I can't believe it's been more than a year since my last post. A lot has happened...

The ablation worked. Terrifying procedure though. My cardiologist is good...but has NO patient skills. He did not think that a life time of trauma would make a difference in his treatment plan... My therapist and I worked hard to prepare for it. I could not be asleep for it because the medication stopped the PVC's. There was no warning when he zapped the part of my heart that was misfiring...Just intense pain in my chest. It was a very traumatizing experience. But...I am grateful that it worked!!

Not long after the ablation, another memory of watching my father kill someone (Amy) started coming out. My therapist and I began tackling it with EMDR and energy work. Lots of tapping. After several months, I finally got a large chunk of it remembered. I was going to share it in my next session, when my therapist canceled due to illness. A week or two later he called and told me he had cancer. He died 2 months later.

I worked with him for 7 years. It took the first 5 years to figure out what worked...and how to do it. We were moving mountains towards the end. It has been one of the biggest losses in my life. After some research, I found a therapist who does a lot of energy work, is good with kids, and is generally awesome. I am blessed! I haven't unpacked the "Amy" memory yet. It has taken much longer than I thought to be willing to commit to starting over with a new therapist.

I've been amazed at the new therapist's approach. She is focusing on my body pain & illnesses, and it is resolving the trauma. (Nice!!) I'm learning that there is more than one way to attack memories...since the body holds the trauma.

I have been busy staying alive. It seems that is all I can do most of the time. I'm waiting for a Catheter Ablation now. It is a procedure that will zap the area of my heart that is misfiring and causing arrhythmias.

It amazes me how the body and mind work together. The damage to my heart was done when I was eight years old. My father thought he would do his own version of electro shock treatment to make me forget what he was doing to me... what he accomplished was heart damage that was held in a dissociative part named Jessica. The symptoms did not start until I remembered the incident about 10 years ago. Wierd, huh! If you asked a physician if this is possible, I'm pretty sure they would say "No way"!!! How little they know!!

I tried to "warn" (or to actually reassure myself) when I saw the cardiologist, but he was unconcerned that I had a history of trauma. Dr's relate to the term PTSD...but not to DID or childhood abuse. I am learning to use their language. But it still did not matter to him...I know it does not change the diagnosis or the treatment, but that was not the reason I wanted him to know.

Most people who have medical procedures that require conscious sedation don't remember the procedure afterward. That is the point of conscious sedation. Because I am multiple, conscious sedation only makes me unable to respond. I remember every detail of the procedure. So...to prepare for the Ablation, my therapist and I have been working diligently to reduce the fear all my internal kids have.

We felt that death is inevitable... set in place by the actions and wishes of my dad. Pretty much a Pygmalion effect. I'm VERY grateful that the fear of the procedure and the belief that we are fated to die are mostly all gone!!! Yea! Now it is just living long enough to get well!

Learning about the ACE study and how to counter the effects of the abuse has helped me enormously. So over all I'm a happy camper!!

I thought I'd add part 2 of "My House" writings. 

My House, Too

             I wake up slowly, and realize it might be an easy day. What's hard is to wake up with a jolt, no warning, like a bucket of icy water thrown in my face. Even so, I open my eyes cautiously. I never know what I'll find. This afternoon, I don't see much out of order. Unfortunately, what one sees is not what one gets. It's what I'll find under the bed, in the closet and in the kitchen that concerns me.

            I sit up and smile. She left the bedspread. I had spent a long time fixing up the one that was here, and I wasn't sure she would keep it. I'm glad she did! Maybe there is hope for her yet. I say that in jest, but only partly so. I don't have that much influence on her, and I'm not sure I want to. We do influence each other, but we mostly go in circles.

             She closed the closet door. That helps me know how she is doing. She is fearful. I open the curtains to let in some light. Light always helps! As I turn around to head for the bathroom, I see she missed the hamper with her dirty clothes again. As usual, I pick them up and deposit them into the bulging hamper. I sigh, does she ever do the laundry?

             I can smell roses before I turn the corner into the bathroom. Bath salts, there on the counter. I'm surprised! I know she hates roses. I don't much like them either, but someone does. I see she had a change of heart, as some of the salts are still in the bottom of the trash can. I find my toothbrush where I left it, and brush my teeth. My nightgown and robe are still behind the door. Now I'm really shocked!! Usually I have to dig it out of the trash, or go buy a new one. It was nice of her to put up a hook for me.

             I sigh audibly as I go down the hall. I wonder how the kitchen is. I shouldn't have wondered. What a mess!! Unwashed dishes litter the counter top. Empty food boxes are all over. I think she is afraid to throw anything away. It's as if some part of her, or some event will be erased if she discards something. I doubt there is any food to eat. If I weren't so famished, I'd go back to bed! I decide to find something to eat first, clean second. I look for the bowls, the new pretty ones, and finally find them. I had all these cupboards organized... not too long ago. I'm sure it hasn't been that long, but I guess I'm not that sure. Oh well. There are a few flakes of oatmeal left, and a can of peaches. That will have to do.

            It takes a long time to clean the kitchen. I am weary by the time I finally put the last dish away. I have somewhat worked out my feelings. I am very tired of picking up after her. I so often have to put everything in order. I'm not angry, just tired. When I back up, I can kind of see her side. Maybe...though I really don't know for sure. I can only guess. I think one reason the house is always a mess is because she leaves in such a hurry. Maybe she doesn't have a chance to clean up before rushing out the door. Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on her.. Maybe...but I think she should at least buy food. What am I going to eat? I will have to go shopping soon, and that's on top of the laundry! Non of us will survive long without nourishment. Maybe because she leaves so often it is hard for her to keep track of what needs to be done. I know I am only one in a large system...and I know far more than she does.

            The living room isn't too bad. It doesn't take me long to straighten it up. I don't think she spends much time in here. It's ironic that she spends her time trying to live while bypassing the living room. This is where I spend most of my time. I read, listen to music, draw and take naps in here. The kids toys are in here also. It is a great room to baby sit in. I can fold laundry in here, and iron. I do have to admit though, that for a long quiet sleep, nothing beats the bedroom.

            I sit gingerly on the bed. It is late, and I am tired. I hurt everywhere! The clothes are washed and put away. Ironing done. The kitchen is well stocked again and everything is cleaned and organized. Now the kids will have something to eat. I guess i didn't have to do all this work in one afternoon, but I never know how long I get to stay. i take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Now I have time to think. I wish things would change, but I don't know how they can. I will continue to pick up the pieces after her, sharing in our life. I hope one day she will know how much I do for her. I hope one day she will know how much I love her, and won't see me as a bad or scary thing. For now I will be content with my hook behind the bathroom door, and a pale yellow comforter with blue and lavender Hydrangea on it. Finding a good book to read is an added treat!

(Rachel)

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

.                               

           

           

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...........