Tag Archives: trauma

Being available

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This week I am on vacation at a writing workshop. I came to this workshop because I learned this particular writing technique in the past, and it served my writing well. I want to get back in the saddle of doing it regularly. Unfortunately, I think I discovered why this technique is such an issue for me.

The technique is relatively straight-forward, and I’m going to over simplify it here for the sake of explanation. Number your paper from 1-25 first. Then you meditate for at least two minutes. You take a topic, any topic really, but in my case it was churches, and you start listing images that come to you from age 6 to the present day, one image per line. You have 7 minutes to do your listing. My head immediately began to hurt as I started this exercise. I felt a flood of peeps and selves start to tweak out simultaneously. I fought it because I wanted to do the exercise, and the more I fought it the more tired and floaty I became. The room started to take on a haze for me.

“By meditating you are making yourself available to the images. The memories are there, and they will come if you make yourself available to them.” This was one of the takeaways from the exercise.

I’m struck by what she said because it was very similar to what Doc often tells me about being open to the extrinsic memories when odd things happen to me that make no immediate sense.

It looks like the universe is sending me a message, be available to the memories. I’m afraid to know what lies ahead.

What the what?!

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Today, as usual, I woke up with that stuck to the bed familiar feeling that I often have in the morning upon waking up. The difference is that I’m better able these days to shake it off in shorter order than I was in the not so distant past. Though I did have the sense that I had a rough night of dissociative sleeping, but I had no clues beyond my foggy feeling.

Fast forward to the kitchen, last stop before I head out the door, and I’m trying to find the damn grilled chicken that I’m taking for lunch. I can’t find it, and I know I bought it, and I know where I put it in the refrigerator. I proceeded to nearly empty the entire refrigerator looking for this chicken. Finally, I see the chicken on the counter, right near my lunch bag, and I have no idea as to how it got there. I start furiously searching my memory for the moment I put it on the counter, and there is nothing there. I shake and shake and shake my brain for the memory of taking out the chicken to no avail. Finally, I just leave for my appointment with Doc, and I’m late for it by 5-7 minutes.

As I sit down, Doc mentions to me that I am consistently 5-7 minutes late for my appointments, and he asks me why. I tell him that the reasons are different each time. This time I tell him about the chicken incident, to which he says to me, “Did you ask inside?” I became slightly annoyed, and I said to him that I did not ask inside as I was running late for an appointment. He then pointed out that asking inside about the chicken might have given me some answers as to who took out the chicken, why they felt compelled to “help out” or whether someone was trying to delay getting to the appointment, etc.

Then I became further annoyed because he asked me why I did not ask inside, why did I just keep going through my memory bank when I know I have DID. I then said that sometimes in moments like that I question the DID, and look for another answer.

He seemed to soften when I said that, and said that he understood that tendency. But, he went on to say that intrinsic memory will only become extrinsic memory when I start questioning why certain things are happening. For example, a good time to look for the extrinsic memory would have been upon waking up with the stuck to the bed feeling. He said that if I make myself open to the extrinsic memory when odd or disturbing things happen eventually the extrinsic memory will come, but only if I make myself available to it.

I want that, and I don’t want that. I want to move on from this limbo of trauma and dissociation, but I am afraid to fully know what got me here.  I will try to be more open to answers. We shall see, but make no mistake, I’m afraid to know what lies beneath.

Photo credit: Wikipedia

Belle and the singing bowl

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A Japanese rin marks the beginning of moments ...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For days I’ve wanted and not wanted to write. The words and sentences were swirling around in my head, but I could not bring myself to take out my laptop. I feared that writing those sentences would propel me closer to the depths of blackness. My selves were vacillating between wanting an end, and not wanting an end. When I’m in a situation such as this the best thing to do is nothing, and that is what I did. I simply fell asleep in a dissociative state around 7 pm.

We saw Doc yesterday, and discovered a new self. Honestly, for some reason, I don’t care for the term “alter.” Since Doc says they are all a part of me, I shall call them selves because I can. I was late for the appointment because I got lost on the way. There is no good reason for this as I’ve been there many times.

Sure enough, Doc figured out that someone else was taking over, and out tumbled, Secret. Secret is young, though I can’t figure out her exact age at the moment. She is terrified of highways and heavy traffic. Apparently, this appears to be the reason I have so much trouble getting to his office on time, or losing my way there at times. She recalled instances of horrifying car rides with my stepfather. Even now, I feel myself slipping away because I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to remember the feeling of impending death from his careless and thoughtless acts behind a wheel. He loved to scare us in the car.

It seemed like Secret was around for the scary car situations, but Belle would appear when the horror turned to feelings of death. Belle holds the worst of the feelings, the feelings of wanting the pain of existence in that household to end. Belle, for the most part, just knows despair, no hope, and a desire for an end. Doc’s theory is that Belle exists just for that, to hold the worst of the despair for all the others.

As Secret started to recall the scary car experiences to Doc, Belle appeared when it became too much for Secret. Belle has this defeated sounding voice that breaks my heart. As she tells Doc that she wants to die, he comes and sits right in front of us. We are almost toe to toe. He starts to ask her to think about what it must be like for a psychiatrist to lose a patient to suicide, knowing that his patient gave up on life. He also told Belle that we don’t know what it’s like “on the other side” so stay here, and keep trying.

He then went over to his desk, and picked up a singing bowl, of which I had never seen in my life. He touched it on the side with wooden mallet, and it let out this peaceful sound that I can’t even describe. Belle asked if she could play it herself, and he allowed her to do so. Then as quickly as she felt the joy of the sound of the singing bowl, she found herself feeling like throwing up. Apparently, the good feeling was so new, and so foreign that she nearly became sick.

We were then in and out of a dissociative state for the next 12 hours. We have now come out the other end and survived, but we are tired.