The Jaws of Hell

It recently occured to me that of all the things I have talked about on my blog, during this healing journey, one thing I have not really talked about is how it has affected me spiritually.  I have alluded to it a couple times, but never really discusseed it.  I don't know why.  It's not that I was intentionally holding back.  Maybe it is just an unspoken feeling I have that one's relationship with God is a deeply personal thing. 

Yes, that is likely what prevented me.  It's kind of like this....a great piece of advice I received when I got married was: when you are upset with your spouse, don't talk to other people about it.  The rational being that later his awesomeness (as you see it) later makes you inclined to forgive him, but your mother (or friend...), who doesn't see him as quite so adorable is less likely to forgive him.  I guess in that same light, it was hard for me to talk about the difficulty I have been having with God, because I don't want to pass on my frustration to anyone else, and then have them not 'bounce back' when I do.

Fortunately though, my relationship with God was strong before all this healing stuff started, and though the relationship has been rocky, I am mending the wounds.  In fairness, to myself, I must say, that DID has played a big part in the seperation I have felt from God. 

I don't really want to get into that right now, suffice it to say, that some how, some part of me decided that the Spiritual aspect of myself was much too precious and too pure to be subjected to all the filth that was about to come forth.  So the Spiritual One was whisked away to a far, far room of my Haunted Mind.  It took me a long time to understand what had happened and why.  Then to develop some inner co-operation to bring her back.  I know that probably sounds really strange, but rather than thinking of it as strange, I hope you can see that it is actually a testament to the amazing power of the mind. 

Perhaps, I will write more about that another day, but today it feels like a side-trip, so back to my main point.  Even though I haven't really talked about the spiritual aspects of my healing here on the blog, I am writing a book about it.  The book I have wished for to help me, but couldn't find.  Good grief, as I write that it sounds maybe a bit egotistical, but here's hoping you know me better than that.

My intent is to help others navigate this rocky path any way that I can.  That's all.  So, the first chapter of the book is about the spiritual divide that has been part of the process for me and why it happened (aside from DID).  The rest of the book is about healing that divide.  The first chapter is tenatively called, "The Jaws of Hell"  from Doctrine and Covenants section 122...". . .if even the jaws of Hell should gape after thee. . . (paraphrased because I am too impatient to look it up right now). 

As I pondered and later researched "the jaws of Hell", I learned that the phrase has been used at least since medeival times, likely longer.  It was very common in their art.  I just have to show you a picture I found. 



Photo Attribution:  HERE

Isn't this picture great?  I showed it to my daughter, Vienna, but she didn't share my enthusiasm. I don't get it.   And yes, in case you were wondering, this whole blog post IS just so I could share this picture.  I think it is perfect and I am wondering if I can get permission to put it in my book!

So can any of you reading this relate?  If you would like to tell me about your "jaws of Hell" experience (meaning that you felt separated from God due to anger, shame, DID, or another reason).  I would love to hear YOUR story.  As always you can share here, or privately by sending me a PM to lesliesillusions at gmail.

Oh, and have I told you lately...thanks for reading and sharing this journey with me.

What I will tell my children about the Newtown Massacre

Nat Sakunworarat

My readers, my friends, on this day after tragedy, if I could I would just sit with you and listen and validate your feelings about what has happened.  Since I can’t be there with each of you, I will share my thoughts, and hope that perhaps they will be helpful to someone in need.

Because of my past, I struggle with the concept of “safety”.  I think I stopped believing in that idea long before I stopped believing in Santa.  “No safe places,” is a mantra from long ago and deep within. 

So when I received emails from my school district, with suggestions on how to talk to children about the tragedy, and the first item on the list was “assure the children that schools are safe.”  I balked.  Big time.  How in the world can I tell them, in the light of today’s events, that schools are safe?  I would feel like a hypocrite.  I mentioned to my co-worker what a ridiculous idea I thought that was.  He said the idea is to reassure them and not….here he launched into what is best described as an imitation of Chicken Little.  Only in his version the sky was not falling, but schools were not safe.  All right, point taken, however, I still can’t tell my children schools are safe because I don’t believe in safe places.  So what should I tell them--and myself?

I wish I could tell them God will protect you.  But clearly God does not prevent these kinds of tragedies from happening, so a simple “God will protect” you is not enough.  As an adult, it comforts me to think of Jesus with Mary and Martha after Lazarus died.  Even though he knew that in a moment He would raise Lazarus from the dead, He still felt their pain and wept with them.  I believe He weeps with us now, after today’s events.  That comforts me, but I don’t think that would help the children.  It sure doesn’t feel like enough.  So what then?

Sometimes inspiration comes from the strangest places, and for me it came from a quote being passed around Facebook.  This is from Fred Rogers:

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers.  You will always find people who are helping.’  

"To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster’, I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers—so many caring people in this world.”

Look for the helpers.  Yes! I love that.  In today’s tragedy there were teachers, and police men and swat teams that knew what to do and took action quickly. One of those helpers was a teacher, Kaitlin Roig.  She acted quickly, closing her classroom door and ushering all the children into the class bathroom and blocked the door.  Roig said:

"If they started crying, I would take their face and tell them, 'It's going to be OK,. . .I told the kids I love them and I was so happy they were my students... I said anyone who believed in the power of the prayer, we need to pray and those who don't believe in prayer think happy thoughts."  Article attribution here

In hurricanes, and earthquakes, there are always helpers.  That is something I can feel comfortable telling my children, “God can’t always prevent tragedies, but He will send someone to help.  When bad things happen, look for the helpers.”

One of my favorite books, The Hiding Place, reaffirms this.  Corrie Ten Boom said that she wrote the book to show that “there is no pit so deep that He is not deeper still.”  Corrie Ten Boom and her family were Christians living in Holland during Hitler’s reign.  They were part of a sort of underground railroad that helped 100’s of Jewish people escape.  However, they got caught and Corrie, her father and her sister were sent to a concentration camp.  Her sister and father died there.  Still Corrie shares in her book, many times throughout her tragedy where there were little miracles…helpers, if you will.

I can also tell my children that the children who died are in the arms of the Savior now.  They are not afraid anymore.  They are not hurting.  But what can I tell myself about the parents of those children?  I have never lost a child, and I pray I never have to know that pain.  I hope that perhaps those who have can find comfort from God who allowed His only Begotten to suffer and die for us.  Another tragedy that He could not prevent.

I don’t think that I will ever believe in safe places, but I do believe in a God who weeps with us, and sends “helpers”, maybe even angels and miracles to see us through the dark hours.

Photo Attribution: Nat Sakunworarat

Whatever Happened to Wailing?

 

Wailing: a long, loud high pitched cry as of grief or pain. 

It is my understanding that wailing at funerals used to be common among many cultures throughout the world.  It still occurs in some places, but seems to be an endangered tradition.  I think that is a shame.  I remember when I first learned about the custom, probably as a teenager, I thought it was very strange.  Now, with a little more life experience under my belt, I think it is beautiful. 

Imagine with me for a moment the last funeral you attended...very quiet, right?  There likely was some crying, but most people these days are ashamed to cry and try to hide their grief even at a funeral.  Well-meaning friends and family, tell the bereaved things like: "He's in a better place."  Or "at least she went quickly."  The goal seems to be to cheer the person and help them not cry.  I wonder though, is this cultural tradition of hiding our emotions healthy?

I have been thinking a lot lately about the New Testament story of Lazarus' death.  When Jesus arrived he found Mary and Martha grieving, probably wailing.  He didn't offer them platitudes.  Even though he knew that in a few moments he would raise Lazarus from the dead, he didn't try to comfort them.  He felt their grief and wept with them.  I am so touched by that.  I think of wailing in much the same way---the bereaved joined by family and friends, sharing their pain together instead of hiding it and dealing with it alone.  

Of course, I am not just thinking about funerals, but how we share one another's grief at any time.  I would like to share something from The God Who Weeps by Terryl and Fiona Givens. They were discussing Job. 

You will recall that Job was suffering some great difficulties, including an illness so severe and disfiguring, that when his friends came to help, they did not recognize him.  When they did realize who he was, they sat with him for seven days and nights without saying a word.  Of this Terryl and Fiona Givens say:

"For a full week Job's friends do what genuine friends are called to do: their actions seem simple enough but they are sublimely great. They 'suffer with' they participate in Job's anguish.  This human capacity to suffer at the anguish of a loved one is an imperfect shadow of the grief a perfect being feels when His creations put themselves beyond His healing embrace."

There is so much in that short story and short quote that I love.  Job's friends actions were "sublimely great" they didn't try to solve his problems or cheer him up, they just sat with him and suffered with him.  Beautiful.  And then when the Givens make the comparison that God feels an even greater pain when we turn away from Him...does He grieve when I turn away from Him, not from sin, but from my anguish?  The Givens seem to be suggesting that He does.  I can't think of more healing words.

I wish that in our culture we could put away the platitudes and the advice, and relearn the art of "suffering with".  I even think, I wouldn't mind if my friends wailed with me a bit. 

Photo attribution: George Hodan

A Lesson from my Heroes: Hold On

George Hodan

As I search for comfort and guidance in my healing journey, I have found some of my greatest help comes from the examples of other survivors of trauma.  I would like to “introduce” you to two of my heroes: Marilyn Van Derbur and James Stockdale. 

Marilyn, the self-proclaimed “quintessential tomboy” became Miss America in 1958, her sophomore year of college. She was also a survivor of childhood abuse. At the time she won the pagent, she was unaware of her past. Like so many of us, she had repressed the memories.  In her book, Miss America By Day, she wrote, “I wish I had known that many--if not most—adults, sexually violated as children, are in their 40’s before they begin to deal with their childhoods. Just knowing that this is “normal” for many survivors would have helped me cope with friends and family members who were saying, ‘This happened a long time ago. Just move on with your life.’”

Like other survivors, Marilyn's well-meaning friends and loved ones, counseled her to "let go and move on."  In another part of the book she explained why that is not possible. “During this time of recovery, I wasn’t remembering the memories and feelings, I was living them. When memories and feelings are split off and stuffed deeply within the body, it is necessary to disgorge them and feel them as if they are happening in real time. This was not a voluntary decision. When memories are triggered. . .the memories and feelings are instantly felt and no amount of willing them away or decision to ”-just get over it,” will work.”

That is exactly how it is for me as well.  Reading her memoir was so validating.  And because I knew she understood, I believed her and felt encouraged when she said there is hope: the pain ends, but you have to do the hard work."

James Stockdale and The Stockdale Paradox

Vice Admiral James Stockdale, a Navy Pilot, was shot down in Vietnam and held in the Hoa Lo prison for seven years.  He served part of that time in solitary confinement and was routinely tortured and beaten. 

Admiral Stockdale was later interviewed about his experiences by James C. Collins, for the business book, Good to Great (which I am told is a classic).   During the interview, when asked about how he survived Admiral Stockdale said:

‘I never lost faith in the end of the story, I never doubted not only that I would get out, but also that I would prevail in the end and turn the experience into the defining event of my life, which, in retrospect, I would not trade.”

When Collins asked who didn’t make it out of Vietnam Stockdale replied:

“Oh, that’s easy, the optimists.  Oh, they were the ones who said, 'We’re going to be out by Christmas.’ And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go.  Then they’d say, 'We’re going to be out by Easter.’ And Easter would come, and Easter would go.  And then Thanksgiving, and then it would be Christmas again.  And they died of a broken heart.

“This is a very important lesson.  You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end—which you can never afford to lose—with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current  reality, whatever they might be.”

Collins calls this philosophy the Stockdale Paradox. 

When I am holding on, trying to deal with one hour at a time--sometimes one day at a time is too much--I remember Marilyn and Admiral Stockdale.  Marilyn promises that is will get better, but I have to be willing to do the hard work.  Admiral Stockdale said the same in a different way (if I may repeat):

“You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end—which you can never afford to lose—with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.”

Sometimes there is wisdom in letting go, but as Admiral Stockdale and Marilyn Van Derbur teach us sometimes the best course is quite the opposite.  It is holding on to faith in a brighter future, and fighting through the darkness until the Light comes.

 

Photo Attribution: George Hodan

Five Things NOT to Say to Abuse Survivors

This swan is warning you to Stand Back!
Bobbi Jones Jones

Dear friends,  I have had a really difficult week.  I had a nightmare that will likely forever be in the Top Ten of  Worst Nightmares.  Therapy was intense...thus, as you might imagine, I'm not in a great mood.  That makes this a perfect time to tell you: Things NOT to say to an Abuse Survivor

1. Forgive

     Forgiveness is not a one-size-fits-all principle.  What is right for one person may not be right for another.  For example, if you have a squabble with your mother, then forgive and reconcile your relationship is good advice.  But for a survivor of abuse, if the offender is not repentant i.e. could still be dangerous, reconciliation is not remotely a good idea.

     And please even if you are a survivor and you think you are helping...do NOT tell another survivor to forgive.  There are so many factors involved for example the severity of the abuse (one time, or lasting for years), and who did it (a neighbor or a parent)...so many different factors that what helps one survivor may not be a good solution for another.

2.  Let it Go -

    All I can say to that is I wish I could.  If someone will make the nightmares stop, and the PTSD go away...then I will be happy to let it go.  The thing is I can't let it go any more than someone could simply let go of cancer.  When someone loses a loved one, is it ever appropriate to tell them to "let it go", I don't think so.  There are times when "let it go" is good advice.  I say those three little words to myself regularly over little things...like when some well meaning person tells me to forgive. 

3.  Don't assume I am depressed.  Listen to me I am NOT depressed.  I have emotional pain--there is a difference.

     When you go to the doctor, and tell him you have a pain, you will be asked what is the pain like?  Is it dull?  Is it sharp?  Throbbing? Sudden Onset?  So then why do we throw all emotional pain into the "depression" category?  I have been depressed, and I am telling you what I feel now, is something different.  It bothers me when people assume I am depressed because there are certain assumptions and stigmas about depression that I also feel do not apply to my situation.

4.  Don't try to fix it

     You can't fix me in one conversation, even my therapist does not attempt that.  What a survivor needs from you is a listening ear, validating words, perhaps a shoulder to cry on....no advice.

5.  Don't ignore me

     I am not a china doll.  I won't shatter if you say the wrong thing.  Ignoring me hurts worse than mis-spoken words.

There is a theme underlying most of these cautions--it is invalidating pain.  When you tell a survivor to forgive, let go, try to fix them, or ignore them you are basically saying, "Your pain does not matter.  It is not real or significant."  And that hurts.  So please don't do it.

I know people who say these things just want to help...please believe me the best way to help is just to listen and validate.  I will give you an example of some wonderful validation I received today.   I was talking to my wonderful primary care doctor.  I mentioned my horrific nightmare to her.  She asked me if I wanted to talk about it, or not.  Because we have a relationship of trust, I did want to share it with her.  I told her about the dream and some other related things that happened this week. 

She said, "I think I am going to have a nightmare now, but thank you for sharing that with me."

That was wonderful to me because by saying that, she validated my pain.  She said in essence "you have experienced something terrible."  I felt heard and understood.  It was wonderful.  

Listening and validation...that really is the best thing you can do.

Photo attribution: Bobbi Jones Jones

Anatomy of a Repressed Memory OR What is THAT smell?

Ok, my friends, in the past I have wanted to explain how repressed memories come to the surface, but I was unable to do so because of the nature of my memories.  However, it turns out that I repressed good memories too.  I just rediscovered one of them, at least a piece of it.  Yay!  So I can tell you about that. Are you ready?

One day I was at home with my family and we were all relaxing.  Out of the blue, I started to smell something amazing.  Generally speaking my sense of smell is terrible.  I can smell a few really strong scents, for example if I can smell your perfume, you put it on way too much.  The smell of rain?  No way, are you kidding, rain has a smell?  I can't imagine it.  Of the smells that I am accostumed to most of them are noxious so I was surprised by this good smell.  It was not just good; it was delightful.  Instant joy!

"What is that wonderful smell?" I asked.

My family just looked at me blankly. "What smell?"

This has happened before.  I smell things, usually bad smells like burned rubber* that no one else smells.  I was so disappointed when I realized that my family could not smell this wonderful aroma because that meant it was psychosomatic...created by my mind (this is an overly simple definition).  Realizing it was mine alone, the smell went away, and I was so disappointed.

The smell left me, but I could not stop thinking about it and the great feeling that it caused.   Even a couple days later.  So I decided I would draw something to help me remember the moment.  Keep in mind, I am not an artist, but I have found drawing and doodling very theraputic. 

But how to draw that smell?  What was it? Christmas?  No, cotton candy. Yes, that's it cotton candy.  Wait, what does that have to do with Christmas?  Nevermind.

Caroline Steinhauer

I drew cotton candy, it was more like a Kindergartener version of clouds.  Then the idea came to me to blacken the area surrounding the cotton candy and and write the words, "cotton candy chasing away the darkness." 

The next day was therapy.  I was still thinking about the cotton candy moment.  Obsessive?  Perhaps so, but that is how it is with my memories, they don't let go of me.  I showed my little sketch to my therapist who seemed very interested in it and asked me a lot of questions.  I was both pleased and confused by his interest.

As he asked me questions, a picture began to come together in my mind.  For example, I had told him that I thought it was related to a memory (since this has happened before, only with bad memories).  He asked if I knew what the memory was about.  I said, "No, well, I keep thinking of my Grandmother.  I think it has something to do with her." 

He asked me a few more questions and then suddenly it hit me!  The smell was not cotton candy, but divinity.  Divinity is a Christmas candy.  Like cotton candy it has a way of "melting" in your mouth.  My Grandmother used to use food coloring to make it pink...just like cotton candy!

It was very clear to me in that moment that what I had smelled was a memory of making divinity with my Grandmother, and the very delightful feeling associated with the smell, was the way I felt as a child when I had that experience.

As I looked at the cotton candy sketch again, it was bittersweet.  I had thought of the smell and feeling as chasing away the present darkness.  Now I could feel and remember that "pushing away the darkness" was also related to the past.  That moment of joy with my Grandmother, temporarily pushed away the darkness of my life.

Why did I bury such a sweet memory?  I had to, because I am not the one that holds it.  The little boy of my mind does.  He also holds very difficult memories (don't ask me what they are, I really don't know).  His memories are so awful that I get a migraine type headache when I try to approach him in therapy...the headache recedes when I step away from him.  Yet, he is pleading with me to help him.  What can I do?

This sweet (no pun intended) memory is a great example of how my bad memories work.  Sometimes it is a picture that comes into my mind, while I am awake, or asleep, it doesn't matter.  Or maybe a dream, but whatever form it takes, it grabs hold of me and demands my attention.  Everyone has had the experience of getting a song "stuck" in your mind.  The images cling to me even more deeply than a song, and cannot be ignored. 

Right now, the divinity memory is just a smell and a feeling that brings a smile to my face even as I write this, and a "knowing" that it is about making divinity with my grandma.  If this memory works like the others, in time more and more pieces of it will come to me.  I might remember Grandma's apron (if she had one) or the music that was playing, perhaps something she said.  That is how it happens with the other memories.  Only this time, I will be happy to see the other pieces.

Photo attribution: Caroline Steinhauer

Embracing Fear and Conquering with DID

I have a severe phobia of the dentist.  I mean severe.   It's the chair.  Yes, not the shot, or the drill, it's the chair.  Lying in the chair represents submission, and as you can imagine that terrifies me.  You sit back in that chair and open your mouth, and then trust. 

Trust is a big issue for survivors of childhood abuse.  It is really a struggle for me.

My fear started when I got the reminder call about the appointment.  It increased as the time approached. I was emotional and distracted. The day of the appointment I was a basketcase, I couldn't concentrate.  I wish I was exaggerating, but I am really not. 

As I sat in the lobby filling out the new patient paperwork, I knew that as soon as I started walking toward the chair I would become, emotionally a child.  I would be paralyzed by fear and unable to speak up or advocate for myself.  I know this because it happens everytime I go to the dentist.  So I wrote a note to my new dentist and explained my situation.  The dentist, bless him, read my note and then came out to the lobby and sat and chatted with me for a moment to put me more at ease.  That was wonderful, but still when he said, "Come on back."  It happened.  The paralysis set in.  I was like a helpless child.

I sat in the dreaded chair, and the hygienist began the cleaning.  That's when it hit me.  I forgot to ask for laughing gas for the cleaning.  I hate metal touching my teeth, and what do they do in a cleaning but scrape your teeth with metal...argh!  As an adult, I would just put up my hand to stop him and ask for laughing gas, but I was not an adult at that moment.  I was a helpless child at the hands of an "authority figure".  I could not make requests I could only wait helplessly until it was over.

My body tensed, and my heart rate increased as my panic grew.  How could I get myself through this situation.  Desperately, and with frustration, I thought, "Why can't I dissociate myself out of this?"  Then a glimmer of hope came to me, "Why can't I?  Where should I go?"

I was ready to mentally transport myself somewhere else.  I figured I have been doing it unconsciously since childhood, so this time I would do it consciously.  That was my only goal.  As I considered where to go...it would have to be somewhere I felt comfortable, and somewhere well-established.  Some how I felt that I would not have the "strength" to go to a new place, I needed to go to a comfortable place in my mind I had been to before.

I chose my DID Landscape.  This is a common thing among people with DID, to have an organized space in one's mind for all one's parts.  I don't want to give too many details about my DID landscape, but suffice it to say that even though there are parts there that have painful memories, and one part in particular that I am avoiding, it is still a beautiful place that I created for traumtized parts to heal.  So I went there myself as I have many times before in therapy.

I stood at the entrance and thought, "Now what?"  Then, an idea came to me to go to the part of me that holds the memory that causes most of my dentist phobia.  That part is a  young girl, 4 yrs old (she has a name, but I am not comfortable sharing that). 

I approached her and took her in my arms, lovingly.  I rocked her and stroked her hair.  I spoke to her quietly, "I am so sorry for what happened to you.  So, so sorry.  I know you are scared, but what is happening now is different.  Feel what the body feels right now, and see that this is different.  I promise, I will never let anyone hurt you again."

Something amazing happened, the terror I felt eased, a very peaceful, healing feeling replaced it.  I felt so good.  I marveled at it.

At that moment, the hygenist (who was very gentle) slipped and that sharp metal hook hit my lip.  I thought, "Buster, if you do that again we are done."  And I meant it.  If that happened again, I would raise my hand and simply say, "I'm done.  I can't do any more today."  No explanation needed, it's my body and if I say stop, it stops.  That is when I realized, I was back in adult mode!!!  I can't express how incredible that felt.  I was no longer a terrified child helplessly submitting to whatever the "authority figures of the moment" subjected me too.  I was an adult that could speak up for my needs and defend my boundaries.  I was exhilarated.  I could hardly believe it.

When the cleaning was done, I glanced at the clock on the wall.  I was stunned. How could I have been at the dentist for an hour?  It literally felt like 15 minutes.  As I got up from the chair, my leg muscles, knees and ankles were so stiff and painful that it was difficult to get up (I hadn't had pain when I came in) but emotionally and mentally I felt like I could fly. 

Anthony Maragou


Photo Attribution: Anthony Maragou

Beneath the Mask: Dissociative Identity Disorder

I've been thinking about writing about this for some time. I have even hinted at it, some might say I did more than hint. Anyway, I did not think I had said it directly, so here it is...

I have Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID).




Michael Drummond

My 16 yr old son asked me the other day, "Mom is DID the same thing as Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD)?"

I had told my teenage children quite awhile ago that I have DID, but I guess he didn't make the connection.  I explained that yes they are the same.  He then had more questions.  Can the parts really be different sexes? Yes. And have different medical issues?  Yes.  Different ages?  Yes. 

I could be wrong but I sensed a bit of "Wait a minute, you didn't tell me it was like THAT."  My point here is that even though he lives with me, he didn't realize.  DID is NOT obvious.  People with DID have families, hold down jobs, get college degrees...all the things that "singletons" do. (Yes, we call you guys singletons.)  The only difference is that our divided mind helps us be able to take care of all these day-to-day things while the skeletons rattle in the closet.

So the first thing I want you to understand about DID, is that you could know someone, even live with them and not realize they have it.  It is not obvious, it is not like it is portrayed by Hollywood.

Before I tell you a little more about how I experience DID, I need to make a disclaimer that I do not speak for everyone that deals with this disorder.  It is much more common than you would think; I have met others with DID, in real life and on line.  There are forums and hospitals and therapy groups for people dealing with this.  What I have learned from sharing with other "multiples" is that while we have much in common, there are also many differences.

I hope that by explaining a little of why I believe my "system" works the way it does, will help you understand why two people with DID can experience it so differently.  First we need to consider how it begins.  DID is commonly believed to begin in childhood as a result of severe, and often repeated trauma.  I think of it as a God-given gift to help child survive and cope.  A child's mind does not have the experience, the coping skills etc to deal with such trauma, so the mind resorts to chronic dissociation.

Remember I explained before that dissociation is something that everyone does.  Daydreaming or highway hypnosis (when you drive somewhere and then feel startled when you realize you remember very little about the drive...you were on "auto-pilot").  This sort of dissociation is normal.  But when a traumatized child uses dissociation over and over as an escape to the point that it becomes chronic, then it crosses in to the disorder side of the spectrum.  Because the abuse each person suffers is different, the severity of dissociation can vary as well. 

The way the "system" is set up varies greatly as well.  When I say the system, I mean the parts or alters.  Remember My Haunted Mind, where in each room there is someone that holds some memory or memories of my past.  What I didn't mention in that post is how real those "people" in the rooms feel to me. 

I want to tell you that I know they are not real and yet I can't...and let me tell you why.  This is a conversation that I have had with my therapist more than once.  I will mention to him the name of a part and say, "I know I need to help _____________ .  She's crying and upset and so alone, but I can't."

You have to understand that helping her means remembering what she knows, feeling the pain she feels, the pain she has held for me all these years.  The pain, emotional and physical, of rape.  Can you understand why I don't want to help?  It is not a matter of just giving her a hug, it's hearing what she has to say and feeling it.  So I tell myself and my therapist, "I don't have to help her.  She is not real.  She's part of me and therefore I can ignore her and keep that part of myself buried if I want to."

Doesn't that sound like a good solution?  I wish it worked.  But it doesn't.  Whenever I say or think that, the walls in the Haunted Mind start to melt and all the pain held by all those children in my mind comes rushing to me at once.   I fear that the pain will separate me from my tenuous hold on sanity.  I wonder, "Is this what a nervous breakdown feels like?"

To stop the pain, to stop the melting walls, I surrender.  "Ok, ok," I say to myself.  "She's real."  Not in a physical sense, of course, but in my mind she is real.  She has a name, and her own personality.  I can picture her in my mind's eye...and most of the time when I see her she is crying.  How can I then not go to her?  There in is my dilema.  I must help her.  What kind of monster would I be if I didn't? And yet helping her terrifies me.

I believe that at one point in my childhood, I thought if I was a boy then the abuse would not happen.  It didn't work, and now there is a little boy part with memories of his own.  I don't know his name, and really I don't want to know anything about him...and yet, I know in time, I will have to accept him too.

Another time I must have wished for a teenage brother to protect me. . .and so it goes.

The goal of therapy is either integration or co-operation between the parts.  I say "or" because some multiples do not wish to integrate.  They feel they will lose something in the process.  For me, I do aim for integration.  I think of it as my parts coming together, holding hands, sharing the pain equally, but also sharing joy equally.  We are not there yet, but someday. . .

I know I am taking a huge risk in sharing this with you.  I already feel that sharing that I was abused makes me INVISIBLE or an Emotional Leper and this because people don't know what to say so they don't say anything.  So why in the world would I tell you something that is going to make you look at me like I am some sort of Circus Side Show (my apologies to my friends with DID...that is certainly not how I feel, just how I fear others may see this).

I'm sharing for two reasons.  First I hope you will see that DID/MPD is really not "freaky" or "crazy".  Some of you that read this blog know me in real life and can say, "I never knew."  That is the point.  The whole reason for the dissociation is to hide things.  To hide the pain and the abuse from everyone including me.  AND then to hide the dissociation.  I may have younger parts of myself that feel absolutely real to me, but the rest of the "system" keeps them hidden from the outside world to protect them.   I want people to see that this is not "crazy", not what it is portrayed in the media as, but rather a creative way to deal with trauma no child should ever have to deal with. Not all survivors have DID, but many do...it is much more common than you realize. (I know I said this before, I'm repeating it for emphasis.)

Second, I share because I hope that if you understand the serious and life-long consequences of abuse, you will be more willing to take action to prevent it.  In our culture, we are far to likely to try and protect the abuser than the victim.  Case in point, I read an article from ABC News about Victim 1 in the Sandusky case.  When he and his mother approached the principal and the school counselor about the abuse they were told: "Jerry has a heart of gold and that he wouldn't do those type of things,"  And then they were told to go home and think about it.

Where was the concern for the victim???  This is the kind of thing I am talking about.  This has got to stop. 

The principal and the counselor told the boy's mother NOT to call the police, they would handle it.  Again at this point they were more concerned about "the nice guy" than the victim.  Fortunately, they were required by law to report it to the Child Protection Services so they did.  It was three more years before Sandusky was arrested (how many more violations occured during that time???) Because the authorities said they needed more witnesses...after all we can't prosecute this "nice guy".

We have to stop the denial, stop worrying about the perpetrators and start protecting victims.  The more we understand, as a culture, the effects of abuse, the more likely we will be to help the victims.  Or even better to work on prevention.  At least that is my hope.  And I'm putting myself on the line to help make it happen.

If you have any questions about DID, feel free to ask, I will answer them the best I can based on my onw experience and research, but remember I don't speak for everyone.

Photo Attribution: Michael Drummond

The Ghost in My House

My family is haunted by a ghost.  A ghost that does not seem to know its place, I mean aren't ghosts supposed to stay in one location?  This ghost goes everywhere we go.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, after all the ghost is me.



National Media Museum

There was another me, before.  Before the memories; she died.  That me was happy.  That me was self-confident. That me was spiritual.  In my other life, I could lasso the moon.  Then memories, like sharp daggers began to pierce me. Pain weakened me, but it was Shame, like a dagger, that pierced my heart and felled me.

And now a ghost lives in my house.  When I look in the mirror, I know the face looking back, the one that looks like my former self, is an illusion.  My family knows too.  One day I asked my oldest son if "all this" is hard for him.  He said, "Well, it is a little weird because I remember the way you were before.  But it will probably be easier for the younger ones because they don't remember." 

Owww, can I die twice? 

People ask me sometimes if my kids know.  Yes, the older ones do.  You've heard the saying about elephants in the room.  That subject that no one dares talk about.  I grew up with elephants, so no more.  No elephants, no secrets, no skeletons in the closet.  Not for me.  My teenage kids know about therapy, the Dissociation, the PTSD, and the abuse.

As far as Ghosts go, you could imagine me like Patrick Swayze's character in Ghost.  He wanted to desperately to get his old life back.  That is what I want too.  Eventually, he had to accept his new reality, say good-bye and let go.  I don't have to say good-bye to my family, thank goodness.  But I do need to accept reality and let go of the hope that I will return to be the person I was before. 

Thomas Wolfe said, "You can't go home again."  He had something else in mind, but I feel like that applies to me.  I can never get Innocence back.  Not the innocence that should have been mine as a child; that precious gem that should be the heritage of every child.  Not the innocence that I had up until a couple years ago.  I'm sure that some people see me as cynical now, and I couldn't argue.  Cynical? Yes, and skeptical too.  Pain and shame can do that.

But even though my cynicsm and skeptism, cast large shadows that threaten to overtake me, to become the whole of me, still I have a glimmer of hope.  I see it like a small candle in a window of my mind.  Quietly and steadily it flickers. 

Outside the storm rages, but the light burns on.  "Keep on moving,": the little light whispers.  "You can't go back, but you can move forward.  Something better awaits beyond the darkness.  Just keep moving towards The Light."



Brooklyn Museum Archives

You Can't Rush Spring



My favorite season is spring.  I realize that as I write this we are heading in to fall.  Fall is nice too.  The changing colors of the leaves and all that…yeah, yeah.  I hate orange.  If I had my way, I would eliminate orange from the world with the exception of fall leaves and pumpkins.  Still, fall is beautiful, I can’t deny that, but fall is a dying or if you insist, hibernation.  The leaves change color and then they fall off the trees leaving them naked for winter.  Sad.

 

Jon Harris publicdomainpictures.net

Spring on the other hand is rejuvenation, color returning after a gray winter.  I live in the Northwest so when I say gray winter, I mean it.  I mean months of cloudy skies and rain.  Not that I mind;  I love the rain.  But I really love when the first flowers return in the spring, and the leaves push out from buds on the trees.  Now, that is beautiful.  Tulips are my favorite flower, and they are the second flowers that arrive in the spring.  When I see daffodils, I know tulips are coming.  The return of flowers, leaves and birds never fails to make me feel hopeful.

As much as I love the spring, I can’t rush through fall and winter to get there.  If I could I would rush through summer too, but you can’t rush spring.   

I mention this because spring came in my heart on Sunday.  It was not like spring on the calendar which is predictable. It was a sweet reawakening in my heart caught me by surprise.  I went to church dragging my feet if you will.  (More about why church is painful for me, and why I keep going anyway another time.)  The point is, I was not expecting to get anything out of it.  I was “doing my duty”, so to speak.  I figured that if I went to church and did not end up at some point crying in the bathroom I would call the day a success.  That was my plan.

But to my surprise, the meeting touched me.  There was a message there for me, a healing sort of message.   I was grateful, very grateful, but surprised.  Why now?  I have been searching for that for so long, and then when I didn’t expect it, there it was.

As I pondered this, I realized that there have been other signs of spiritual spring in my life recently.  Again I wondered, why this, why now?  The overall message really hasn’t changed.  There was nothing significantly different about this meeting than other meetings that have made me cry in the past.  The message was the same.  The people were much the same.  So what changed?

It must be me.

My heart is changing, and healing.  I felt something different because I was ready to hear it. What I felt Sunday must have been there all along, but until I was ready, I couldn’t hear it.  I couldn’t feel it.

Realizing that the “problem” all along has been me, of course, I began the “why didn’t I get this sooner”.  We all do this right?  I wondered: why was I so stubborn, so prideful, so whatever.  That’s when I realized it.

You can’t rush spring, and you can’t rush healing. 

I didn’t do anything wrong.  I was not too stubborn.  I was not too prideful.  In fact I think I deserve some kudos for continuing to push forward when it was so hard.  Healing takes time.  Some wounds take longer to heal than others.  But if we hold on through the cold, gray winter, spring will come. 

This is not the end of my healing journey, not even close, I know that, but it is measurable progress and I am grateful for that.  I started this post on Sunday night when I was feeling the warmth of spring, and now it is Monday night, and another winter storm is rolling in.  It’s okay because I remind myself there will be more “springs” in the future.

Petr Kratochvil    http://publicdomainpictures.net

 

Living in the Maze

                                        
Sometimes my life feels like a hellish maze of PTSD and dissociation.  I believe there is an exit, but I don’t know how to get there so I wander blindly through the twists and turns. 

 

Photo credit: Jiri Hodan publicdomainpictures.net

 

Recently I was feeling anxious and jittery.  I decided that I would try some journaling to try and figure out what was bothering me.  So I opened my journal and I promised myself I would just “free write”. No censoring, just free-write.  I don’t have to let anyone read it ever so it doesn’t matter what comes out.  Just write the words as they come to my mind.  So I wrote, and wrote and wrote, and when I was finished I felt better.  I felt purged. 

A couple weeks later I had a quiet moment and I decided to go back and read that entry.  I was surprised what I found there.  I did not remember writing much of it, and was surprised by a lot of what I read.  What was written was haunting and painful.  What I wrote was true.  All brought it back to me in living color.  The memory was pregnant with feelings of fear, and as I read, I felt it as if it were happening for the first time. 

Now a couple days later, it stalks me.  Though I try to avoid it, the feelings are never far from conscious thought.  I know the key to feeling better is to talk about this in therapy.  It is the only way to air it out and get some relief, and yet can you understand what it will take to do that?  I feel trapped.  Talking about it in therapy would mean allowing myself to feel it and sharing it with another person.  I can’t go there.

So I face a “T” in the maze and in every direction there is pain.  This time, I know which way I need to go, but I need some courage that I don’t have right now to move forward.  Instead I will sit here and listen to a comforting song, and cry and hope it brings me courage.

Remember The Hunger Games?  I need some sponsors.  I need care packages.  Anyone got some courage, faith and hope you can send?

Seeing Red Part II

http://mycornerthroughmylens.blogspot.com/

Even though I had never done it before, I felt certain that self-harm i.e. cutting would ease the pain.  Still there was a part of my mind that said, “No, don’t do this.” So I went to the Internet to research.  I found a forum for people that struggle with self-harm (there are various forms of it). 

There was a post titled, “If you are thinking about cutting, but haven’t started: please read”, or something to that effect.  The writer made a very compelling argument, about why not to do it.  The one that weighed most heavily on my mind was “it’s very addictive”.  Once you start it is very hard to stop.  That was sobering.

The post also said that if you do it, you end up wearing long sleeve shirts all year round to hide the scars, and sometimes you cut to deep (on accident) and have to go to the ER.  She said the ER doctors and nurses are NOT kind to people who self-harm.  They are disgusted by it and make no attempt to hide their disgust, which increases your shame.  To be honest, I would have cut as deeply as possible as a way of crying out, “I’m hurting and please help!”  And to think that cry might have been met with disgust saddens me. 

SIDEBAR: This is not a reflection on all doctors.  I have had two fabulous primary care doctors (one is my current doctor), and they have always been amazingly kind, gentle and supportive to me.  One of my favorite bloggers is an ER doctor and I trust he would be kind as well. 

The website also offered suggestions for people trying to stop the addiction of self-harm.  I found them very helpful.

Holding Ice…I didn’t actually use this one, but I share it here because it might help someone else.  I asked my therapist, how could holding ice be helpful since ice is not always available?  He said it can be hard sometimes to be in the kitchen so close to the knives (too much temptation), and holding ice is painful so it helps.  Since my memories have come closer to the surface,  I find the kitchen absolutely intolerable. I don’t cook anymore, but if that would help you. . .

Rubber bands…I used rubber band popping for a while.  I would wear a nice thick rubber band on my wrist.  Then, in true addiction fashion, I started wearing two rubber bands because what if one broke?  I couldn't be without one.

Red marker. . .I thought this one was odd when I first read about it.  I asked my therapist, how would drawing on yourself with a marker help?  He explained people generally use red and that red line appearing on your arm simulates blood.  That still seemed strange to me until I tried it.  Wow, it was powerful.  I did it a lot.  I found that red sharpie made the most realistic looking red color.  I hope I am not making you too uncomfortable by sharing this, just remember Chuck Noland and his toothache.  When the pain is great, you do whatever it takes to relieve it.  Whatever it takes. . .

Using the marker was soothing in a way I simply cannot explain or describe.  It didn’t completely relieve the urge to cut, but it helped make it more manageable.  So much so in fact, that writing about it makes me want to do it.  Too bad it is short sleeve season as I write this.  I need to finish this post… Where’s my red marker?  (So not kidding)

Finally, I share all this so that those of you that struggle with the same things will know that you are not alone.  I hope that you will talk to someone.  Therapy helps.  It may seem to make things harder at first (believe me I know!), but if you stick with it, it helps.   A good friend of mine shared this quote with me, “When nothing changes, nothing changes.” 

______________

P.S. I need to add here:  I am doing a lot better these days.  I rarely have urges to self-harm any more, I have learned more healthy coping strategies.  I realized after I wrote this (which was actually about two weeks ago) that the reason I was thinking about self-harm again, both in wanting to write these posts, and wanting to go buy a new red sharpie...was because of a memory that I am dealing with.  I'm working on the memory now in therapy, it is a many-session-memory.  And that has resolved the self-harm urges again.  So please don't worry!  The fact that I am able to talk about this means I am doing better. 

 

Photo attribution: http://mycornerthroughmylens.blogspot.com/   The picture in this post was used by permission from my friend, Cathy.  Her blog is wonderful.  Beautiful words and pictures.  I hope you will pay her a visit. 

 

 

 

Seeing Red



Remember the Tom Hanks movie, Cast Away?  What is the first scene that comes to your mind?  For me it is the toothache scene.  Ewww, yeah, I can’t watch it, but it is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of that movie.   Hanks’ character Chuck Noland has bad tooth and he has been procrastinating going to the dentist.  Then his plane crashes and he is stranded, alone on a desert island.  As the pain increases, he resorts to ever more creative and chilling ways to deal with the pain, until in the end he knocks the tooth out, knocking himself unconscious at the same time.

If that were real, it seems very possible that his pain was caused by an abscess (infection).  I’m not a medical person, but that has been the cause for my worst toothaches.  If that were the case, just knocking the tooth out would not resolve the infection or the pain.  And to complicate matters, knocking the tooth out very likely left sharp edges which would now cut his tongue, and cheek.  If Chuck Noland were a real person, he likely would have understood those things, and he likely would have taken the same actions anyway.  Why?  Because the pain was so great that it was muddled his thinking. 

A bad toothache is something everyone can relate too, and while it may make you uneasy you can understand why Noland did what he did.   I would like to compare this to a pain that you are not so familiar with, and the muddled thinking, and desperate actions that can follow.  I’m talking about trauma and self-harm.   According to the Sidran Institute: Research shows that people with trauma disorders have more serious medical illnesses, substance use, and self-harming behaviors than even people with major depression.

Have you ever heard of people harming themselves and wondered, “Why in the world would someone do that?”  I used to wonder the same thing, until one day I got the urge to do it. . .

It was about two years ago, but as clear in my memory as yesterday.  I was sitting in church, when an image came to my mind of cutting myself—from elbow to wrist, long and deep. 

That was the first step on a confusing journey.  I did not know where this urge had come from, only that it was strong.  I had so much emotional pain that it felt like cutting was the only way to release it.  Like Noland willing to knock out his own tooth, I was blind to reason; all that mattered was the emotional pain and whatever it would take to make it stop.

This post is continued here:  Seeing Red Part II

Note: I wrote about this topic once before here: Ashes of Abuse.  In that post, I wrote, "Recent events have given me some new insight in to this coping mechanism."  Um yeah, the recent event was that I was struggling with the temptation to do it myself. 

Better Than Chocolate

             You know how as you get older your weight starts creeping up?  Well, I just realized that for 6 months or so, mine has been creeping down.   So why am I losing weight, albeit very slowly?  I attribute it to therapy.

 Yes, you too, my friend, can lose weight if you commit two days a week to therapy for two years!  I know you are all lining up.  But seriously, instead of trying to ignore my pain or soothe it with various forms of sweets, I’m facing it. And I’m learning coping skills that are better than chocolate.  Blasphemy, I know, but read on. . .

Recently I was feeling really bad and I thought, “I wish I had a book to read that would feel like a hug.”  It took me a few days to realize that I had just such a book in my Nook reader already (yep, I’m a dork.)

So then yesterday—    What?!  Oh, you want me to tell you which book is a good virtual hug?  Ok.

 It’s Tuesdays With Morrie by Mitch Albom.  Now that I am thinking about it, almost anything by Mitch Albom would work.  I also love his One More Day, Five People You Meet In Heaven, or Have a Little Faith.   Yep, I’m going to go on record here, I think Mitch Albom’s writing is better than chocolate. 

Speaking of Mitch Albom, he has a new book coming out in September, yes next month!  I am so excited that I “pre-ordered” it.  In fact, I think I need all of the books I mentioned on my reader because sometimes you just need some Book Love.

You know what else is better than chocolate?  Swearing.  Yep, who knew.  I’m about to swear so if that offends you, close your eyes.  I think a good damn, damn, damn is better than chocolate.  I’m serious.  I don’t really recommend it for everyone.  I don’t want my children to start swearing, for example, but for those of us survivors of abuse that have dragons in the cellar, swearing is like turning the value and releasing a little of that anger.  Who knows, after another year or so of therapy I might feel good enough to stop swearing.  We shall see.

Grounding On Friday, I had a doctor’s appointment, and when the assistant called me back it was not the familiar face I expected (a nice woman), but a scary man.  (Actually he was nice, but something about him triggered me.)  When he told me that my blood pressure was 160/105, I was not really surprised.  I wanted to say, “it’s you! Get away from me.”  But I didn’t. Then as I was waiting for the doctor, I realized that I was feeling short of breath, and fairly uncomfortable. I recognized this as the beginning of a panic attack, so I put my book down and focused on grounding myself.  Grounding for me, meant looking around the room paying close attention to detail, and thinking about those details as if there would be a quiz later.  Being triggered is like a time warp into a traumatic past, grounding helped bring me back to the present.  I did it.  Yay me!  Yay for therapy. 

After the doctor’s visit, as I was leaving the office,  I felt a powerful urge for chocolate, never mind that it was only 10 am.  I recognized that I was still feeling tense from the near panic attack and craving chocolate because it helps me relax.  So I looked around the lobby (it was a large office building) for something beautiful i.e. a painting or flowers.  I found a gorgeous plant.  As earlier, I used it to ground myself.  After a few moments, I left.  I was calmer, the chocolate craving was gone.

Perhaps you doubt me that these things, and others I have mentioned in previous blog posts i.e. writing, music and drawing could be “better than chocolate”.

 While I can’t guarantee it will be the same for you,  I can guarantee one thing : all the things I suggested are zero calorie and sugar free.