Inadequate words for hurting people

Life does go on. Strange and horrid things still happen. Like so many other people, I am hurting for the families in Newtown. I grieve and pray for the families of the slain, the children who survived but are scarred... for the small town no longer so small, and for all who feel their hedge of safely crumbling around them.

Sometimes there are no reasons why. There are never concrete answers that soothe and bring closure to hearts broken like this. Even though God can and does turn bitter sorrow into sweet peace, He does not cause something like this to happen in order to reach someones heart or to teach a lesson. People generally don't know what to say when tragedy strikes. Too often we spout cliches to try to heal the hurt and say that "this is Gods will," or "one day you will understand"....I don't believe that for a minute! I am not a theologian, and certainly not an expert on God, but this is what I believe:

 The foundation of the universe is God’s Love. That is the framework of all things. It is like the warp in a weaving. The weft, or what weaves into God’s love are things He gives us to know Him better.
1) Himself…found in daily communion with Him
2) Healthy living, exercise, good sleep….
3) Relationships with others
These things can make our lives fuller, but unfortunately, because humanity chose sin, there is evil woven into God’s otherwise perfect weaving. Since we live in a sinful world, bad things will happen to us. God’s perfect plan never includes pain and death, but since sin, God’s perfect plan is on hold, waiting for Heaven. Until then, we must contend with evil in this world. I believe that Satan attempts to destroy us continuously. He uses everything he can to kill and hurt humanity. His goal is to destroy the objects of God’s joy, and to cause who is left to lose faith in God’s power. I believe that Satan influences nature, and if the angels did not hold back the evil, the whole earth would have already been destroyed.



Pain and suffering are natural results of living in a world that chose to go against God’s perfect plan. Some people say God chooses not to change nature, some say He can’t. I don’t know which is true; I prefer to believe in a God that has no limits. There is quite a difference between a God who can’t and a God who won’t. I believe God can change nature, (Earthquakes, hurricanes, fire…) but doesn’t always do so. If He did every time we ask Him, there would be nothing constant in the Universe. No one would know what to expect in life. God is all-powerful, but he does not always rescue us out of painful and harmful circumstances. If He did, natural consequences would be gone, and so would everyone’s free will.

Natural consequences come as a result of people’s choices. Choosing to be in the wrong place at the wrong time…disease brought on by poor living choices…breaking the law can land you in jail. These are free will choices. What is harder to understand is when someone else’s free choice hurts an innocent person. A child does not choose to be abused or neglected…a drunk driver kills… someone shoots randomly into a home killing innocent people...(Twenty six people die in Newtown because of the choices of one very sick individual.) These things are beyond unfair, but they are real. All of us experience the results of poor choices and other people’s sins in our lives. When we call out to God to help us, He ALWAYS does…but often the help comes in ways hard to identify, and in God’s own timing.

God’s tears are shed when His children suffer. It is never in His perfect plan for pain and death to occur. Many people find comfort in believing that in the end, they will understand why evil things happened in their lives or in the lives of those they loved. I don’t believe God hurts us in order to heal us. I believe the only answer some people will have as to “why,” will be the embrace and shared tears of an empathizing and equally hurt God. There are times when we face disease, pain and loss that have no root cause other than living on a sinful planet. God only asks of us then, “Can you trust me with this…even if you never know why?”

Rescuing everyone in need is naturally what we want, and expect of God. It would certainly be His first choice also. But it would be like removing sections of our lives.  In our weaving, we see that if God cut out the evil, then the strands holding together life, as we know it, would unravel, and that would mean that God would unravel, and GOD CANNOT UNRAVEL.  What He does instead is to come in and modify that bad spot. He can color it a different color…He gives us strength to endure, and can bring in extra earthly help. When time is over, if we continue to trust Him, we will find ourselves bound closer to Gods heart. We can be assured that whatever we suffer, Jesus suffered it first. He understands our needs and the unspoken cries of our hearts. “ Sometimes your mind may become clouded because of pain. Then do not try to think. You know Jesus loves you. He understands your weaknesses. You can do His will by simply resting in His arms.” (Ministry of Healing)

Sometimes He does perform miracles. Sometimes he doesn’t. God’s weaving of life is endless, and we only live in one small spot of it. We cannot see the whole weaving like He does. He alone is able to orchestrate life and bring all who will to eternal life (That is His ultimate goal!!!) The entire weaving is what is important. If we live in Gods love, and accept His help in our lives, then in Heaven, we can look at the tapestry from both sides, and see the places God repaired and reworked the fibers.

So much for my puny thoughts...I guess searching for answers even when there are none feels better than doing nothing.

Alone

I have discovered that life keeps moving. (I know...you already know that...) Even if I don't move with it. I thought I knew it too, but lately it has become more plain to me. My head is still stuck, frozen in time. The tangled fiber optic threads in my brain are slowly rearranging themselves into a new pattern. I hope it will end up somewhat familiar.

I have been numb. Living on auto pilot. Going through the motions. I am now feeling the beginnings of anxiety. I know soon I will have to re-visit this memory and re-process it some more. I want all of it to turn into a long term memory instead of staying fresh, as if it happened yesterday.

Being caught between then and now leaves me very empty and very isolated. I can't seem to connect very well to anything or anyone. It is like the experience of something so horrendous settles me quietly into a room that only a few people have been in. It is a silent room. It does not help to know that others have been here before me. I am sure there will also be people here in the future, but we will never meet. As the room is silent, it is also dark. No one who has ever experienced this room acknowledges it's existence, let alone someone else who has been here. The knowledge that these kind of crimes happen to other people also, is too painful. It makes what happened too real. If it only happened to me then there might be a chance that I made it all up or that I am crazy. Both scenarios are easier to accept than the truth. I want to believe this never happened.

What would it look like to connect with someone who has either been in this room, or is willing to come in and sit a while with me? A finger touch is all it would take to begin thawing the past and its icy grip. I don't expect anyone to understand completely, or to fix it. I'd just like to know I'm not alone. I'd like to see myself in someone else's eyes...not reflected, but SEEN. I'd like to know there is someone out there who is willing to come and sit a while... even if I can't let them in.  

Her Eyes

            So, the desire to never leave the house again is still here. I fight it to go out. My brain is still a tangled mass of fiber optic threads. The paths they once neatly followed are barely visible underneath the heap of glowing yellow strands. At least the fire works have slowed down. There is not as much exploding now.

I still have no proverbial shoes on. My feet are ice cold. For the past several weeks it has felt like this process of remembering is eroding and devouring my life energy. Having verbalized that in therapy last week, the last half of this horrendous memory came out very quickly. Instead of weeks or months to ease it out, the rest of it came in one session.

The whole point of drawing it out was to survive it. Our amazing therapist has been painstakingly distancing us from the images so that we are not overwhelmed. We have lost parts for months at a time who just disappeared due to being re-traumatized during the remembering. Our therapist says we are getting stronger and are doing better. It is hard for me to see how I am objectively. It does not feel like winning this war is worth knowing what I now know.

How much I really know is very relative. I have “known” the main points of this memory for quite a while… or rather, someone has. There are different levels of knowing also. Memories that have been packed away from ones consciousness are often broken down into elements:

1)      Images

2)      Emotions

3)      Somatic sensations (Body memories)

4)      Cognitive knowing

These elements can be remembered separately. I have had flashes of cognitive knowing and images. The emotions have mostly come out in session. The terror has always been with me. I just did not know what it was or where it came from. It masqueraded as many things through out my life. It learned to skip in and out of my experiences, keeping its disguises so I wouldn’t remember too soon. My ability to hold back the feelings has been eroding. Keeping everything manageable is a delicate balance.

            I can hardly handle knowing what happened. I feel like a dancer in an endless pirouette. My skin hurts. My ears hurt. My eyes hurt. Maybe like sensory overload. I don’t know what is worse…taking a long time to remember…or remembering quickly. I suppose there is no easy way through this minefield!

            It is her eyes that I see…every waking minute of the day. Eyes from a dirty face streaked with tears. She is gagged, and at this point, all her tears are spent. I did not know one could cry until there were no more tears. I know it now. Her eyes held mine steadily. Our eyes were locked in a wordless conversation. They flickered hope, shouted pleadings, faded into despair, and then started over again. I can see the hope finally fading in her eyes. I cannot bear watching the image of her dying. Her eyes were focused on mine until they turned in resignation to look at my father. She was so very brave. If she’d had a chance she would have won, fighting back. My inner children refer to her as “the poor little girl who never got to go back home.”

            I don’t know if their bodies were ever found in that deep grave behind the First Baptist church in Bladenboro. Maybe their families are settled and at peace. They may not still be alive…but if it matters in the eternal scheme of things, I have no doubt that someone will find them

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Then and Now

“I’ve lived my life seeing through sunglasses, hearing through earmuffs, touching through gloves, breathing through a face mask. I have painted my experience with a 3-foot long paintbrush… now I have begun to use finger paints. My sunglasses are gone, so are the earmuffs. I lost the gloves and face-mask sometime last week. I am naked and exposed, in pain. To live like this might kill me…but I’ll die without doubt if I stay as I was.”

Owning my stuff

Today I publicly take ownership of me...all of me. Katherine started this blog while I was sleeping...and Charlotte removed references to me. Now I will, for good or ill, own it. The only ill I can see is negative reactions from my siblings, cousins, or in-laws. My mom is gone now, and she is the only one I care about protecting.

I have, for the most part, tried to hide my multiplicity. The whole purpose of DID during childhood is to hide the truth of the abuse from everyone...mostly yourself. Keeping everything at an even kneel is paramount to survival. I'm done hiding. I'm done making excuses for my father. I'm done shielding everyone who doesn't believe what I remember. I'm done doubting myself (no doubts for today anyway). I want to stand up straight and look around me. I want to look through the crowd and over the crowd, not at the ground around my feet. I may not have shoes on, but I am standing. One day, I will fly!

ACE's...Adverse Childhood Experiences

 An amazing study done on the physiological effects of childhood trauma. 

http://acesconnection.com/

Sobering, frightening and validating. It's purpose is to educate, inform and explain why adults abused as children suffer from so many physical problems. Illnesses that are hard to diagnose and are even harder to treat.

Check it out. 

To My Doodle Bug Friend

My heart is soooooo heavy. Yesterday was an old friends birthday. We were 12 together. We both were creative and loved to draw. We would write notes to each other decorated with "Doodle Bugs." We were 12 together for only a short time because the innocence lost when we were 12 changed us both.  His father was also a sex addict and child molester. I'm guessing their house was full of incest too. G's father was one of my eighth grade teachers.

My father, along with G's dad and several other men did unspeakable things to us one day. I was lucky to dissociate and spin off alters to hold the pain and the memory. G wasn't so lucky. I remember wondering a year or two later why G was so distant. We had been good friends. I could see incredible sadness and pain in his eyes...but I had no clue why.

A few years ago I started remembering what happened that day. I searched until I found G. I called and left messages but he would never call back...finally I was able to talk to him. He came to the phone angry. I told him that I thought of him often and that I hoped he was well and happy. I told him that I had very few memories of my childhood but that I knew he had been a good friend. I told him I was beginning to remember some horrible things and that if he ever wanted to talk I'd be willing. As we talked that day on the phone, he softened and his voice smoothed out. I wrote him afterwards and said that I did not blame him for anything and that I knew he was horribly hurt by what happened and that I hoped he found peace. I told him I would understood if he did not respond to my letter. I was okay with whatever he did.

I never heard back from him. I hope my phone call and letter helped him to set the pain down and know he was not to blame. I hope he is alright, and if not that he will have the courage to seek help. I never forgot that we drew Doodle Bugs" but I also could never remember how we drew them...until the memories started coming back and one of my 12 year old alters started drawing Doodle bugs again.  :o}

Why kids don't tell

People often ask why I didn't tell someone what was happening to me as a child. I have thought a lot about this and have finally come up with an answer that fits for me. A therapist will give reasons why children remain silent. I have heard them all, and agree with them...but I need more. I want to see more fully from a child's eyes and understand from a child's heart. That shouldn't be hard with so many internal children, except that kids don't have words for such things, so I have to take what they feel and verbalize it.

1) I did tell. Not a lot of people, but enough that someone could have responded. When no one responds, a child stops trying. It is more important to hold onto hope than to risk telling and not be taken seriously. More on hope later...
2) There are usually enough normal/good things in a child's life to make reality too confusing. It is crazy-making to hold onto two realities at the same time. A child will want to sort it out...but that isn't possible.
3) My fathers retribution was not worth the risk of telling. 
4) The perp's threats are terrifying.
5) Perp's always blame the child.
6) It felt like to me that my father was omnipresent. It felt like he knew everything I did, thought or felt. In order to preserve hope and not die, I "needed" to take the blame for the abuse. If I would bathe more often, comb my hair, make better grades, be more quiet, then maybe daddy would love me and stop hurting me.

I have always thought that the opposite of death is life...but there are many ways to die as well as many ways not to be alive. I rather think now that Hope is the opposite of death.

There is a huge difference between cognitive and emotional understanding. As an adult, I can know something but not be able to emotionally accept it as fact. I can handle waiting until the emotional catches up to the cognitive. As a child there was no way I could do either. Cognitively I KNOW the abuse WAS NOT MY FAULT and that I had NO CONTROL over my fathers actions. These things I know for sure now. But as a child I could not know that without dying. To have acknowledge that I had no control over my life would have stripped away all hope. With no hope that life would improve, I would have died.

Maybe I am slow...and everyone else has already figured out the connection between life and hope and keeping silent. Part of my process now is to emotionally acknowledge and accept the fact that I had no control over my life...and to do it now without dying or losing my mind.

No Shoes

I decided to start a blog because the need to tell someone what happened to me is huge. Having survived the following incident by splitting and becoming "unaware" I find my brain returning back to the chaos of what this incident did to me. I have younger alters, but until this happened at three, I don't think the DID was cemented into place as my automatic coping skill. Today I struggle to allow my head to process what it couldn't when I was three. I honestly don't know if I will survive this process with my sanity, but I know I still have to do it. I have to learn how to incorporate the knowledge of all the stuff that happened to me into my identity. Cognitive knowledge must meet and join emotional experience. Who am I? What does knowing all this make me?

This week I am still contemplating the image of being knocked out of my shoes. I'm not sure it really happens, but I've heard that when someone is hit by a train or other fast moving vehicle, they are literally knocked out of their shoes. I can relate to this emotionally. Somewhere in the woods behind the First Baptist Church in Bladenboro NC there must be a small pair of tennis shoes. Proverbial or not, I still see them.

 

 

 I am only three and as I sit on the ground with my feet dangling in a hole, my mind is exploding, reconfiguring and exploding again.  The change may not have been instant, but it is life changing. All color seems to drain out of the sky. The sun no longer shines the same joyful way it used to. Everything I see becomes the color of sepia. Not black and white or gray, but the reddish brown color of faded dried blood.

My father dug this hole to bury a dead lady and a still living child. I am a candidate for that yawning gaping hole in the ground too. My grasp of life is churning in my head like a pot of stew. My relationship to, and my perspective of the world are forever altered. I step back into the shadows of my mind and begin to watch it float by. There are no more questions at this point. I don’t quiz him about why the lady was hanging in a tree and I don’t wonder anymore what dead means.

I understand that I killed this lady. Not because I wanted to, but because he made me.

 I know she was sleeping when he cut her down from the tree. It doesn’t matter that I couldn’t wake her up. When he dropped me into that hole on top of her she made a noise. It was so hard to keep my balance. I didn’t mean to fall on her. It was different then when I play with daddy or momma on the floor and sit on their tummies. I don’t fall off so easy. The lady felt squishy and reminded me of stepping on little rocks that roll under my feet and make me fall.

I didn’t mean to hurt her, but she cried out. It sounded like when I surprise daddy and jump on his tummy. So I know she was just sleeping and I just surprised her. She didn’t get up though. I woulda gotten up quick if it had been me! Daddy laughed at her noise. Daddy made me open her mouth and put dirt inside. I cried because I wasn’t brave. I did not want to kill that lady. I know that when you get dirt in your mouth and nose and eyes that you can’t breath good and it hurts. I begged daddy not to make me do it, and to wake her up. But now it is done, and I don’t ask anymore. Daddy put dirt in the hole on top of the lady and me. I’m so worried that Momma will be mad at me when I get home cuz I’m so dirty now.

Daddy told me the lady was bad cuz she told someone something she wasn’t s’posed to tell. Daddy says that secrets are important to keep and that I better not ever tell anybody stuff about me and daddy. He says that the little girl is naughty, cuz she told stuff she wasn’t s’posed to tell, too...........