Scattered pieces

You shall not pass!
You shall not know.
You will never know.
It will destroy you to know.
I will destroy you, before the secrets are told.

This message has been driving my existence for the last week (month?). D. One from my internal Basement has drawn, what can only be described as, battle lines. There’s no give, little communication and no trust. She’s said several times that she hates the rest of us, and has apparently sworn at Allison – not something that I would do.

The problem… We’re getting closer to her secrets, or the secrets in The Basement. This has been deemed as too dangerous for the system by D. One. This is a Polyvore set done last night to prove the point.

What surprises me, is that it looks rather tame in comparison to some of the other works that have involved her (for example D. One). But, it more clearly shows the dissociative wall she is protecting.

As an aside, she was associated with fire and a serpent in the last set, but now it’s birds and trees?

Last week, it became obvious what she will do to protect that wall. It wasn’t pleasant.

As a result, the mother is now staying with us. Those of you familiar with this blog, will know that the mother has a tendency to grate, annoy and trigger different parts of the system. She was psychologically abusive and neglectful during my childhood, and parts felt betrayed and hurt by her. Saying that, there are parts of the system who love, cherish and want to have a relationship with her. At the moment, for our safety, she is being tolerated by us all.

I keep on wondering what all of this activity by D. One means… Reflection is my key to healing and understanding. But yet, I find it almost impossible to reflect on the actions of the past week. I find it difficult to put them into context. If D. One was so stead fast in her rules of no more secrets being shared, why was a young one allowed to talk to Allison on Friday? It doesn’t make sense. Admittedly, there were no secrets shared, it was a very narrow flashback being described, but I’m struggling to make sense of it all.

One good thing about the mother coming up, is that she has again validated some memories, either through mentioning suspicions, or by describing vehicles that were either used, or around during my childhood. I know this is a double edged sword – if she had suspicions, why didn’t she act to protect us? Possibly this goes back to what Paul was discussing when he gave a brief overview of how societies attitude towards CSA has changed over time? Possibly, it’s because we were a white, middle class family? Possibly, it’s because the mother is a nurse who was clinical, rather than emotional and nurturing? All I know, is that it hurts that there were seemingly obvious signs and suspicions, which were ignored. I also know, that this is a similar story for thousands of other survivors.

So where to from here? Well, in just over two weeks, I have an ACC assessment. I’ve been assured by people I trust, that the assessing psychiatrist is good. But, it means describing my dysfunction, past and struggles with someone new. The results of this assessment will determine whether we still will receive ACC funded therapy, or not. We’re expecting to get our funding withdrawn – either because we haven’t shown enough progress, or because ACC will consider us to be better off in the public health system.

This assessment is what is destabilising the system. This is what is ramping up D. One’s activities… The difficult part, is that even once the assessment is over, it could take months for the results to come through. I’m not sure whether the system can cope with that sort of delay.

On a positive note… Two of my favourite blog distractions at the moment are DogHouse Diaries and Message with a bottle. As a warning, the first is a sarcastically funny take on relationships, and the second is a photo diary by a stay at home father of post-it-notes to, and about his son. I add the warning, as I know many of us struggle with fertility issues…

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Now playing: P!nk – Trouble
via FoxyTunes

While in respite, the respite house owner/carer turned to me and directly asked me how I was.  It had been a hectic day with the other women in respite acting out in various ways, meanwhile we’d been quietly in our room doing art and drinking water.  The question was asked directly, and we deflected it nicely by saying that we were fine.  It was her follow up statement that threw me, and cut to the core of our issues while growing up – “It’s always the quiet ones who get overlooked”.  I was that quiet one.  I always have been.  I actively become quiet when things are bad with my mental health or if people are hurting me.  It’s one of the ways to become invisible, to become so quiet that no one sees you.  If no one sees you, then no one can hurt you and no one can ask you difficult questions.  So, we became very good at being quiet and flying under the radar.  The respite carer knew this technique…

When we relayed this incident to the mother after we’d come out of respite, we couldn’t do it without tearing up…  The carer “saw us” in that brief moment of asking the how we were.  In contrast, when telling the mother, she looked away, uncomfortable with the situation and the tears in my eyes.  I try not to blame my mother for her reactions, she had tough parenting and has never been in therapy long enough to change the habits of being an absentee parent herself.  She does try to show she cares in various ways, they’re just not very productive or meaningful.  Instead of apologising for the oversights in the past, she washes my windows…

We remain that quiet one.  We do this in therapy as well.  Liz has now realised the extent of our avoidance and quietness during therapy.  Our resolve for the New Year is to try and tease out the anger that sits within the system.  In many ways I don’t mind if this happens, I’m so out of touch with the anger that I don’t recognise it as existing.  But, at times when I do get a sense of the anger being there, it terrifies me to think that we will be looking at it more closely.  It’s something that has been tucked away and growing for the last 30 odd years, I’m not quite sure what it will look like when we do lift the lid.  Liz assures me that we will lift the lid very slowly and with great care…

Where the wild things are by Maurice Sendak is one of my favourite children’s books.  As a child, I remember being scared of the things, but also being drawn to them.  As an adult, I recognise the book as a brilliant glimpse into a child’s anger.  Yesterday, I went and saw Spike Jonze’s cinematic interpretation of the book, and was amazed at how much it affected me. As a generalisation, I think the movie would ring true for many survivors of childhood abuse.  Sitting in the theatre witnessing Carol’s uncontrollable rage at things he can’t change or understand, or hearing Alexander say several times “no one listens to me”… it rings true of the confusion, loneliness, pain and fear we experience during abuse.  The things couldn’t verbalise their pain, they could only feel it and react when it became too much.  Like the things, childhood abuse survivors rarely verbalise their pain during the event(s), or for many years afterwards.

I sat through the movie, next to the mother (yes, she ignored my requests not to come up), hoping that she would relate the movie to my childhood.  But she came out saying that the movie wasn’t what she was expecting.  She’d been disappointed.  But to me, the movie was validating – THAT is how I coped with the anger, I couldn’t destroy trees or other people’s home with my anger like Carol, so I compartmentalised it.  I now try to express that anger through my self-injury, suicidal ideation and intent.  This is me destroying people’s houses and striking out in the only way I can.  I still can’t verbalise that anger, but I can hurt this body.  This hurting is the language of the ones holding the anger and pain.  At the moment, it’s their only language.

I’ve read reviews of the movie, where it has been considered a cautionary tale for adults expecting someone to come along as a false king, and save them from themselves.  I think this holds true for those of us during our healing journey too.  We can’t expect anyone to come and “save us” or be our king, but we can hope to have someone offer guidance and help.  Healing and holding this anger is hard work, but in the end we are the only ones who can do the healing for ourselves.  The skill of those around us will influence the rate of healing, but they can’t do the hard work in our place.

I know that we can continue on this healing journey, but we need to maintain our safety in the process.  Our safety has become more of an issue over the last two weeks, to the point that I will hopefully be going into some form of respite care on Boxing Day.  I need to do this to try and work through some of my anger in a safe environment.  I know the anger has to be there, I need to get in touch with it and release some of it before it consumes me.

I said in my last post that I’m treading water in an ocean rip… well the current just got bumped up a notch or three…

I had my last session for the year with Liz on Tuesday.  I’ve totally forgotten everything that was said except for one thing… I told her that I wasn’t angry and she laughed, saying that she didn’t believe me as she could cut the pain and anger that was in the air with a knife.  I’m honestly not aware of the pain and anger.  Sometimes I can get a glimpse of annoyance with something, but not pain and anger.  But they must be there, I’ve disclosed two more abusive events over the last two weeks, that must generate some emotion… surely.

As a result of the session, I had a really bad night trying to work through the different messages and fantasies that were coming through.  It was a blur of switching, talking to a friend and negative behaviours.  By morning the previous day was a gone from my memory and I had a made a firm commitment to taking further steps toward respite care.  I still hadn’t heard back from my psychiatrist, so I went to see my GP yesterday afternoon.  The appointment was very surreal…  I explained why I needed respite care and she was so unprepared for organising it that she didn’t have the right referral forms with her and was unsure if they would accept me because I have suicidal ideation.  I can understand them not wanting to accept someone with suicidal intent, and I’m not sure how far along the scale I am between ideation and intent, so I’m possibly not a safe bet for respite.  But I have to try.

When I got home, after assurances that the doctor will fill in the forms the next day and send them off, I found an email from my psychiatrist.  I’d also asked him about respite, but basically he passed the buck to the crisis team.  To put this into context, I haven’t physically seen the man in over six months.  He’s changed and increased prescriptions via email based on my reporting of issues.  So this latest passing of the buck is a bit of a blow.  Whenever I’ve asked the crisis team about respite care in the past, they’ve always said that they are full.  The only option is the psychiatric ward.  The psychiatrist said that he will warn them that I might need respite care… well that’s pretty meaningless in the scheme of things…

So… I have no therapist for the next month; a GP who has said that I might not get into respite because of suicidal ideation; if I do get into respite, it could take weeks to get a spot; and a psychiatrist who is fairly casual in their level of response.  I wasn’t expecting anyone to come and save me… but at least someone to offer some realistic hope would’ve been good.  I’m now at work and can feel the heaviness of the depression and hopelessness closing in.

In the good news stakes, the mother has suggested that she doesn’t come up for Christmas.  I can’t yet bring myself to confirming that I don’t want her here, but I know I have to.

“I always thought there was something going on.”

Those are the words my mother has repeated to me several times about one of the sisters boyfriends who was abusing me.

“I always thought there was something going on.”

Those words are possibly meant to validate what I experienced… sort of a vote that the mother believes we may have been hurt…  But this is what those words say to some of us…

“You were not worth worrying about.  I suspected you were being hurt, but you weren’t as important as the sister… our reputation… my feelings… anything… you are, and were, worthless and meaningless.”

Because of how we view that sentence by the mother, I think there is a deep seeded feeling of resentment towards her.  I don’t know if it is anger, maybe it is.  I don’t know what anger feels like…  Liz tried to explain to me that my feelings of anger drive my self-injury and suicidal ideation.  If this is the case then I’m in trouble, as the mother is coming up for a two week visit over the Christmas break.  Already the craziness has started…  Last night I spent a disastrous night in the local psychiatric ward because I felt so unsafe.

Last nights experiences again raises the question of where I can get effective help in keeping myself safe.  I talked to Liz about my safety last week and she suggested respite care places I’d never heard about before.  This might be my only hope of finding somewhere I can go to stay safe and have the space to work on what I need to internally.  Last night has shown me that I won’t find that environment in our public health system.  So my only hope is to work this through myself with the basic level of assistance that Liz can offer.  I realise that I can’t do this with the mother here.  I could try to cancel her visit, but this is unlikely to occur as she has sold her house and will effectively be homeless over Christmas.  So, my devious side has come up with a plan to use her to feed our cat while we go into respite care.  I’m not sure if I can work it – it will depend on the psychiatrist saying that it is necessary, the respite places having an opening and me being able to cope with the place without necessary things like my computer – I will have the iPhone though, as long as they have wifi or 3G…  I’ll also have the camera…

I realise that the people in the respite care won’t have any specialisation in trauma or DID.  But, as a friend suggested, I need to work on this stuff internally or else I’m in trouble.  So, if I can’t look for external sources for that help, then I’d better find some way of facing the internal chaos in my own way.  I won’t necessarily find the answers or get the insight that would come with an external opinion, but it’s better than treading water in an ocean rip like I’m currently doing.

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Now playing: Hollie Smith – Bathe in the river
via FoxyTunes

Last week I knew that I was going to talk to Liz about denial.  In many ways I see my denial as attention seeking – like I’m wanting Liz (or whomever) to say “of course it happened” or “you’re right, it didn’t happen and you’re just attention seeking”.  It feels manipulative to be in denial, like I’m playing games.  But then, when I’m in the denial, it seems as if I’m playing games when I say that the abuse happened.  It’s an awful place to be in.  You have the clarity to see your actions in the past and you judge those actions, every word or behaviour is analysed and destroyed.  As a perfectionist, I’m my own worst critic, so nothing is spared.

Liz questioned me as to why this was happening now, when 2 weeks ago I said that I needed to turn and face the past, instead of continuing to run from it.  I’m not sure of the answer to that question.  I think it is partly due to the stress that I’m faced with – wedding anniversary, disastrous visit from my mother, yearly performance review at work, etc.  Objectively I understand that I may be stressed and this is what has caused the denial/lock-down, but I don’t get any sense of being stressed.  When I’m like this I don’t feel much of anything, sort of like I’m on auto-pilot.

In order to sort through some of the issues, Liz said that I needed to try and re-frame the anniversary into a new context as a way of trying to move forward.  We were nearly out of session time, so this was very much a passing comment.  I know what she means, but this year it was impossible to do.  I’m not aware of any real reaction, other than losing great chunks of time.

I almost broke through the denial yesterday by listening to Beethoven’s Grosse Fugue, but it didn’t last.  As it’s a long weekend in New Zealand, I’m not seeing Liz this week.  Possibly the wrong time to have an interruption in sessions, but it couldn’t be avoided.

I’m dreading looking at the dissociative walls again – whether it be to knock them down, or to reinforce that they never existed to begin with.  I know that this is not a positive place to be in, but I’m not sure how to move beyond it.  I also know that living like this is full of contradictions…  How can I be losing chunks of time and not be dissociative?  How can I have no personal history beyond newspaper headlines and not be dissociative?  It’s confusing and yet meaningless all at once, for when I’m like this, I only live in the present moment with headlines as reminders of what I need to do.

It feels very odd and very normal all at once.

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Now playing: Sting – Fields of Gold
via FoxyTunes

I’ve just dropped the mother off at the airport.  She agreed to go home last night – so she doesn’t put me through more “torture” (her words).

I feel like the worst daughter ever.  I know she doesn’t mean any harm and she was trying to help, but it wasn’t working.  When we woke up this morning, I thought maybe I’d made a mistake and she should stay…  But then on the way to the airport she was talking about the cold snap that has come up the country and how it would hurt all the lambs (yes, I can’t even type what really would have happened to them).  I don’t watch the news at this time of the year because I know they will show the horrific shots of the lambs in trucks.  In my world, no lambs get hurt…  Most people would realise that you shouldn’t talk about cute animals being hurt to someone who is DID and suicidal, not so my mother.  This is why I’m sure that she really doesn’t understand DID or me.  She doesn’t intend to be cruel or nasty, she just doesn’t realise the implications of her words.

Because of her words, this is how Sophie was feeling last night…  It’s bad when one of our most high functioning and optimistic one does a collage like this.

Untitled by castorgirl on Polyvore.com

Is it time for her to go yet?  Surely 3 weeks are up already?  No?  Well, can we fast forward the next three weeks then… please!

The mother has been here less than 24 hours and all the rest I’d managed to get in the previous week has gone flying out the window.  I’m dissociated, anxious, craving self-injury like nothing else on this Earth and wanting to run away sooo badly.  Admittedly, this is my fault.  I momentarily forgot who I was dealing with, so told her that the reason I’ve been off work is because I’m suicidal.  That was such an incredibly stupid thing to admit to her.  As was proven this morning when we were leaving the house – she walks outside the front door, turns to me and effectively destroys me in one conversation:

Mother (at the top of her voice):  “It’s amazing the doctor didn’t go through any lists considering your suicidal.”
Us:  “Mum, please the neighbours will hear.”
Mother (still at the top of her voice):  “Oh, well, there aren’t any around.”
Us:  “How do you know?”

She doesn’t get it.  She really doesn’t.  I can’t believe that she would say something like that for anyone and everyone to hear.  It was just like so many of the things she did while we were growing up which stripped away our sense of self and cut us down to nothing.  What’s worse, is that this time she KNOWS we aren’t well, she KNOWS we are suicidal…

I give up, I really do…

Yesterday Liz gave me a handout about shame.  Intellectually I realise that I probably have feelings of shame, but I don’t identify with the feelings or concept of shame as it pertains to me.  To be honest, even after reading the handout, I still didn’t really get the concept.  So, I went in search of the answers in the literature…

Tomkins (as cited in Rahm, Renck & Ringsberg, 2006) states that “guilt concerns what one has done, whereas shame concerns who one is.“  Tomkins also considers that shame exists on a continuum from mild embarrassment through to humiliation, with chronic feelings of shame occurring when someone experiences humiliation for extended periods of time.  If the person carries the shame overtly, they will experience physical symptoms such as sweating, blushing, palpitations and hiding behaviours.  If the shame if covertly carried, the person will still feel the shame, but won’t be able to recognise or name it.  Shame will be described by those covertly holding it as feelings of being ‘stupid’, ‘feeling bad’ or ‘insecure’ (Rahm, Renck & Ringsberg, 2006).

As part of their study, Rahm, Renck & Ringsberg (2006) looked for word cues which lead to Indicator groups and their aspects of shame, as seen below:

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This makes more sense to me than the quite abstract concept of shame.  It becomes a tick-able list where you can identify aspects of your behaviour and feelings.  It also helps to then draw the links to other experiences, behaviours and feelings – for example if you repeatedly felt betrayed by an authority figure, then this will impact on your ability to trust people and form attachments to those around you.

According to Feinauer, Hilton & Callahan (2003), “shame promotes a desire to hide and disappear and may intensify to the point of wishing to no longer exist”.  Suddenly lots of little things about the concept of shame started to click into place… W has a rule that we must be invisible, she is also the first step on our road to suicidal intent.  So it seems as if I carry shame not as an emotion, but as a symptom and indicator of the abuse and experiences from my past.  It is chronic and covert in my life.  What is confusing is that much of my serious self-injury is based around ensuring that I experience more shame.  This makes no sense.  I understand that we will look for what is comfortable and familiar; sometimes that comfort and familiarity comes from self-injurious behaviour.  But why would I seek further humiliation?  Another topic to research while I’m off work relaxing…

This really only touches on aspects of shame, but it’s all I can cope with at the moment.  If I’m up to it later in the week I’ll expand on it so that I can process it in time for my session next week with Liz…

Wish me luck, I pick up the mother for another three week visit tomorrow…

References

Feinauer, L., Hilton, H., & Callahan, E. (2003). Hardiness as a moderator of shame associated with childhood sexual abuse. American Journal of Family Therapy, 31(2), 65-78. doi:10.1080/01926180390167115

Rahm, G., Renck, B., & Ringsberg, K. (2006). ‘Disgust, disgust beyond description’ – shame cues to detect shame in disguise, in interviews with women who were sexually abused during childhood. Journal of Psychiatric & Mental Health Nursing, 13(1), 100-109. Retrieved October 5, 2009, from CINAHL with Fulltext.

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Now playing: Missy Higgins – Warm Whispers
via FoxyTunes

While growing up, I tried very hard to be the perfect daughter.  I was polite, quiet, obedient, a good student, tidy, shy and seemingly happy.  This is the daughter my mother knows and loves.  She doesn’t know the daughter she is now faced with.  She doesn’t recognise the woman who can’t go outside unless it’s for work; the woman who will stand in the middle of the kitchen and start scratching her hand while staring into space; the woman who says that she can’t serve up dinner because the food has suddenly become dirty and disgusting; the woman who sits on the Internet until 2am because the idea of sleep is too scary for her and she needs the distraction.

This week, the mother has been faced more and more with the daughter she doesn’t know or recognise.  The session on Monday with Liz stirred up all sorts of issues internally and I’ve been struggling to cope with the reaction.  It got to the point on Tuesday night that there was going to be some fairly serious self-destructive behaviour occur if there wasn’t some intervention.  That intervention came in the form of someone coming forward to take photos.  They realised we were too unsafe to drive anywhere, so the usual routine of driving somewhere to take photos was out.  Instead they decided to use some props from around the house to see what they could do.  The mother could tell we weren’t well, so she ended up helping by having a look for different props to photograph and holding the torch we used as a light source.  This is one of the results…

Apple

Because the mother helped us with all of this, she could monitor us more closely.  She said that it wasn’t until after the photos had all been taken and we were putting them onto the computer for processing that we sort of “came back”.

Awhile ago, Sophie tried to apologise for the not being that perfect daughter the mother remembered.  The mother said that we were probably never that perfect daughter, but she didn’t see it.  She didn’t see what that perfection was hiding.  I think she really does want to help sometimes.  But her own dysfunctional thinking and lack of healing, mean that she will never really be able to help us.  I don’t resent her inability to help us, but I do wish that she would seriously look at her own need to heal.  She went to therapy for a couple of sessions, but then stopped as she thought it wasn’t going anywhere.

I’m aware this makes us sad or uncomfortable or something.  I’m not good at naming or understand emotions, but I noticed that the body was feeling very cold and I need to do up the jersey we wore to work.

Time to go back to being the perfect working daughter…

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Now playing: U2 – Running to Stand Still
via FoxyTunes