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
.
No comments:
Post a Comment