract was written.  It has been covering one week at a time and listing the two actions which are considered to be the most dangerous, the reward for keeping the contract, and the consequences of breaking the contract.  It is kept simple, and driven by me as a way to try and maximise the chances of success.  This week, there was huge resistance to making the contract for an entire week for several reasons… but mainly because there is a big rugby game being played here tomorrow.  My reservations weren’t about wanting to break the contract and self-injure; but instead, there was a fear that I would break it, and in so doing, break a promise.  The idea of potentially breaking a promise created huge amounts of tension… like lies, broken promises is not allowed.

Allison listened to my fears about shortening the contract, but said that part of the reason to have the contract, is to see what happens when it is broken.  That sounded reasonable, so with little thought, and despite the warnings, the contract for the week was sent through to Allison.

The backlash was severe, and immediate.  I had again ignored the warning signs, and instead of listening, I rode roughshod over the concerns.

I’ve done this before, and it’s never pretty.  In my head, I counter all the concerns with very adult logic… “It will be alright, there’s only three days difference.  What’s the big deal?”  Implied within that line of thinking is the thought… “Just get over it”.  It’s a sign of my intolerance, as well as my inability to accept what is happening in the present, and what happened in the past.  It’s telling different ones that their opinion doesn’t matter, and that their feelings are meaningless.  It’s another way in which I try to express my need for control…

Whenever I’ve tried to impose any form of unilateral control in the past, there has been an outright rebellion.  The control tends to be harsh, and the responding consequences are just as harsh.  This time was no exception. I have no one else to blame, but myself.  I should have listened.  I should have paid attention.

The problem is now that the contract has been broken, there is a reaction to breaking a promise to Allison.  Ones within the system don’t want to see her again, for fear of what she will do and say.  Others see the breaking of the contract as an invitation to push the self harm to new levels – the contract is already been broken after all, so may as well make the most of it, right?  I know that the feelings driving this line of thought are the worthlessness and shame arising from the self harm, but it’s still confusing.

My head is a mess.  I’m struggling to stay present.

As I write this, I hear the background chatter… the taunts, the derisive comments, the hatred, the self-hatred, but most of all… fear.

The rugby game hasn’t even started.  The tourists haven’t arrived.  That will happen tonight and tomorrow… how ironic that the big game should happen on a Friday night, which has always been one of my most difficult nights to get through.

Did I mention that my head is a mess?

The other night, I was locked up in the Police holding cells.  I wasn’t under arrest… I was being assessed under the Mental Health Act. I’m still struggling to see how this is an appropriate way to respond to someone with mental health issues.

The events leading up to my detainment are fairly complex, but the event which triggered the Police involvement was when I abruptly ended a call to the crisis team.  I know that wasn’t the wisest thing to do, and even though I said “goodbye”, the end of the call was abrupt.  This hasn’t been an issue in the past, but for some reason, this time they contacted the Police.

A unit was sent to my house to “assess me”.  As I had stamped everything back down after talking to the crisis team, I felt sure that this would be nothing more than a formality… I was wrong.  The two Police who turned up, said that I didn’t appear happy; so they suggested that they take me back to the station for an assessment by one of the local crisis team.  As I knew that this “suggestion” was not really a suggestion, I went along with them.

This is when things started to get really weird… I was sitting in the back of the police car with the female officer, and she read me my rights – my criminal rights… you know those ones they recite to people in handcuffs in television programs… the ones where I have the right to remain silent, and everything that you say or do can, and will, be taken down and used in a court of law… those rights.

I sat there rather stunned, but agreed that I understood my rights.  She assured me that I wasn’t under arrest, but that assurance came too late… my mind raced to when my father used to take me to the police station with him for the raffle draws, and specifically the time when the policeman put me in the cells to show me what happened to “bad girls”.

When we got to the Police station, things became surreal… I was processed – my property inventoried; my jacket taken (because it had ties); my shoes and earrings removed.  I asked to keep my phone because of my anxieties, but that request was denied.

I was then taken from the intake area to the desk, where I stood within the red square on the floor, and was questioned about my criminal past (or lack thereof).  Thankfully I was wearing jeans which are about two sizes too big, so I could drag the excess material down and stand on that, rather than the cold concrete floor.

Then one of the worst things I have ever experienced… I was taken to a holding cell.  The sound that the door made as they locked me in was incredible.

I sat on the stainless steel bench, shivering uncontrollably, trying to keep it together.  I tried to focus on a spot on the floor of the cell and stay present.  The internal noise was incredible… screaming… yelling that this is what you get for telling the secrets… voices saying to shut up… urges to self-injure… everything came in a rush.

When the crisis team came to assess me, he joined me in the cell.  A man I didn’t know sitting between me and the door, in a small, locked cell.

He asked all of the usual questions, and I reassured him in all the usual ways.  All I wanted to do was go home… that became my goal.  Anything to leave that cell.

He agreed that I could go home.

I know that the crisis team, and the police need to be aware of the safety of their staff… but how is this an appropriate way to handle someone with mental health issues?  At no point was I violent.  I never raised my voice.  I never even looked any of them in they eye.  I was compliant and answered all of their questions.  So why was I put in a locked cell which is usually used for criminal suspects?  I don’t understand.

I remember asking if I was under arrest when they were processing my property.  The policewoman said that I wasn’t… but yet, I was being treated like a criminal.

All I did wrong, was ask for help.  Don’t worry, I won’t be doing that again.

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Now playing: Audioslave – Doesn’t Remind Me
via FoxyTunes

Don’t look down, just keep on walking the tightrope…

People want to cut the rope, and knock you off balance by throwing more things at you to juggle.  At the moment I don’t seem t have any option, other than to keep taking them on board, and adding them to my act.  Because it is all just an act.  If the rope gets cut, then so be it.  No great loss.

Reminds me of a PostSecret I came across recently -

I only know how to be a supporting character… helping them solve their problems, while giving nothing away of my own struggles.

One day I might be strong enough to send in my own secret; until then, I’ll keep on identify with others.

Edit: Please note that this is about a situation at work.  I’ve become a dumping ground for the different factions at work who can’t play nicely with each other in the sand pit.  It’s doing my head in.

About three months ago, things in my little world, for want of a better phrase, fell apart.  Things had been slipping for quite some time before that, but there was a final stressor which caused an extreme internal reaction.  I look at the few posts that I’ve published since that time, and they’ve talked of my disconnection with the world… my withdrawal from those around me.  This feeling was starting to seem chronic.  Hopelessness had settled in, and there appeared to be fewer and fewer options available to me.

Then, this past week, I started to see some glimpses of hope… lots of little things started to add up to create a bigger picture -  reading The quiet room: A journey out of the torment of madness by Lori Schiller and Amanda Bennett; reading several blogs which talked about our inner resources; and reacting to Marsha Linehan “coming out” about her own history of mental illness.  What these all created was not a new awareness, but a reaffirming of an old one… I wasn’t disconnected from the world… I was disconnected from “me”.

The rest of the world didn’t see the problem, because I was still functioning in it.  I was still going to work, doing what was required of me, and going home.  I was passing for human really well.  But because I had lost all sense of my internal resources and connection, there was no substance to anything that I was doing.  I could voice an opinion, but it came purely from an intellectual place, with no feeling behind it…  It’s only when you combine the intellectual and emotional, that you can fight for your opinion to be heard and understood.

So how do I get back to “me”?  Well, I’m not so sure.  I know that I need to bring a sense of balance, acceptance and safety, into my life.  All of these elements are in pretty short supply at the moment.  I’m aware that there’s a huge fear associated with looking inward to see what can bring me back to level ground.  I know that it’s about going back to the basics… reading, drawing, photography, reflecting…  But, I’m not so sure how to accomplish this.

Writing this post was my first step.  It’s an acknowledgement that I need to pay attention.  That I can’t keep on going as I have been…

So, in the interest of trying something different, I’m going to tell the story behind one of the photos that I took while walking around the Wellington Zoo…

I took this photo as we were on our way to the exit.  What captured my attention, was the chatter of the little girl.  She was talking non-stop, and part of me was expecting the Dad to tell her to be quiet and calm down… instead, he listened to her.  He responded as if he was giving her his total attention.  When she wanted to exchange hats, he went along with it… saying how cool she would look with his hat on… he even helped her with the great hat exchange.  After making sure that his hat was securely on her head, and that she was content with arrangement, he then put her hat on… all the while, he kept on walking and chatting as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do.

This man walked away, listening to the chatter of the little girl, with hats exchanged, and a pink backpack on.  Doesn’t he look like a “cool dude”?  Yet he didn’t lose patience with the girl and her innocent request… did I mention the pink backpack?

It was one of those moments where my past experiences, and what I was seeing, clashed.  It took what seemed like ages to calm the inner chaos that was created by my expectations that this man would become angry with the little girl.  I know that I could only be seeing the public front that this family put on, but I don’t think so.  The little girl was so secure in her position in his arms.  There was no stiffness in her posture, and the chatter was the free and easy chatter that I know occurs with children who are loved unconditionally.

While this scene brought hope, it also brought confusion and grief.  I was mainly aware of the hypervigilence and confusion at the time, but I know there was grief for what will never be…  I can sense that now.  That has to be progress, doesn’t it?

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Now playing: Sia – Breathe Me
via FoxyTunes

It’s 2011.  That means that I can go to the city where the father lives.  I can stay for the weekend, and I can leave without being hurt.

That is what the adult part of me knows.  I know that he no longer wants to hurt me.  I know that I can go to a big city and stay there without him finding out.  I can go to the museums and the shops.  I can celebrate my birthday with my mother.  I can leave without him even being aware that I was there.  It’s 2011, and I have the ability to stay safe.

So why is there that little voice inside me asking questions in a terrified voice?  Asking whether the sister will tell him where we’re going to be.  Asking whether the aunt knows, and will tell him.  What if he comes into the city and sees us?  What if he touches us again?  What if the mother doesn’t protect us again?  What if we can’t escape?

What if…

I’ve become more reticent to post anything here lately. Many things have contributed to this; but the most important has been my relative destabilisation.  The past four months have been filled with anxiety, dysfunctional coping and fluctuating functioning. One of the causes for this has been  facing memories which are challenging the way I view myself, and the environment I was raised in.  This means that many of my fundamental beliefs are being called into question.

I say “facing memories”, because they have always been there, but up until now I haven’t been ready to look at them.  I still don’t know if I am, but this Easter has meant that they’ve arrived like a freight train, regardless of my state of preparation.  I’m not sure how you prepare for flashbacks anyway…  how do you prepare for emotions which sweep you up and take you on a ride through hell, complete with screams and fire?

In some ways, it could be argued that I began preparing for these memories over five years ago, when I first admitted to a therapist that I was abused in a kindergarten playground by some local teenagers.  Kerro talks about peeling back the layers of abuse, and this was my first layer.  It was the furtherest from my emotional reactions, so could be told with little affect… it was also the event most quickly relegated to the back of my mind, like headlines in an old newspaper.

Each layer of abuse has posed unique challenges, but this latest layer is causing all sorts of turmoil.  It feels as if disturbing this layer is going to change the shape and texture of my life.  There is a great deal of fear about this, and many warning signs that the system would like these layers to be left alone.  But then these two images keep appearing in flashbacks… they’re not dramatic; in fact, they’re actually rather ordinary… as long as I keep the flashback looking straight ahead… that’s the key, keeping a very tight focus on a point straight ahead.  If I look anywhere else, it feels as if the Earth will tilt… and we don’t want that, do we?

Over the past couple of months, I’ve been what can only be described as throwing Allison distractions. Yes, there has been healing work done, but it’s all been dancing around these two related images… testing Allison to see if she will cope, and whether we can trust her reaction to the events.  In some ways, I’m still not sure, as some of her reactions seem a little OTT… although, I have a feeling that her reactions are a more authentic reaction to the events; they just happen to clash with my dismissive attitude towards them.  I sit there rather bemused, while Allison is telling me how awful it is that those people used me in those ways.

So, back to the images… As I’ve begun to realise the significance of their connection, there has been an all out rebellion inside my head.  This has meant that I’ve approached them, and then backed away, several times over the months. This dance with the images is probably my way of desensitising myself to their impact… to allow myself the slower realisation of the implications.  I’m not sure if I like this approach, as it sort of feels like a slow torture… why not just do the equivalent of ripping the band aid off, and throw the door wide open?

I recently read a post by Jenny (from artconstellation) about how her stay in-patient helped her realise that she needs to repeat really painful ideas over and over in order for them to sink in and be addressed. I think this is why Allison is regularly asking me to slow down… I’m used to the band aid approach; whereas healing occurs when you allow the emotional connections to happen, and that takes more than one quick telling as you rush through a session.  It takes time, grieving, validation and acceptance… things which I don’t traditionally have much patience for.  I’m used to approaching a problem at work from different perspectives, but not my healing.

I think this is the reason for my slow dance around these images.  Trying to allow the system the chance to accept that these are the memories and emotions that need to be addressed. As the realisation has sunk in that there is a connection between the images, there is huge amounts of fear, confusion and anger.  These seem to feed into each other to create a whirlpool of emotions which I can’t label or even begin to comprehend.  As I glimpse at these emotions, there is that ever present fear that they will take over my whole being.  They seem so much bigger than anything I’ve ever had to face before.

The thing is, I’ve been in this place before.  I’ve worked through emotions which have felt so immense, that I didn’t know if it was possible to even begin to go near them… yet I did.  Sometimes my coping was dysfunctional, but I always found a way through.  So why can’t I believe in my own abilities?  The message always seems to come back to not trusting myself.  There is that lingering doubt that I’m still paying lip service to healing, and wanting to rip another band aid off… these images, and the parts who hold the associated emotions, are worthy of more respect and care than the band aid approach…  I need to remember that.

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Now playing: Bush – Glycerine
via FoxyTunes

I’m not sure what’s real anymore.  There’s been a tipping point reached internally, and derealisation has sunk in.

It’s an odd feeling, the derealisation.  I was just walking down the steps at work, and had no idea of whether my foot would ever touch the next step.  Part of my brain was wondering what would happen if more and more of my foot wasn’t fully on the step.  Another part was wondering why the colours of the plants beside the steps seemed to vividly green, they didn’t look that way last week.

When I’m derealised, I usually have little idea of consequences.  I’m not really living in the moment, let alone understanding any long term consequences of my actions.  Thing is, to everyone else I still appear ok.  I don’t look any different, I don’t talk all that differently (maybe a little stilted or with more pauses)… but nothing screams out to anyone “this person is disconnected”.  I self-injured while at work yesterday; but that was another sign of the disconnect, not the cause.  I’m having to work through some issues which I probably need to grieve for what was, and what will never be; but I don’t think that’s what’s causing this.  I’m heading into another round of teaching commitments; but again, I don’t think that’s what causing the derealisation.  My trust in people was shaken greatly last week; I’m not sure if that contributed or not.  Shame has risen to new levels internally; but is that enough to cause this?  Possibly it’s all of these factors combining to give the system a feeling of being overloaded.  But I don’t feel the overload, I don’t really feel anything…

This was one of the first sets I did on Ployvore last night, and probably shows how I’m feeling the most accurately.  I’m here, but not really.  I’m scattered, but appearing to function.  It’s an odd feeling.

My life, seems pointless.  But yet there is no desire, that I’m aware of, to do anything self-destructive.  Maybe that is the point of this feeling?  I don’t know.  I do know that I can’t keep on like this, my inability to understand consequences could lead to more self injury, and I don’t have the internal filters to be able to stop it happening.  This in turn will lead to a vicious cycle of more derealisation, more self injury…

It’s an odd feeling, looking through your eyes and seeing the world as an odd caricature of itself.

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Now playing: Falling Slowly – Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova (Once)
via FoxyTunes

There has been another major Earthquake in Christchurch.  This one has claimed lives.  The city is in ruins.

I don’t understand.

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Now playing: Enya – May It Be
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