When I told my counselor about the false teaching, deception, and cruelty on the part of the leadership of our church against its members, he asked, "Why don't you leave?"
I said, "God has not released us to leave. He has told us to stay and stand, to bring the deeds of darkness into the light of His judgment.
"Also," I said, "because the situation there parallels the one with my dad when I was little--abuse under color of authority--it has actually brought up memories and feelings and insights that are helping me get the healing I've been getting in here."
Then he said, "All that is happening now could provide the motivation for all the parts to become whole, serve to bring about emotional, cognitive and spiritual wholeness. God can use even what's happening with the church to resolve basic splits."
:o)
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Friday, November 25, 2011
Whole?
In my sessions with G, two of the conflicts at the root of the tree which is me seem to have been totally resolved and eliminated. The original baby was not only drawn Moses-like from the hidden place of safety but next thing I knew she was a little girl walking down a runway.
We got in touch with lies that split me at my core and God spoke truth to them and things inside adjusted. But I'm not sure what. I can't seem to get in touch with some of the "little ones" who used to feel separate. It just feels like they are part of me now, that I like certain things April and Jess liked.
Does that mean I am partially integrated? Even whole?
Maybe not whole. I still sense some barriers, some compartments I haven't explored yet.
But I'm not in touch with anyone inside right now, haven't been for weeks, so I don't know what's going on. Whoever is there has retreated way to the back of the brain, into the bunker, probably because above ground we are under heavy mortar and missile attack from the elder board of our church. They sent out an e-mail to everyone in our church telling them not to speak to us (this includes my husband and a handful of others) or to read anything we write. We see some people shrinking away from us with fear in their eyes. Elders' wives avoid us; one tosses her head whenever we approach, turning as if to speak to someone behind her when there is no one there. (I tried to be reconciled with her but she berated me for the things I said about her husband and then walked away. Why? He was the one who hurt me. "You said he yelled at you!" "I didn't say that. He didn't yell at me." "Well, but you said other things.")
We're bruised but not destroyed. God keeps sustaining us and giving us love for them. And some have responded in kind and are even in agreement with us.
A wonderful thing happened. The elders declared a day of prayer and fasting, asking prayer for themselves. They may have intended it for evil, to rally indignant troops to pray against us. But we prayed too. We prayed for them and we called each one to tell him so, thank him for declaring the day of prayer, asking him how we could be praying for him. And 13 of the 30 men entrusted prayer requests to us! We felt privileged to take them to the Most High God in the name of Jesus Christ.
We also prayed against the enchantment that holds them fast in "emergence," for freedom from the cult.
We got in touch with lies that split me at my core and God spoke truth to them and things inside adjusted. But I'm not sure what. I can't seem to get in touch with some of the "little ones" who used to feel separate. It just feels like they are part of me now, that I like certain things April and Jess liked.
Does that mean I am partially integrated? Even whole?
Maybe not whole. I still sense some barriers, some compartments I haven't explored yet.
But I'm not in touch with anyone inside right now, haven't been for weeks, so I don't know what's going on. Whoever is there has retreated way to the back of the brain, into the bunker, probably because above ground we are under heavy mortar and missile attack from the elder board of our church. They sent out an e-mail to everyone in our church telling them not to speak to us (this includes my husband and a handful of others) or to read anything we write. We see some people shrinking away from us with fear in their eyes. Elders' wives avoid us; one tosses her head whenever we approach, turning as if to speak to someone behind her when there is no one there. (I tried to be reconciled with her but she berated me for the things I said about her husband and then walked away. Why? He was the one who hurt me. "You said he yelled at you!" "I didn't say that. He didn't yell at me." "Well, but you said other things.")
We're bruised but not destroyed. God keeps sustaining us and giving us love for them. And some have responded in kind and are even in agreement with us.
A wonderful thing happened. The elders declared a day of prayer and fasting, asking prayer for themselves. They may have intended it for evil, to rally indignant troops to pray against us. But we prayed too. We prayed for them and we called each one to tell him so, thank him for declaring the day of prayer, asking him how we could be praying for him. And 13 of the 30 men entrusted prayer requests to us! We felt privileged to take them to the Most High God in the name of Jesus Christ.
We also prayed against the enchantment that holds them fast in "emergence," for freedom from the cult.
Friday, October 28, 2011
The runway
"There is a lighted runway from the back of your mind to the front. Who would like to come forward and speak?" G began our session yesterday with this invitation. Last time we dealt with the first two lies, the ones Daddy told us: "It's all right," and "You like it." Now G was inviting to the "place of blessing (and executive control)" whoever held the next lie we had believed, chronologically.
Again we all waited. I could see the runway, not a runway for airplanes but for models. Lights high up in a ceiling we couldn't see were focused on it, the long, narrow walk from the dimness obscuring a group of me to dimness obscuring the huge room full of people surrounding us. Rows and rows of people, attentive and affirming.
Now I could see a small figure start down the strip of light. From my vantage point above and to one side, the little girl seemed to be about an inch tall. She was wearing a simple loose shiny white dress with a scoop neckline, sleeveless, falling straight to the tops of her sandals. It was a little too big for her. She came forward slowly but without hesitation.
I described her to G.
"Which one is she?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe Melissa? Or Jenny. White is her color."
"Ask Jesus to give her a name, if she wants one."
But instinctively I knew she already had a name. I asked Jesus who she was. And he said, "Original self."
I told G, adding, "so her name must be Jessica but He didn't say so."
As I continued to watch through my mind's eye, this little person kept coming down the long walkway, all alone, not shy, not self-conscious, not awkward, not nervous, though she knew thousands of eyes were on her.
"I think she likes the attention," I said. Immediately I realized she was not enjoying the attention as one swelled up with pride by it. She was not seeking the limelight.
Instead, she knew it was her turn and she walked steadily forward in awe that she was getting attention, that all those unseen eyes were watching her with approval, even delight. Awed that she mattered.
G was talking but I hardly heard him. She had reached the end of the runway and as she did darkness swallowed it up as the light moved closer, singling her out. A crown appeared on her head and a wand in her hand.
"Clothed in robes of righteousness, a royal princess, the daughter of the King," G gushed.
But it wasn't that. It wasn't that at all. She was not that ambitious. The crown was a cheap paste crown and the wand with its star glued to the end was something from a department store. They were something which would enchant a little girl standing on the sidewalk, her hand in her daddy's, gazing in a toy store window. The daddy would follow her gaze, take her in and buy them for her. When they got home he would help pull the plain white dress of some shiny material that wasn't real satin over her head. He would kiss the top of her head gently and adjust the crown for her. He would hand her the wand and take her other hand and kiss it and bow and swirl her around and tell her she was beautiful. He would treat her like a princess.
And that would be enough. Just to be like other little girls, dressing up and being treated like princesses by their daddies. The world of ermine and diamonds and titles and elegance was not a world she knew or cared about. Her world was the wonder of just being alive. I matter. That was the truth that shattered the third, unvoiced lie.
The audience had faded, silently moved away, and it was all right. The other, partial selves were still back by the curtains and that was all right, too. Rainbows of light were playing across her white dress now and it sparkled. She was too full of joy to notice.
Little girl things. As if through bars, wistfully, she had watched other girls busy with toys. Now it was her turn. She could have normal little girl things too, just like them.
"This is her coming-out party," G said. "She's been in a closet and hidden. She has been sheltered from the storm. She has innocence."
Yes.
Prodded by the Lord I said now, "My name is Jessica Reynolds."
Again we all waited. I could see the runway, not a runway for airplanes but for models. Lights high up in a ceiling we couldn't see were focused on it, the long, narrow walk from the dimness obscuring a group of me to dimness obscuring the huge room full of people surrounding us. Rows and rows of people, attentive and affirming.
Now I could see a small figure start down the strip of light. From my vantage point above and to one side, the little girl seemed to be about an inch tall. She was wearing a simple loose shiny white dress with a scoop neckline, sleeveless, falling straight to the tops of her sandals. It was a little too big for her. She came forward slowly but without hesitation.
I described her to G.
"Which one is she?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe Melissa? Or Jenny. White is her color."
"Ask Jesus to give her a name, if she wants one."
But instinctively I knew she already had a name. I asked Jesus who she was. And he said, "Original self."
I told G, adding, "so her name must be Jessica but He didn't say so."
As I continued to watch through my mind's eye, this little person kept coming down the long walkway, all alone, not shy, not self-conscious, not awkward, not nervous, though she knew thousands of eyes were on her.
"I think she likes the attention," I said. Immediately I realized she was not enjoying the attention as one swelled up with pride by it. She was not seeking the limelight.
Instead, she knew it was her turn and she walked steadily forward in awe that she was getting attention, that all those unseen eyes were watching her with approval, even delight. Awed that she mattered.
G was talking but I hardly heard him. She had reached the end of the runway and as she did darkness swallowed it up as the light moved closer, singling her out. A crown appeared on her head and a wand in her hand.
"Clothed in robes of righteousness, a royal princess, the daughter of the King," G gushed.
But it wasn't that. It wasn't that at all. She was not that ambitious. The crown was a cheap paste crown and the wand with its star glued to the end was something from a department store. They were something which would enchant a little girl standing on the sidewalk, her hand in her daddy's, gazing in a toy store window. The daddy would follow her gaze, take her in and buy them for her. When they got home he would help pull the plain white dress of some shiny material that wasn't real satin over her head. He would kiss the top of her head gently and adjust the crown for her. He would hand her the wand and take her other hand and kiss it and bow and swirl her around and tell her she was beautiful. He would treat her like a princess.
And that would be enough. Just to be like other little girls, dressing up and being treated like princesses by their daddies. The world of ermine and diamonds and titles and elegance was not a world she knew or cared about. Her world was the wonder of just being alive. I matter. That was the truth that shattered the third, unvoiced lie.
The audience had faded, silently moved away, and it was all right. The other, partial selves were still back by the curtains and that was all right, too. Rainbows of light were playing across her white dress now and it sparkled. She was too full of joy to notice.
Little girl things. As if through bars, wistfully, she had watched other girls busy with toys. Now it was her turn. She could have normal little girl things too, just like them.
"This is her coming-out party," G said. "She's been in a closet and hidden. She has been sheltered from the storm. She has innocence."
Yes.
Prodded by the Lord I said now, "My name is Jessica Reynolds."
Playdates
One or two a day for months. Then, suddenly, 20 or more, day after day. Where did all you new readers come from? Or are there the same few coming to this blog a dozen times a day now? Who are you all?
You don't have to tell me.
You don't have to tell me.
Getting closer
At first I was so compartmentalized--the compartments were so water-tight--I didn't know I was not a whole person. I did not even know I was not in touch with my own complete history. Each self thought she was all there was.
Then I became aware--co-conscious--of some of the others inside and got in touch with them and learned to know them. At that point we were separate and distinct.
Recently--since G asked us to keep a journal together--we seem to be at a stage where our edges are blurred and we work together as a kind of committee, pooling our opinions and knowledge and skills. My posts show evidence of that. When April was describing herself the other day one of the older ones was writing her thoughts for her, adding clarifying words like "veneer" and "interposed," which April didn't know but which described what she meant.
So does our journal. It isn't written in separate writing styles, some small, hesitant, and cramped, others scrawled and careless, others precise and determined, but all in the same adult hand. I don't think of "me" as opposed to "her," or individuate "Melissa," "Amy," "Jessica," or "Alexis" as much. It's mostly just "us."
Yesterday at our 2-hour session, G talked about--let's see, he didn't call it merging but it was some word meaning integration. He said we could when we're ready.
Then I became aware--co-conscious--of some of the others inside and got in touch with them and learned to know them. At that point we were separate and distinct.
Recently--since G asked us to keep a journal together--we seem to be at a stage where our edges are blurred and we work together as a kind of committee, pooling our opinions and knowledge and skills. My posts show evidence of that. When April was describing herself the other day one of the older ones was writing her thoughts for her, adding clarifying words like "veneer" and "interposed," which April didn't know but which described what she meant.
So does our journal. It isn't written in separate writing styles, some small, hesitant, and cramped, others scrawled and careless, others precise and determined, but all in the same adult hand. I don't think of "me" as opposed to "her," or individuate "Melissa," "Amy," "Jessica," or "Alexis" as much. It's mostly just "us."
Yesterday at our 2-hour session, G talked about--let's see, he didn't call it merging but it was some word meaning integration. He said we could when we're ready.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
From our journal 2 weeks ago
10-13 BREAKTHROUGH. Deepest, earliest conflict resolved! When we walked out of G's office, the whole world looked new.
10-16-11 I feel like I'm walking around in a blast furnace--and not being burned. Praise the Lord.
We had two hours. G said to pray open the eyes of my heart that means not physical heart but deep self, memory, mind, me. He asked who wanted to come to the front of the mind and talk. He said that is the place of executive control. He said is the Lord nudging anyone to come forward? He said it is the place of blessing. He said This is your moment.
Inside everyone was looking around and waiting. No one went forward. We kept waiting a long time. G waited too. He did not say anything.
G wanted the one to come who believed the first lie, a lie at the trunk of the tree not in the branches.
April was not sure if she was the one supposed to come or wanted to come but she started talking. She told about how she covered the baby with her body to protect her. G said 2-3 years old. April said no, under one year. She said baby is original self and maybe baby wants to talk but how can a baby talk.
April talk about herself, happy baby. We were surprised. April really was happy baby like she said. She knew there were bad things but she would not think about them. She pushed them up to top of cave she could see their roots dangling down but she kept the rest out of sight and out of reach.
"I am thin," she said. "Not thin like a body but thin--resources. Thin like a piece of cloth." We did not understand. Later someone inside said, "Veneer." Like thin layer.
April talked for baby: I feel pressure on my chest. I am smothered. I cannot breathe. Helpless. This life-threatening. (Maybe someone older was talking for baby.) I'm dying. Maybe I am already dead.
G said, Can you see where Jesus is? We looked for Jesus in the room but he was not standing there watching. He was on the bed on His knees. He was tucking the baby down into a hollow in the mattress next to where Daddy's head went. Like Moses in a basket. Putting her safe.
Then April spread over her like a piece of cloth with a colorful pattern on it. There was not enough space between Baby and Daddy for April to fit but Jesus interposed her. He put April between Baby and the hurt and fear. April had no weight so Baby was not squished. And there was space around Baby in the safe nest so she could move if she wanted.
But she did not move. She lay so still April could not see any breathing. But she knew Baby was a little, little bit alive.
G said, Jessica Renshaw is very intelligent. She figured out how to split creatively to protect the baby.
But I am not Jessica Renshaw! I am Jessica Reynolds!
And I did not do anything. Jesus did it. I did not know what to do and I had no time to be creative. No time to think. Just to be scared. Jesus kept us alive and safe.
Jesus laid the cloth over the basket and April protected her with happy thoughts and memories because Daddy said It's all right! You like this. This is good. This is our playtime.
But when April, the cloth, pulled away, she took away that lie. Then we knew even what she believed was all right WAS NOT ALL RIGHT and WE DIDN'T LIKE IT! We knew it was scary and it hurt. Maybe Daddy sat on our chest and put part of him in our mouth.
G said speak life into her. So I asked Jesus to do that, breathe life into her and he did. Now we could see a faint heartbeat.
I lifted her out of her safe hiding place and held her. She was so tiny, like new born almost, but she was fine. She was not hurt at all. Unscathed.
April was lying aside like a crumpled piece of cloth, like a glove without a hand (but thinner) but she was alive, too. I wrapped April around the baby when I held her but I don't know if that was a good thing to do because April is denial.
April was just like a scene painted on a stage set with a rainbow and flowers and butterfies. That was all.
As soon as Jesus put her between Baby and the Bad Daddy, Melissa shot away to the end of the bed like a firecracker and then Jess and Jenny shot away from her.
Almost at once--bang bang bang--only no noise.
G said Was that the first time? Was that the very first time you believed that lie?
Yes we said.
Maybe part of you still believes it was all right or you liked it.
No we said. Nobody wants to believe that anymore.
I laid the Baby on the bed--the hole was swallowed up now, filled in--she was very contented and now Melissa crawled out of the shoe closet and climbed up on the bed and lay down beside the Baby and started sucking her thumb.
Jess came back. He said I don't need to be here anymore.
A few others came back. They all lay together on the bed. G said they were coming home.
Jenny waited where she was. She was troubled. She didn't know what to do. If she stopped pretending she was a virgin and denying she had ever had sex then what? How could she just accept good sex without having to remember the bad sex? Maybe there is a different lie with her.
Two worriers stayed away too. I didn't know if there were two or one with two names. Both seem to come out in early morning. Melissa is doubled up with anxiety and indecision. Alexis is very stressed like she is going to have a stroke or a heart attack and she is on alert all the time.
So I guess there are two. They are not sure it's safe to come home yet.
Jesus told us the splitting was necessary for us to survive or at least that is how He chose to have us survive.
The last we saw the ones who came home to the Baby, they were resting around her and a fountain of water was gushing from the baby's stomach. It made everyone happy so I think that was the fountain in the Bible, living water.
I think that is our Joy Center.
That was 10-13.
10-17 The blast furnace is the fire of persecution. First God burns His fire inside us and has us write things like He made the prophets write. Then we go to church and feel some people hating us even though other people are hugging us and calling us brave. That is the fire of persecution. When we are small it makes our head and stomach hurt.
Three days ago I left a message for my counselor and also e-mailed a "Help!" message to my friend Genie asking for prayer and saying I was in torment: "Genie, please pray for me. In the middle of all this abuse by the church leaders I;m in counsleing and discovering more of my fahter' abuse when I wass little. I am in torment." (That is how I spelled it.)
After G called I could write her that I felt better. He told me, "You're getting closer to your whole history. The dissociative barriers are thinning. There's anger and pain. You're doing well.
"But the system needs to be ready to recover the truth. We want the other identities to be okay too. Slow it down, feel joy, build joy, synchronize. Continue to nurture and love them. They took the bullets. You're zealous, you're a go-getter. But stay in sync with what God's doing. God is somehow going to work it together for good for you and Jerry."
He said again, "You're doing great. Keep building, trying to receive joy. What would be a joy thing for all of you?"
Then he said a blessing over "every part of Jessica Renshaw." He said, "Nothing will ever separate Jessica Renshaw from Jesus Christ, from conception to the present moment. He says, 'I want to give you My joy.'
"His strength and love can carry you. You are not alone on this journey for a moment. We can trust Him."
10-16-11 I feel like I'm walking around in a blast furnace--and not being burned. Praise the Lord.
We had two hours. G said to pray open the eyes of my heart that means not physical heart but deep self, memory, mind, me. He asked who wanted to come to the front of the mind and talk. He said that is the place of executive control. He said is the Lord nudging anyone to come forward? He said it is the place of blessing. He said This is your moment.
Inside everyone was looking around and waiting. No one went forward. We kept waiting a long time. G waited too. He did not say anything.
G wanted the one to come who believed the first lie, a lie at the trunk of the tree not in the branches.
April was not sure if she was the one supposed to come or wanted to come but she started talking. She told about how she covered the baby with her body to protect her. G said 2-3 years old. April said no, under one year. She said baby is original self and maybe baby wants to talk but how can a baby talk.
April talk about herself, happy baby. We were surprised. April really was happy baby like she said. She knew there were bad things but she would not think about them. She pushed them up to top of cave she could see their roots dangling down but she kept the rest out of sight and out of reach.
"I am thin," she said. "Not thin like a body but thin--resources. Thin like a piece of cloth." We did not understand. Later someone inside said, "Veneer." Like thin layer.
April talked for baby: I feel pressure on my chest. I am smothered. I cannot breathe. Helpless. This life-threatening. (Maybe someone older was talking for baby.) I'm dying. Maybe I am already dead.
G said, Can you see where Jesus is? We looked for Jesus in the room but he was not standing there watching. He was on the bed on His knees. He was tucking the baby down into a hollow in the mattress next to where Daddy's head went. Like Moses in a basket. Putting her safe.
Then April spread over her like a piece of cloth with a colorful pattern on it. There was not enough space between Baby and Daddy for April to fit but Jesus interposed her. He put April between Baby and the hurt and fear. April had no weight so Baby was not squished. And there was space around Baby in the safe nest so she could move if she wanted.
But she did not move. She lay so still April could not see any breathing. But she knew Baby was a little, little bit alive.
G said, Jessica Renshaw is very intelligent. She figured out how to split creatively to protect the baby.
But I am not Jessica Renshaw! I am Jessica Reynolds!
And I did not do anything. Jesus did it. I did not know what to do and I had no time to be creative. No time to think. Just to be scared. Jesus kept us alive and safe.
Jesus laid the cloth over the basket and April protected her with happy thoughts and memories because Daddy said It's all right! You like this. This is good. This is our playtime.
But when April, the cloth, pulled away, she took away that lie. Then we knew even what she believed was all right WAS NOT ALL RIGHT and WE DIDN'T LIKE IT! We knew it was scary and it hurt. Maybe Daddy sat on our chest and put part of him in our mouth.
G said speak life into her. So I asked Jesus to do that, breathe life into her and he did. Now we could see a faint heartbeat.
I lifted her out of her safe hiding place and held her. She was so tiny, like new born almost, but she was fine. She was not hurt at all. Unscathed.
April was lying aside like a crumpled piece of cloth, like a glove without a hand (but thinner) but she was alive, too. I wrapped April around the baby when I held her but I don't know if that was a good thing to do because April is denial.
April was just like a scene painted on a stage set with a rainbow and flowers and butterfies. That was all.
As soon as Jesus put her between Baby and the Bad Daddy, Melissa shot away to the end of the bed like a firecracker and then Jess and Jenny shot away from her.
Almost at once--bang bang bang--only no noise.
G said Was that the first time? Was that the very first time you believed that lie?
Yes we said.
Maybe part of you still believes it was all right or you liked it.
No we said. Nobody wants to believe that anymore.
I laid the Baby on the bed--the hole was swallowed up now, filled in--she was very contented and now Melissa crawled out of the shoe closet and climbed up on the bed and lay down beside the Baby and started sucking her thumb.
Jess came back. He said I don't need to be here anymore.
A few others came back. They all lay together on the bed. G said they were coming home.
Jenny waited where she was. She was troubled. She didn't know what to do. If she stopped pretending she was a virgin and denying she had ever had sex then what? How could she just accept good sex without having to remember the bad sex? Maybe there is a different lie with her.
Two worriers stayed away too. I didn't know if there were two or one with two names. Both seem to come out in early morning. Melissa is doubled up with anxiety and indecision. Alexis is very stressed like she is going to have a stroke or a heart attack and she is on alert all the time.
So I guess there are two. They are not sure it's safe to come home yet.
Jesus told us the splitting was necessary for us to survive or at least that is how He chose to have us survive.
The last we saw the ones who came home to the Baby, they were resting around her and a fountain of water was gushing from the baby's stomach. It made everyone happy so I think that was the fountain in the Bible, living water.
I think that is our Joy Center.
That was 10-13.
10-17 The blast furnace is the fire of persecution. First God burns His fire inside us and has us write things like He made the prophets write. Then we go to church and feel some people hating us even though other people are hugging us and calling us brave. That is the fire of persecution. When we are small it makes our head and stomach hurt.
Three days ago I left a message for my counselor and also e-mailed a "Help!" message to my friend Genie asking for prayer and saying I was in torment: "Genie, please pray for me. In the middle of all this abuse by the church leaders I;m in counsleing and discovering more of my fahter' abuse when I wass little. I am in torment." (That is how I spelled it.)
After G called I could write her that I felt better. He told me, "You're getting closer to your whole history. The dissociative barriers are thinning. There's anger and pain. You're doing well.
"But the system needs to be ready to recover the truth. We want the other identities to be okay too. Slow it down, feel joy, build joy, synchronize. Continue to nurture and love them. They took the bullets. You're zealous, you're a go-getter. But stay in sync with what God's doing. God is somehow going to work it together for good for you and Jerry."
He said again, "You're doing great. Keep building, trying to receive joy. What would be a joy thing for all of you?"
Then he said a blessing over "every part of Jessica Renshaw." He said, "Nothing will ever separate Jessica Renshaw from Jesus Christ, from conception to the present moment. He says, 'I want to give you My joy.'
"His strength and love can carry you. You are not alone on this journey for a moment. We can trust Him."
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
(3) Changing of the guard
When we saw G he said "New conflicts have caused lots of switching." He said, "If there are any dormant parts below or behind the inner reality, they have been activated. The system is in jeopardy of switching a lot. The activated ones are standing in the doorway looking out, watching to see what will happen. They will be more affected." Something like that. We wrote it down.
He said we are incredibly wonderful mighty woman of God. He said "See if the little ones can remain in background in arms of Jesus" because these men are still scaring us when we see them at church. He said to build a wall of protection for the little ones. We said, "A bunker." That is what we wanted because we feel we are in a war and we don't want bombs to fall on our head. He said, "No, someplace nicer." But we want a bunker! Bunkers are strong. We saw them in Normandie. We can decorate it nice inside, like a soft nest with feathers and soft music and pretty colors and flowers.
He said to pray "Lord, show me spiritually what I can do--fit something with nails and pegs, build a wall, a room of safety."
We have not done that. he says we are at the back of the brain and sometimes he calls one of us to come to the front. I don't know where we are but mostly we feel safe. Someone told us big angels are marching to replace small angels who have been guarding us. She said Jerry and I have a big angel behind each one of us because we are called to a higher level of authority for a higher level of warfare. She said God called it the changing of the angelic guard. She said we are in God's hand and no one can touch us so we feel brave and safe.
G said In the authority of Jesus, I bless all the parts, especially the little ones.
We will talk to him again tomorrow. I want to know what our Daddy did to us.
He said we are incredibly wonderful mighty woman of God. He said "See if the little ones can remain in background in arms of Jesus" because these men are still scaring us when we see them at church. He said to build a wall of protection for the little ones. We said, "A bunker." That is what we wanted because we feel we are in a war and we don't want bombs to fall on our head. He said, "No, someplace nicer." But we want a bunker! Bunkers are strong. We saw them in Normandie. We can decorate it nice inside, like a soft nest with feathers and soft music and pretty colors and flowers.
He said to pray "Lord, show me spiritually what I can do--fit something with nails and pegs, build a wall, a room of safety."
We have not done that. he says we are at the back of the brain and sometimes he calls one of us to come to the front. I don't know where we are but mostly we feel safe. Someone told us big angels are marching to replace small angels who have been guarding us. She said Jerry and I have a big angel behind each one of us because we are called to a higher level of authority for a higher level of warfare. She said God called it the changing of the angelic guard. She said we are in God's hand and no one can touch us so we feel brave and safe.
G said In the authority of Jesus, I bless all the parts, especially the little ones.
We will talk to him again tomorrow. I want to know what our Daddy did to us.
(2) Scared
These men and other men are doing bad things to our church. Just like Daddy, they say, "Don't tell. Don't tell." But we told. We told everyone. Now these men are very mad at us. They want to destroy us. So we feel very scared.
Jerry and I are Prayer Coordinators for our church. These men do not want us to pray for our church. That one I told you got angry at us for asking people to pray for our church. He called us and said "Who did you ask to pray! What are you praying! Who made you prayer coordinator?! But HE did! So I was confused. He called us again and said, "Who told you about that meeting! You are not supposed to know about that meeting! It is confidential!" I said "I am sorry. I did not know it was confidential. Can't we pray for it anyway?" He said, "WE'RE praying!" so that meant no. But I don't think they are praying the same things we are praying.
They say "There are things the church people are not supposed to know. Don't talk about it. You will divide the church. Keep quiet until things settle down. Keep quiet until everything is in place." What things? I don't think they are good things.
I will not be quiet. I will not protect perpetrators ever again.
Jerry and I are Prayer Coordinators for our church. These men do not want us to pray for our church. That one I told you got angry at us for asking people to pray for our church. He called us and said "Who did you ask to pray! What are you praying! Who made you prayer coordinator?! But HE did! So I was confused. He called us again and said, "Who told you about that meeting! You are not supposed to know about that meeting! It is confidential!" I said "I am sorry. I did not know it was confidential. Can't we pray for it anyway?" He said, "WE'RE praying!" so that meant no. But I don't think they are praying the same things we are praying.
They say "There are things the church people are not supposed to know. Don't talk about it. You will divide the church. Keep quiet until things settle down. Keep quiet until everything is in place." What things? I don't think they are good things.
I will not be quiet. I will not protect perpetrators ever again.
(1) Sad
The day we told in class that we are fractured we said "we need prayer." we told that a man hurt us with words and it felt like when we were little: The man called and asked questions until I started to cry. I said, "I feel like you are attacking me. You are badgering me!" He said, "I am not badgering you" and he kept asking the questions.
Three bad men and one of their wives were visiting in our class that day I told about being split. They were spying on our teacher because he tried to stop them hurting our church. One man was the one who hurt us with his words. I was so scared because he was there. When we told the class that he called and scared us and made us split more, we cried a lot. we were shaking so hard Jerry held his arm around us so we would not fall off the chair.
The bad people heard me say I am split.
Every week I used to put people's prayer requests in the e-bulletin. After I said I am in counseling because I am split the elders took my name out of the bulletin and put in the name of the man who scared me on the phone. Now people have to give their prayer requests to him.
Yesterday, the woman who sat in our class wrote to other people, "There is someone different to call on the prayer requests because the previous person said she is getting counseling and 'other things' which she stated herself in a class."
I wrote to her, "I am sad that my being in counseling for having been the victim of incest throughout my early childhood makes me unworthy of putting other people's prayer requests in the bulletin. Love, Jessica"
She wrote me back, "I have never and will never call you unworthy because I don't believe that. As you noticed below I did not say what you said that Sunday even though you made it public."
I wrote her, "Maybe not "unworthy" but "disqualified"? I'm glad my heavenly Father doesn't disqualify me for His service because of what my earthly father did to me!
"I was not making anything 'public.' Our class is not 'public.' I was pouring out my heart to my brothers and sisters who are safe people I can trust to pray for me. I didn't think about the fact that the outsiders present might not be people I could trust to keep such a personal confidence."
So I am sad. Now everyone knows I am split. They will not let us pray or put church members' requests in the bulletin because I am in counseling and I am split. I feel sad for the little ones. It is not their fault Daddy did those things to them and it is not their fault we are fractured. I am still proud of them!
I am not supposed to talk about this at church. So I am telling you.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Proud of them
I want to tell my little selves how proud I am of their speaking up in Adult Bible Fellowship at church yesterday. They told our whole class we have started counseling for Dissociative Identity Disorder. They said I was severely abused throughout my first seven years and it caused such fear and conflict and pain I was split. They said there are parts of me that are very young and wounded.
Or maybe I said it. But it came from them. They were willing to let people know and ask for prayer. About five people prayed for us out loud right then and there. Others called or e-mailed afterward to tell us they are praying, too.
I am proud of all of them.
Or maybe I said it. But it came from them. They were willing to let people know and ask for prayer. About five people prayed for us out loud right then and there. Others called or e-mailed afterward to tell us they are praying, too.
I am proud of all of them.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
The neatest thing
The neatest thing happened Sunday.
Sundays are stressful for the little ones. There are so many people at church, so many people we know, so many people we know on so many different levels.
The extroverted, gregarious ones of us want to seek out friends who have been sick and find out how to be praying for them. They want to welcome friends back from vacations and set a date to see their pictures. They want to tell this lady what a pretty necklace she is wearing, tell that one her slip is showing. They jot down notes for emails (which they almost never write) to tell the pastor which parts of his sermon they liked and which parts they took exception to. And they want to greet all the newcomers.
What energizes them scares and depletes the rest of us.
This Sunday was more stressful than usual. When we got there we realized it was Communion Sunday and the whole congregation would be filing forward to receive pinches of bread and shots of grape juice. It meant being conspicuous. And we'd forgotten that we had to help with the offering (being conspicuous again).
But something new was happening inside. I could see all the little ones as if they were in the Sunday School room for two-year olds. They were sitting on the floor, contentedly absorbed with picture books, or coloring at tables or--or tumbling all over a stuffed lion, about as long as they were tall. (Actually its mouth moved sometimes but I didn't hear a voice coming out.)
A lion? Plush? It looked like--well, a miniature, safe-sized Aslan. And, since there was no adult in the room, the lion was apparently handling child care.
Then I saw a lamb, standing on new, long legs. At first the children were curious. Blood suddenly spurted from a wound in its side--I remember wondering why from its side instead of its neck and then remembered Jesus, the lamb slain from the foundation of the world, had a spear driven into his side. The blood was sprinkling all the children--and they were jumping and laughing and playing in it.
Then the lamb grew taller and taller until it was above the church roof and we lost sight of it. Its blood seemed to be sprinkling the whole world. The children ignored the legs--still like four pillars among them, reaching up through the ceiling--and went back to playing with the lion.
Three things occurred to me, one after the other:
The promise: lion and the lamb will be together, at peace with each other.
Jesus is both the Lion of Judah, benevolent sovereign, King over all, and the humble Lamb of Sacrifice, bleeding his life out for our sins.
The King (and Great Shepherd) protecting the children physically and emotionally. The lamb protecting them spiritually.
The service was still going on but the little ones didn't have to be part of it.
Sundays are stressful for the little ones. There are so many people at church, so many people we know, so many people we know on so many different levels.
The extroverted, gregarious ones of us want to seek out friends who have been sick and find out how to be praying for them. They want to welcome friends back from vacations and set a date to see their pictures. They want to tell this lady what a pretty necklace she is wearing, tell that one her slip is showing. They jot down notes for emails (which they almost never write) to tell the pastor which parts of his sermon they liked and which parts they took exception to. And they want to greet all the newcomers.
What energizes them scares and depletes the rest of us.
This Sunday was more stressful than usual. When we got there we realized it was Communion Sunday and the whole congregation would be filing forward to receive pinches of bread and shots of grape juice. It meant being conspicuous. And we'd forgotten that we had to help with the offering (being conspicuous again).
But something new was happening inside. I could see all the little ones as if they were in the Sunday School room for two-year olds. They were sitting on the floor, contentedly absorbed with picture books, or coloring at tables or--or tumbling all over a stuffed lion, about as long as they were tall. (Actually its mouth moved sometimes but I didn't hear a voice coming out.)
A lion? Plush? It looked like--well, a miniature, safe-sized Aslan. And, since there was no adult in the room, the lion was apparently handling child care.
Then I saw a lamb, standing on new, long legs. At first the children were curious. Blood suddenly spurted from a wound in its side--I remember wondering why from its side instead of its neck and then remembered Jesus, the lamb slain from the foundation of the world, had a spear driven into his side. The blood was sprinkling all the children--and they were jumping and laughing and playing in it.
Then the lamb grew taller and taller until it was above the church roof and we lost sight of it. Its blood seemed to be sprinkling the whole world. The children ignored the legs--still like four pillars among them, reaching up through the ceiling--and went back to playing with the lion.
Three things occurred to me, one after the other:
The promise: lion and the lamb will be together, at peace with each other.
Jesus is both the Lion of Judah, benevolent sovereign, King over all, and the humble Lamb of Sacrifice, bleeding his life out for our sins.
The King (and Great Shepherd) protecting the children physically and emotionally. The lamb protecting them spiritually.
The service was still going on but the little ones didn't have to be part of it.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Map of us
G told us to make a map of ourselves. We know a few things but we don't know how to depict them in map or graph form. (The sample G showed us had circles scattered around, linked with lines, kind of like a genealogical chart.) We'll just list derivations.
April is not the Original Self. Original Self is deep in the mattress beside Daddy, asleep or in an induced coma for her protection. April came from the Original Self. April is lying along the top of the buried one.
Melissa split from April, carrying shame. Jess and Jenny split from Melissa in opposite directions at the same time and Melissa went to hide in the closet and pretend she doesn't exist.
I am an Observer/Recorder who must have pre-existed some of the others. I'm not aware of having a name or knowing my origin. I'm "out" to fill a role.
Jessica (All-about-Survival) seems to be a primary one--if primary means feeling "This is really me!"--but I thought primary ones have to feel they are the "age of the body," capable of growing rather than stuck at a specific age, and she's only seven.
And the one Jessica calls "Walks-on-Water" seems to be a primary one.
That's all I know. Actually, that's more than I know. Some of it is just guessing.
I have no idea about Amy, Alexis/Iris/Diedre, Emily, the Pain Person, or any of the other one or more Jessicas. If someone else does, feel free to make additions or corrections.
I see G tomorrow.
April is not the Original Self. Original Self is deep in the mattress beside Daddy, asleep or in an induced coma for her protection. April came from the Original Self. April is lying along the top of the buried one.
Melissa split from April, carrying shame. Jess and Jenny split from Melissa in opposite directions at the same time and Melissa went to hide in the closet and pretend she doesn't exist.
I am an Observer/Recorder who must have pre-existed some of the others. I'm not aware of having a name or knowing my origin. I'm "out" to fill a role.
Jessica (All-about-Survival) seems to be a primary one--if primary means feeling "This is really me!"--but I thought primary ones have to feel they are the "age of the body," capable of growing rather than stuck at a specific age, and she's only seven.
And the one Jessica calls "Walks-on-Water" seems to be a primary one.
That's all I know. Actually, that's more than I know. Some of it is just guessing.
I have no idea about Amy, Alexis/Iris/Diedre, Emily, the Pain Person, or any of the other one or more Jessicas. If someone else does, feel free to make additions or corrections.
I see G tomorrow.
SENTRY
Before my muscles tense,
before my eyes are open,
I am awake.
Who am I?
I don't know.
What do I know?
I have no past
and I can't be distracted by the future.
Jerry's persistent cough--is it serious? Will he die?
Our houseguests--are they up? Do they need me?
Obama's plan to take away our money--should we get it out of savings
and if so,
what should we do with it?
What is my role?
I am on alert:
I am a satellite dish, bigger than I am
shifting to monitor any subtle changes in
sound
sight
smell
touch
taste
movement
that may indicate danger.
I am a knotted stomach and a pounding heart.
I am a watcher.
I am Melissa.
My color is orange because
orange is the color of caution.
I can tell through my eyelids--
it is getting light now.
I don't want to stay out.
I don't want to be here.
Let me go. . .
before my eyes are open,
I am awake.
Who am I?
I don't know.
What do I know?
I have no past
and I can't be distracted by the future.
Jerry's persistent cough--is it serious? Will he die?
Our houseguests--are they up? Do they need me?
Obama's plan to take away our money--should we get it out of savings
and if so,
what should we do with it?
What is my role?
I am on alert:
I am a satellite dish, bigger than I am
shifting to monitor any subtle changes in
sound
sight
smell
touch
taste
movement
that may indicate danger.
I am a knotted stomach and a pounding heart.
I am a watcher.
I am Melissa.
My color is orange because
orange is the color of caution.
I can tell through my eyelids--
it is getting light now.
I don't want to stay out.
I don't want to be here.
Let me go. . .
Sunday, September 18, 2011
CONFLICTS: Hair (sigh)
Here's the plot so far. I started graying--and dyeing my hair--in my late 20s. For years I tried to get up the courage to stop. Finally, last year I had my hair cut really short, kind of punk, but it still took months and months for it to grow out its natural color--white, as it turned out! It was a relief to be done with all the mess and pretense. Then my brother saw it. Not unkindly, he observed, "You look like [Grandma]." Someone inside immediately decided, "Jerry deserves better than a wife that looks old enough to be his mother!" I don't remember doing it but one of us went right out, bought the dye and colored it again! When I "came to my senses," I thought, Oh no, I'm back where I started. I'll have to summon my courage all over again and then go through another year of slow torture!
This is from my new "group" journal:
OK, it's time for a hair discussion and (Jerry says) a vote. In two hours we're supposed to get our hair cut real short so it can grow out its natural color again. It is already to that humiliating place where it's dark brown to within a couple of inches of my head, and the roots are so pale they make me look bald. This is the stage at which I always give in and color it again. I really don't want to look like this [on Saturday], when we'll be seeing "important" friends in the media who respect me. Or did.
Well, I guess I (the moderator) have had my turn. . . If we took a vote I think we'd all agree we don't want it white AND we don't want to color it. We want it to be naturally brown. We've always agreed on that.
By the way, Jerry already voted for white.
I'm trying to really listen for the ones inside. I told them to take turns and they'd each be heard but I'm nervous and don't know if I'm really hearing them. I took a preliminary vote and sensed that all but two were willing to live with it white. Of those two, one was vehemently opposed--the one (Jessica?) who says, "I don't want to look old! I'm only seven!" and another who's not sure what she wants; she keeps holding her hand up tentatively and then putting it down.
I suppose the vehement one wants to go first:
It isn't fair! I didn't get a childhood and now I have to look old. It's not like in Japan where they--revere?--respect people more as they grow old. Over here there's no respect for age and you just get ignored or scoffed. I've already been ignored all my life. I want to live a normal life now. Besides when I look old I feel old. I feel embarrassed and apologetic and unimportant. I can't stop thinking, "I'm [age]! YUK!"
But that woman at that political party we went to had white hair and that same cut we're getting that we had before and she didn't look old. She looked striking! I thought, That's what we look like! I don't mind that! No wonder people said we looked elegant and regal and beautiful when our hair was white. I wanted to tell that woman that's how she looked but we only saw her from a distance walking through the big room.
I guess I don't mind being a grandma because it's okay to play with children and do kid things if they don't know you're a kid, too. My mother and grandmother had beautiful white hair and they had childlike, tender hearts and were loving and gentle. So that would be all right. Someone is helping me write this. They are putting my thoughts in big words.
The other one that he called tentative is holding her arm in her lap now and not putting it up anymore, like she seems to think if I'm all right about it she is too.
BUT I DONT WANT TO DECIDE WHAT WERE GONG TO TELL HER TO DO, LIKE "TRIM" AND THEN WHEN WE GET TEHERE TELL HER "REAL SHORT." WE ALWAYS DO THAT. WHE CHANGE IN TE MIDDLE ABOUT what we're going to get and afterwards someone is always disappointed and someone (else) is always REALLY MAD (maybe me). And she always does the bangs wrong, no matter what we tell her!
We took another vote--everyone is sitting cross-legged and although I'm not sure I saw any hands raised I still sense unhappiness where Vehement and Tentative are sitting. Like V. is resigned, not sold, and the littler one doesn't like it but doesn't know how to put it into words. Let's see if we can move the microphone closer and pick up her thoughts.
I'm just little and I want everyone happy. I don't like argue and afraid wont be happy afterwards no matter what tell her she do it too short then some angry or cry and wish didn't go. wish hair didn't grow after find good style. Real short wacs cute. white didn't matter. I don't feel old. Many colors people change all time I don't care just don't fight.
Something like that.
Jess: I don't care one way or the other. Just make a decision and stop stressing about it. Who cares what your hair looks like. Big deal.
I think Jenny's been pro-white all along. It's her color--but also she's kind of a martyr, like: I need to look my age even if it means being dismissed as irrelevant, even if people kick me to the curb. That's all I'm worth.
So there's her quiet sadness (moping?) and Jessica's "I don't like it but I can make the best of it" and April's "Let's not think about it. Let's just all be friends." If anyone else has objections they're not voicing them. Maybe they're all silent because I, Moderator, am not just taking an objective vote but somehow bullying them into conforming to my desire for unanimity. Will they all grieve, pout, throw things, and then turn their back on me if we go through with this?
Would it be better to cancel the appointment, drive directly to the store and "compromise" by buying a lighter shade of brown--but that's what we tried to do last time and it turned out darker and we said, "NO MORE!"
After achieving consensus, however reluctant on the part of two or three, what's to prevent one of us from going to the store after everything's over and the last of the dye has grown out or faded, buying more and coloring our hair without our knowing it? starting the conflict all over again. And the humiliation. The first time took us decades to get up the courage to resolve to do it and a year to carry it out. Unless we're all on the same side we'll continue to seesaw back and forth, yes and no, brown, white, natural, artificial, young, old, pleasing one but displeasing another.
Can't we agree on something and stick to it?
That was four days ago. Since we got it cut punk again not a day has gone by but I've gotten 2-3 compliments on the style! No one who sees us seems to mind that there are patches of white here and there.
Note to self: This works. Don't go back. We're all on the same page now, don't sabotage this!
Please?
This is from my new "group" journal:
OK, it's time for a hair discussion and (Jerry says) a vote. In two hours we're supposed to get our hair cut real short so it can grow out its natural color again. It is already to that humiliating place where it's dark brown to within a couple of inches of my head, and the roots are so pale they make me look bald. This is the stage at which I always give in and color it again. I really don't want to look like this [on Saturday], when we'll be seeing "important" friends in the media who respect me. Or did.
Well, I guess I (the moderator) have had my turn. . . If we took a vote I think we'd all agree we don't want it white AND we don't want to color it. We want it to be naturally brown. We've always agreed on that.
By the way, Jerry already voted for white.
I'm trying to really listen for the ones inside. I told them to take turns and they'd each be heard but I'm nervous and don't know if I'm really hearing them. I took a preliminary vote and sensed that all but two were willing to live with it white. Of those two, one was vehemently opposed--the one (Jessica?) who says, "I don't want to look old! I'm only seven!" and another who's not sure what she wants; she keeps holding her hand up tentatively and then putting it down.
I suppose the vehement one wants to go first:
It isn't fair! I didn't get a childhood and now I have to look old. It's not like in Japan where they--revere?--respect people more as they grow old. Over here there's no respect for age and you just get ignored or scoffed. I've already been ignored all my life. I want to live a normal life now. Besides when I look old I feel old. I feel embarrassed and apologetic and unimportant. I can't stop thinking, "I'm [age]! YUK!"
But that woman at that political party we went to had white hair and that same cut we're getting that we had before and she didn't look old. She looked striking! I thought, That's what we look like! I don't mind that! No wonder people said we looked elegant and regal and beautiful when our hair was white. I wanted to tell that woman that's how she looked but we only saw her from a distance walking through the big room.
I guess I don't mind being a grandma because it's okay to play with children and do kid things if they don't know you're a kid, too. My mother and grandmother had beautiful white hair and they had childlike, tender hearts and were loving and gentle. So that would be all right. Someone is helping me write this. They are putting my thoughts in big words.
The other one that he called tentative is holding her arm in her lap now and not putting it up anymore, like she seems to think if I'm all right about it she is too.
BUT I DONT WANT TO DECIDE WHAT WERE GONG TO TELL HER TO DO, LIKE "TRIM" AND THEN WHEN WE GET TEHERE TELL HER "REAL SHORT." WE ALWAYS DO THAT. WHE CHANGE IN TE MIDDLE ABOUT what we're going to get and afterwards someone is always disappointed and someone (else) is always REALLY MAD (maybe me). And she always does the bangs wrong, no matter what we tell her!
We took another vote--everyone is sitting cross-legged and although I'm not sure I saw any hands raised I still sense unhappiness where Vehement and Tentative are sitting. Like V. is resigned, not sold, and the littler one doesn't like it but doesn't know how to put it into words. Let's see if we can move the microphone closer and pick up her thoughts.
I'm just little and I want everyone happy. I don't like argue and afraid wont be happy afterwards no matter what tell her she do it too short then some angry or cry and wish didn't go. wish hair didn't grow after find good style. Real short wacs cute. white didn't matter. I don't feel old. Many colors people change all time I don't care just don't fight.
Something like that.
Jess: I don't care one way or the other. Just make a decision and stop stressing about it. Who cares what your hair looks like. Big deal.
I think Jenny's been pro-white all along. It's her color--but also she's kind of a martyr, like: I need to look my age even if it means being dismissed as irrelevant, even if people kick me to the curb. That's all I'm worth.
So there's her quiet sadness (moping?) and Jessica's "I don't like it but I can make the best of it" and April's "Let's not think about it. Let's just all be friends." If anyone else has objections they're not voicing them. Maybe they're all silent because I, Moderator, am not just taking an objective vote but somehow bullying them into conforming to my desire for unanimity. Will they all grieve, pout, throw things, and then turn their back on me if we go through with this?
Would it be better to cancel the appointment, drive directly to the store and "compromise" by buying a lighter shade of brown--but that's what we tried to do last time and it turned out darker and we said, "NO MORE!"
After achieving consensus, however reluctant on the part of two or three, what's to prevent one of us from going to the store after everything's over and the last of the dye has grown out or faded, buying more and coloring our hair without our knowing it? starting the conflict all over again. And the humiliation. The first time took us decades to get up the courage to resolve to do it and a year to carry it out. Unless we're all on the same side we'll continue to seesaw back and forth, yes and no, brown, white, natural, artificial, young, old, pleasing one but displeasing another.
Can't we agree on something and stick to it?
That was four days ago. Since we got it cut punk again not a day has gone by but I've gotten 2-3 compliments on the style! No one who sees us seems to mind that there are patches of white here and there.
Note to self: This works. Don't go back. We're all on the same page now, don't sabotage this!
Please?
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Counseling
My counselor G gave us an assignment: we are to keep a journal. Having kept a journal all my life, that didn't sound too hard. G said to let everyone write about themselves. In the four years since I found out my own deep, not-so-dark secret, I have already been letting alters write in my journal. April writes in it when we watch hummingbabies in the tree out back or when Jerry makes cream of mint chocolate chip tea for breakfast (peppermint tea with chocolate almondmilk in it). Others have taped in photos or recorded things of interest or concern to them.
This time it has been different. For one thing, the little ones were all jazzed about having a writing assignment like big kids have and about being able to do it together. After discussion they agreed they didn't want to write in my journal but to have one of their own.
G had said to focus on "conflict identity and conflict resolution." So, bless them, they started listing conflicts and they elected me (or one of the other big ones) to be secretary and write them down. Here's how they started:
"Hair - to color or not ("to dye or not to dye," somebody put it)
- length
-very short and perky (chic)
-above shoulders
-layered
-all one length
-long (one said, "that's Biblical!")
When we go shopping, buy food that is - healthy
- cheap
- fun Pick only one!"
There is also the dilemma of the cat. Some feel we should keep trying to find another home for her (they gave their very practical reasons: certain family members have allergies, etc.) Others feel they'd be betraying her if we gave her away. A very little one said earnestly, "We like her!"
This time it has been different. For one thing, the little ones were all jazzed about having a writing assignment like big kids have and about being able to do it together. After discussion they agreed they didn't want to write in my journal but to have one of their own.
G had said to focus on "conflict identity and conflict resolution." So, bless them, they started listing conflicts and they elected me (or one of the other big ones) to be secretary and write them down. Here's how they started:
"Hair - to color or not ("to dye or not to dye," somebody put it)
- length
-very short and perky (chic)
-above shoulders
-layered
-all one length
-long (one said, "that's Biblical!")
When we go shopping, buy food that is - healthy
- cheap
- fun Pick only one!"
There is also the dilemma of the cat. Some feel we should keep trying to find another home for her (they gave their very practical reasons: certain family members have allergies, etc.) Others feel they'd be betraying her if we gave her away. A very little one said earnestly, "We like her!"
Friday, September 9, 2011
It seemed logical
So I found out I'm divided. Okay. I started reading about dissociation and understood that trauma causes little selves to split from the original self. I greeted whoever might be inside. I told them I loved them and would keep them safe.
To the degree it was all right with everyone inside, I asked God to make me whole. Then, to help bring that about, I informed those inside that I wanted to know all the memories, all the secrets. I pointed out that it was part of my history and I had a right to know.
I read that some little selves encapsulate and feel the fear of a specific experience of abuse, others the pain, others the rage. I felt sorry for those little selves. In my mind I reassured them, That was then. We couldn't cope with those powerful emotions then. But we're grown up now. We're stronger and we have a good support system, family, friends, church, God--all kinds of healthy resources. You can come out of hiding and let me help you bear those feelings. We'll do it together. We can handle them now.
The next morning I woke up so scared I was shaking--and I had no idea why. My world had shrunk to the small room I was in and everything beyond it seemed terrifying. I couldn't make any decisions. What if I decided wrong? I was immobilized by anxiety.
Some days after that I woke up so depressed I thought, What's the use? What's the use of anything? I stayed in bed and cried all day.
And realized, No, I really can't handle all these emotions. They're way too much for me! No wonder these parts of myself are holding tight to them so I won't feel them and can function.
Whereas I had been aware of one worldview at a time, unaware I ever saw the world from any other perspective, now I became "co-conscious." I knew there were other rooms in the house, furnished very differently from mine, housing residents with very different interests and ideas from mine. When I had negative thoughts about them, they knew it--they could read my mind! Very disconcerting. Sometimes what I thought about them hurt their feelings! And I didn't want to hurt them. Even though I was frustrated with them, I really did love them. I just had to figure out a way to cooperate with every one of them to get anything done. Because they were all me.
When I took time to get to know them and take them into consideration, we got along well. We would do kid things together. They'd choose a book to have me read aloud or we'd draw a picture. But I got tired of that and started skipping our time together, striding out ahead of them until they were out of earshot. And the only way they could get my attention was by sabotaging my plans so I couldn't do anything constructive.
Now, instead of feeling whole, with gaps of time missing or behavior of mine which I didn't understand, I felt terribly broken. I had let the others write in my journal and they were writing things I didn't agree with, things that shocked me--in handwriting I didn't recognize. I was saying things like, Why didn't you tell me? and they were saying, Why didn't you listen? and Why bother? You don't do what we want anyway.
That's why I wrote to Restoration in Christ Ministries and told them "I need counsel from someone regarding how to live as a multiple. . . " I described what I had been doing.
Diane Hawkins, director of RCM, wrote back, "It sounds to me as if you have no one to guide you and you are making haphazard decisions that seem good in your eyes. I strongly urge you not to do this. You need to understand the dynamics involved so that you know how to work with your system in a knowledgeable way. . ."
Not haphazard decisions. Logical ones. But yes, those that seemed good in my eyes.
I agreed they weren't working. I asked if RCM could recommend a counselor familiar with DID in my area and they did. I need to learn how to function as a divided self, how to be a team. I need to stop tearing down protective walls of denial before it's safe for the little ones who erected them to come out from behind them. I need to learn how to do it right.
That's why I'm seeing G.
To the degree it was all right with everyone inside, I asked God to make me whole. Then, to help bring that about, I informed those inside that I wanted to know all the memories, all the secrets. I pointed out that it was part of my history and I had a right to know.
I read that some little selves encapsulate and feel the fear of a specific experience of abuse, others the pain, others the rage. I felt sorry for those little selves. In my mind I reassured them, That was then. We couldn't cope with those powerful emotions then. But we're grown up now. We're stronger and we have a good support system, family, friends, church, God--all kinds of healthy resources. You can come out of hiding and let me help you bear those feelings. We'll do it together. We can handle them now.
The next morning I woke up so scared I was shaking--and I had no idea why. My world had shrunk to the small room I was in and everything beyond it seemed terrifying. I couldn't make any decisions. What if I decided wrong? I was immobilized by anxiety.
Some days after that I woke up so depressed I thought, What's the use? What's the use of anything? I stayed in bed and cried all day.
And realized, No, I really can't handle all these emotions. They're way too much for me! No wonder these parts of myself are holding tight to them so I won't feel them and can function.
Whereas I had been aware of one worldview at a time, unaware I ever saw the world from any other perspective, now I became "co-conscious." I knew there were other rooms in the house, furnished very differently from mine, housing residents with very different interests and ideas from mine. When I had negative thoughts about them, they knew it--they could read my mind! Very disconcerting. Sometimes what I thought about them hurt their feelings! And I didn't want to hurt them. Even though I was frustrated with them, I really did love them. I just had to figure out a way to cooperate with every one of them to get anything done. Because they were all me.
When I took time to get to know them and take them into consideration, we got along well. We would do kid things together. They'd choose a book to have me read aloud or we'd draw a picture. But I got tired of that and started skipping our time together, striding out ahead of them until they were out of earshot. And the only way they could get my attention was by sabotaging my plans so I couldn't do anything constructive.
Now, instead of feeling whole, with gaps of time missing or behavior of mine which I didn't understand, I felt terribly broken. I had let the others write in my journal and they were writing things I didn't agree with, things that shocked me--in handwriting I didn't recognize. I was saying things like, Why didn't you tell me? and they were saying, Why didn't you listen? and Why bother? You don't do what we want anyway.
That's why I wrote to Restoration in Christ Ministries and told them "I need counsel from someone regarding how to live as a multiple. . . " I described what I had been doing.
Diane Hawkins, director of RCM, wrote back, "It sounds to me as if you have no one to guide you and you are making haphazard decisions that seem good in your eyes. I strongly urge you not to do this. You need to understand the dynamics involved so that you know how to work with your system in a knowledgeable way. . ."
Not haphazard decisions. Logical ones. But yes, those that seemed good in my eyes.
I agreed they weren't working. I asked if RCM could recommend a counselor familiar with DID in my area and they did. I need to learn how to function as a divided self, how to be a team. I need to stop tearing down protective walls of denial before it's safe for the little ones who erected them to come out from behind them. I need to learn how to do it right.
That's why I'm seeing G.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
It's all about JOY
Yesterday Jerry and I both met with my new counselor Gary. This is my synopsis of what he told us:
It's all about JOY. Have you watched a baby in its mother's arms? When the mother gazes into the baby's face, totally enraptured, she is pouring love and nurture into that child. The baby's eyes are riveted on hers as it receives that deep sense of affirmation for just being, sometimes causing the little one to smile back and even wriggle with delight. This bond, this exchange of love through look, E. James Wilder calls "eye synchronization." You see it also in the faces of couples who are in love. They are not sitting side by side but facing each other, looking into each other's face, drinking in every expression, delighting in and enjoying the other person.
Eye synchronization is like an electromagnetic connectedness that transmits a sparkle--and elicits a sparkle in return. It creates a capacity for joy. When a person has a healthy joy capacity, s/he can experience bad things and negative emotions and still return to that hub of joy.
But many babies don't get this kind of pleased attention and eye contact. Experiences that produce terror or despair overwhelm and snuff out the joy. Growing up, the child or adult finds him/herself lost in fear or despair or anger and has a hard time finding the way back to joy. For these people, eye contact is difficult because it means feeling vulnerable. These people need safe relationships where they can look into the eyes of a spouse, parent, friend, or even stranger, and exchange mutual assurances of value, significance, and caring.
The good news is, the "joy center" of the brain can grow. The most neglected person can enlarge his or her joy capacity at any stage of life--and thrive!
I realized as he spoke that even though Jerry tells and shows me he loves me in multitudes of ways every day, I still need that "eye synchronization" to feel okay about myself. The men in my life always had their faces and attention on books and when I'm not getting enough reassuring eye contact I feel lost, less than, and lonely.
But now when he asks, as he often does, "What can I do for you, my love? How can I help you?" instead of saying "I don't know, I have no idea" even though I'm kind of wilting inside and don't understand why, I can say, "Let's synchronize our eyes!" and we can transmit love that way for awhile and build up each other's joy capacity!
Gary has recommended two books:
Multiple Identities by Diane Hawkins, esp. Chapter 4, "The Role of Conflict and Denial in DID"
The Life Model: Living from the Heart Jesus Gave You, by James G. Friesen and E. James Wilder.
It's all about JOY. Have you watched a baby in its mother's arms? When the mother gazes into the baby's face, totally enraptured, she is pouring love and nurture into that child. The baby's eyes are riveted on hers as it receives that deep sense of affirmation for just being, sometimes causing the little one to smile back and even wriggle with delight. This bond, this exchange of love through look, E. James Wilder calls "eye synchronization." You see it also in the faces of couples who are in love. They are not sitting side by side but facing each other, looking into each other's face, drinking in every expression, delighting in and enjoying the other person.
Eye synchronization is like an electromagnetic connectedness that transmits a sparkle--and elicits a sparkle in return. It creates a capacity for joy. When a person has a healthy joy capacity, s/he can experience bad things and negative emotions and still return to that hub of joy.
But many babies don't get this kind of pleased attention and eye contact. Experiences that produce terror or despair overwhelm and snuff out the joy. Growing up, the child or adult finds him/herself lost in fear or despair or anger and has a hard time finding the way back to joy. For these people, eye contact is difficult because it means feeling vulnerable. These people need safe relationships where they can look into the eyes of a spouse, parent, friend, or even stranger, and exchange mutual assurances of value, significance, and caring.
The good news is, the "joy center" of the brain can grow. The most neglected person can enlarge his or her joy capacity at any stage of life--and thrive!
I realized as he spoke that even though Jerry tells and shows me he loves me in multitudes of ways every day, I still need that "eye synchronization" to feel okay about myself. The men in my life always had their faces and attention on books and when I'm not getting enough reassuring eye contact I feel lost, less than, and lonely.
But now when he asks, as he often does, "What can I do for you, my love? How can I help you?" instead of saying "I don't know, I have no idea" even though I'm kind of wilting inside and don't understand why, I can say, "Let's synchronize our eyes!" and we can transmit love that way for awhile and build up each other's joy capacity!
Gary has recommended two books:
Multiple Identities by Diane Hawkins, esp. Chapter 4, "The Role of Conflict and Denial in DID"
The Life Model: Living from the Heart Jesus Gave You, by James G. Friesen and E. James Wilder.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
How do you tell your spouse--
How do you tell your spouse that he married eight of you, not just one? Jerry and I had been married three years. He knew about the incest--at least the single incident when I was 13 which was all I remembered at that point. When I found out I apparently had an alter I told him that, too. He didn't stiffen. He didn't recoil. He didn't laugh. He didn't argue or dismiss my words. He listened and he gave me a hug.
The next day I e-mailed him at his office:
"Jerry, my love,
"Some things are coming up tied in to what Gail told me yesterday about 'alters.' Is it okay if I ask [the director of the prayer team we are part of] if I can be prayed for on one of those weekends when we were going to minister?
"I love you--so, SO much!
"Jessica (big and little)"
He wrote back:
"To My Big Love (and all my little loves),
"It sounds like a good idea to me. Can you be an intersessor and an intersessee (?) at the same time?
"BLB [Big Love Bird)"
He accepted me with such casual calm, so matter-of-factly. I was barely accepting the fact of my own dividedness but he totally embraced it and me, even allowing that there might be more alters to be discovered and receiving them, too, ahead of time.
That acceptance has made it safe for the little ones to come out of the shadows, be known and get healed.
The next day I e-mailed him at his office:
"Jerry, my love,
"Some things are coming up tied in to what Gail told me yesterday about 'alters.' Is it okay if I ask [the director of the prayer team we are part of] if I can be prayed for on one of those weekends when we were going to minister?
"I love you--so, SO much!
"Jessica (big and little)"
He wrote back:
"To My Big Love (and all my little loves),
"It sounds like a good idea to me. Can you be an intersessor and an intersessee (?) at the same time?
"BLB [Big Love Bird)"
He accepted me with such casual calm, so matter-of-factly. I was barely accepting the fact of my own dividedness but he totally embraced it and me, even allowing that there might be more alters to be discovered and receiving them, too, ahead of time.
That acceptance has made it safe for the little ones to come out of the shadows, be known and get healed.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
How do you know?
You got your paycheck and were on your way to pay the rent. You weren't mugged, you weren't drunk and you aren't senile. But the money is gone and you have no idea where you spent it.
Sometimes when you're out shopping you sense a child's voice within you complaining, "I'm tired. I want to go home." It feels like part of you.
You have flashbacks of yourself doing things you can't imagine yourself doing--killing animals or having sex with other children, at an age when you didn't think you knew anything about sex.
A man you thought you only knew vaguely at church walks up to you and says you have hurt him deeply. You have no idea what he is talking about.
There are hours, days, years in your life you can't account for.
Some days you are too depressed to get out of bed.
You find dresses in your closet you don't remember buying, entries in your journal you only vaguely remember writing, in someone else's handwriting.
There's a family member or close friend of the family that makes your hackles rise just thinking about him. As far as you know, he hasn't done anything to you but he makes you very nervous. You don't trust him. If you had been molested, you somehow know he would have been the perpetrator.
You find yourself going on crying jags, trying to jump out of a moving car, cutting yourself, or having outbursts of rage which don't seem to have a sufficient cause. You can't understand why you'd have such intense reactions to things that don't seem to warrant them.
Sometimes when you're out shopping you sense a child's voice within you complaining, "I'm tired. I want to go home." It feels like part of you.
You have flashbacks of yourself doing things you can't imagine yourself doing--killing animals or having sex with other children, at an age when you didn't think you knew anything about sex.
A man you thought you only knew vaguely at church walks up to you and says you have hurt him deeply. You have no idea what he is talking about.
There are hours, days, years in your life you can't account for.
Some days you are too depressed to get out of bed.
You find dresses in your closet you don't remember buying, entries in your journal you only vaguely remember writing, in someone else's handwriting.
There's a family member or close friend of the family that makes your hackles rise just thinking about him. As far as you know, he hasn't done anything to you but he makes you very nervous. You don't trust him. If you had been molested, you somehow know he would have been the perpetrator.
You find yourself going on crying jags, trying to jump out of a moving car, cutting yourself, or having outbursts of rage which don't seem to have a sufficient cause. You can't understand why you'd have such intense reactions to things that don't seem to warrant them.
Lord, speak truth to the lies I believe
O God
help me to believe
the truth about myself--
no matter how beautiful it is!
Macrina Wiederkehr
G, my new counselor, confirmed for me last week that lies are keeping me broken and truth will set me free. For years I have been praying for God to speak truth to the lies I believe and He has. The truth that I am a divided self was one of the biggest revelations He finally got me to accept and that has made possible freedom in specific areas. I want to share some examples in later posts.
help me to believe
the truth about myself--
no matter how beautiful it is!
Macrina Wiederkehr
G, my new counselor, confirmed for me last week that lies are keeping me broken and truth will set me free. For years I have been praying for God to speak truth to the lies I believe and He has. The truth that I am a divided self was one of the biggest revelations He finally got me to accept and that has made possible freedom in specific areas. I want to share some examples in later posts.
Divided
Divided self, my counselor calls it.
Okay, how does it feel to be a divided self? Well, imagine you live in a house where only one room or part of one room is lit at a time. You spend a lot of time in the part that is lit. You may not like it much but it's familiar. You kind of know your way around. And it may be a room so expansive and furnished that you can live a full life there.
But sometimes you wake up in another part of the house. It may be very differently appointed, more constricted, maybe much less familiar. The darkness may have closed in more and it is breathing terror down your neck. But you have amnesia. You don't remember the other room, the spacious, well-lit, comfortable one with friends in it.
You wake up. The world is familiar. You know the people in it and your relationships to them. You know who you are.
You wake up. The world is a profoundly tragic place. You know there is beauty and kindness out there but it doesn't touch you; you can't connect with it. You cry constantly. You feel hopeless.
You wake up. The world is closing in on you, frightening. There is terror in the moving shadows. You are shaking. You can't move. No choice is safe but you don't know why.
You wake up. You feel safe and playful. You dance and sing--but only when you are alone.
You wake up. In your spirit, in the shadows, there is the vague, brief, presence of a child complaining, "I'm tired! I can't go any farther!" You sense the child is part of you.
You feel tension, like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point. Without intending to, you lash out with accusing words. Or you throw a lamp through the mirrored closet door. And wonder, Where did that come from?
You wake up and life is normal. But you have the feeling that sometimes your world is overwhelmingly painful, that you cry constantly. You wonder why you would want to do a thing like that.
You wake up and realize all these parts are you. There have been walls between you. You could only see from one perspective. Now you are increasingly aware you live in other worlds, with other perspectives. The one you see from now is only one of them.
Okay, how does it feel to be a divided self? Well, imagine you live in a house where only one room or part of one room is lit at a time. You spend a lot of time in the part that is lit. You may not like it much but it's familiar. You kind of know your way around. And it may be a room so expansive and furnished that you can live a full life there.
But sometimes you wake up in another part of the house. It may be very differently appointed, more constricted, maybe much less familiar. The darkness may have closed in more and it is breathing terror down your neck. But you have amnesia. You don't remember the other room, the spacious, well-lit, comfortable one with friends in it.
You wake up. The world is familiar. You know the people in it and your relationships to them. You know who you are.
You wake up. The world is a profoundly tragic place. You know there is beauty and kindness out there but it doesn't touch you; you can't connect with it. You cry constantly. You feel hopeless.
You wake up. The world is closing in on you, frightening. There is terror in the moving shadows. You are shaking. You can't move. No choice is safe but you don't know why.
You wake up. You feel safe and playful. You dance and sing--but only when you are alone.
You wake up. In your spirit, in the shadows, there is the vague, brief, presence of a child complaining, "I'm tired! I can't go any farther!" You sense the child is part of you.
You feel tension, like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point. Without intending to, you lash out with accusing words. Or you throw a lamp through the mirrored closet door. And wonder, Where did that come from?
You wake up and life is normal. But you have the feeling that sometimes your world is overwhelmingly painful, that you cry constantly. You wonder why you would want to do a thing like that.
You wake up and realize all these parts are you. There have been walls between you. You could only see from one perspective. Now you are increasingly aware you live in other worlds, with other perspectives. The one you see from now is only one of them.
Monday, September 5, 2011
littleones' self-portrait: Emily
Back on August 26 the little ones posted this self-portrait of April (happy baby), Melissa, Amy, Jessica, Jess, Jenny--and Emily! Emily? When scanning it, I noticed Emily at the bottom and she was a total surprise to me. Emily, who are you?
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Alexis
On September 14, 2008, I discovered another alter. I wrote in my journal, "I lay awake most of the night. . . At first I thought it was the altitude, which led me to worry about my heart, then my lungs, then other aspects of my health, then death. I couldn't pray or praise or reason. If I started to get some kind of grip on one fear, my mind would leap to another.
"Finally, toward morning I wondered into the void, Is there a part of me that's the worrier? And out of the emptiness came a name.
Alexis
"Alexis, I repeated. Immediately everything in me relaxed. I fell asleep.
"This is five days later and all I know about Alexis, beside the fact that she worries, is that her color is lavender."
I like yellow, too. I like flowers, purple and yellow flowers. I think I am 13. Pastels, straw hats, cream tea and scones. Gardens. Sunsets. Lace. Butterflies.
Alexis
She loves purple and yellow together. Actually more like the indigo of irises and the gold of daffodils. She is artistic. She likes to print in tall letters with colored pencils but the pastels are so light I didn't think they would show up if I scanned them. Another time, she wrote:
Colored leaves and narcissus.
She may also go by the name Dierdre. Maybe even Iris, too. Is she divided?
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Recognizing the boy in me
Before I knew I was multiple, when I was in therapy for regular people, I wrote this. Without my realizing it at the time, it ended up sounding just like my dad.
Written 1975
Written 1975
Friday, September 2, 2011
Steve or Jay? (or Jess?)
Today was Steve's turn. He's pretty straightforward and easy-going, has lots of interests, some of which surprised me because I didn't see them as interests of mine. For example, his favorite color is brown, any shade of brown. (Brown!)
He likes horses and horse-riding and he likes cowboys, including their clothes, boots, leather saddlebags, lassos, barbecues, campfires, the whole shooting match, with the exception of spurs and aspects of the macho image--all the sorts of things I associate with discomfort, dust, heat and dry, barren hills. He likes brown hills, chaparral, sage, manzanita--and sunsets from those brown hills. He doesn't mind dust, sweat, or mess. He's all about getting the job done, having a mission or assignment and, preferably with other men, accomplishing it.
The mission can be a round-up--or saving a damsel in distress from imprisonment in a castle. Therefore he also likes:
--medieval times, pennants, jousting, castles, crenelations, turrets, parapets, knights, drawbridges, King Arthur, and chivalry.
--war documentaries, knives, muskets. He liked the Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe and Johnny Tremain--but he also likes Ferdinand the Bull.
--photography, especially on safari or as a war correspondent.
He likes architecture (great halls with tall windows, lily ponds) and gardens (English or stylized).
Steve is looking forward to the trip to Ireland, both because of the C.S. Lewis element and the fact that we will be on a tall ship. He likes boats, various kinds of wood, and he loved Dad (Skipper)'s "tree house" in the redwoods.
I asked him if he had been created by trauma. He says he thinks he was less created than conformed and not by trauma but by expectations: "Dad treated me like a boy. That's who he wanted me to be. ___ was a rebel and ____ (my brothers) was too passive. I was his 'right-hand man.'"
Does he have any homosexual leanings? "No, I'm only interested in men as buddies, partners, comrades. I could do a mission by myself, say, run a lighthouse but I prefer being with the other guys, sitting on rocks or the ground, eating beans around a campfire."
How does he feel about Dad's treatment of his "sisters" (other alters). "I feel bad for them."
He's all about loyalty and good-over-evil.
Written July 24, 2007
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Started counseling today
Today I (we) started counseling with a specialist in Dissociative Identity Disorder at Freedom and Healing in Christ, Inc. (He doesn't call us multiple. He calls us a divided self.) He had us state our goals so here they are:
--We want to learn how to be in touch with each other and work together as a whole, with no one jerking others ahead, no one being left behind, no one being trampled on.
--We want to understand us: how our various parts (primary, alters) are related and (I thought of this afterward) fill in the gaps in our memory.
He added two more for me:
--Uncover the lies which keep dissociation in place; when truth replaces the lies I have believed which caused me to split, thus resolving my deepest conflicts, I won't need dissociation any more and I will integrate (be whole).
--Increase my capacity for joy. Joy is the only thing that gives us strength to "go behind the curtain" and face what we don't know. (Joy? I'll have to think about that one. Wouldn't it be courage or faith or self-confidence?)
--We want to learn how to be in touch with each other and work together as a whole, with no one jerking others ahead, no one being left behind, no one being trampled on.
--We want to understand us: how our various parts (primary, alters) are related and (I thought of this afterward) fill in the gaps in our memory.
He added two more for me:
--Uncover the lies which keep dissociation in place; when truth replaces the lies I have believed which caused me to split, thus resolving my deepest conflicts, I won't need dissociation any more and I will integrate (be whole).
--Increase my capacity for joy. Joy is the only thing that gives us strength to "go behind the curtain" and face what we don't know. (Joy? I'll have to think about that one. Wouldn't it be courage or faith or self-confidence?)
Jenny
Jenny's color is white. She likes brownies with walnuts and ice cream, picnic food, and collecting things: pictures of movie stars, little glass animals, stamps, coins.
She is tentative, not exactly sure who she is. She is sensitive, contemplative, even brooding, likes to stay in the background, take things slow, have time to process and reflect. She likes to read. She doesn't like noise, crowds, rushing. Even though she feels lonely and sad, she prefers to be alone. But she also loves to pray for people, do kind, helpful things for them.
She is tentative, not exactly sure who she is. She is sensitive, contemplative, even brooding, likes to stay in the background, take things slow, have time to process and reflect. She likes to read. She doesn't like noise, crowds, rushing. Even though she feels lonely and sad, she prefers to be alone. But she also loves to pray for people, do kind, helpful things for them.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Safe daddies
This morning I was talking to my daughter, now grown. It has been nine years since her father died.
"I don't think I've totally worked that through," she told me. "I think I still need to grieve that loss. You know how when you're little, your daddy keeps you safe. And when he dies, there's no one to keep you safe anymore."
I'm so grateful she felt her daddy kept her safe. But >You know how when you're little, your daddy keeps you safe. And when he dies, there's no one to keep you safe anymore.< I couldn't identify with that statement at all. Maybe my daddy kept me safe from other dangers and predators but no one kept me safe from him. So his death years later made no difference at all.
"I don't think I've totally worked that through," she told me. "I think I still need to grieve that loss. You know how when you're little, your daddy keeps you safe. And when he dies, there's no one to keep you safe anymore."
I'm so grateful she felt her daddy kept her safe. But >You know how when you're little, your daddy keeps you safe. And when he dies, there's no one to keep you safe anymore.< I couldn't identify with that statement at all. Maybe my daddy kept me safe from other dangers and predators but no one kept me safe from him. So his death years later made no difference at all.
How the little ones came to be
Another time I said, "I want all of you to know you are safe and loved." Again, at my voice, every head lifted suddenly and silently--but I felt the beginnings of hope in their postures.
So, I thought, we may be as many as a dozen.
On another occasion, when I was praying to understand the relationships between my little ones, I saw this in my mind's eye as if it were happening at that moment:
I was very small, maybe one or two years old. I was in bed between Mommy and Daddy. Then Mommy left (I now believe she went downstairs to fix breakfast or take my brothers to church and that this was a pattern) and Daddy kept me in bed and did things to me.
That's when Melissa came into existence. She split off from the original me. In my mind's eye, I saw the infant me still lying with Daddy--or lying where he had been--but from that me appeared a new self, a few years older, whom I now saw in the foreground sitting at the end of the bed, doubled over with shame. Almost immediately, from this second one, two others split off simultaneously and in opposite directions. Jenny shot off to the left and became a nun so she could be pure, undefiled, and untouchable. Jess flew off to the right and became a boy, because Daddy was only attracted to little girls. So both of them found a way to be safe.
Melissa ran into the closet and hid among the shoes.
There were five parts of me in that vision. I don't know how I knew who each one was. I knew them but I don't know me. I don't know who the "I" is who watched this from across the bedroom and is reporting about it now. Am I an alter, too? A "primary presenter"? Do I have a name? I don't know where I came from or when. I feel as if I must have pre-existed the others. As far as I know, I'm part of the system but just as an objective observer.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The second alter
As soon as I knew about Jessica, I started spending time with her. I wrote in my journal:
I find myself still picturing her as two or three when I read to her or put my arms around her but I know she's seven, so this morning I asked her if she is still pretending to be littler than she is, with younger interests, because she wants to please me. I felt she said yes.
I assured her again I love her whatever age she is and there seemed to be a relaxing inside. My imagination now pictured a longer, lankier child on my lap. I widened my arms to accommodate her.
"You like horses, don't you?" I remembered. "That makes sense. Two-year olds aren't into horses--but seven-year olds are! I bet you like--let's see--" The titles of several horse books rushed into my mind, as if she were showing them to me all at once. "Black Beauty? Misty of Chincoteague? And I bet you like Anne of Green Gables." I felt her pleasure and agreement.
A day or two later, Gail called. She wanted to know if I was all right with her "slip of the lip" the other day. I told her yes, that it was good to know for sure that I'm multiple, that I had suspected the possibility, wasn't afraid of it and had been spending time every day getting to know Jessica.
She was relieved. "I saw two, actually," she admitted.
"Two?"
"Two little girls. They're both in the upper part of an A-framed cabin, like an attic. One is talking to herself. She's on one side, jabbering away. She's frustrated, more animated.
"There's another one, facing away. Almost asleep, like, 'Don't bother me. Let me sleep!" I'm not getting a name. She's artistic but very much alone. 'Just keep things quiet, under control, and maybe nobody will see me.'"
Now I'm getting that her name might be Melissa.
I think there may also be a Jenny.
From my journal, June 22, 2007
I find myself still picturing her as two or three when I read to her or put my arms around her but I know she's seven, so this morning I asked her if she is still pretending to be littler than she is, with younger interests, because she wants to please me. I felt she said yes.
I assured her again I love her whatever age she is and there seemed to be a relaxing inside. My imagination now pictured a longer, lankier child on my lap. I widened my arms to accommodate her.
"You like horses, don't you?" I remembered. "That makes sense. Two-year olds aren't into horses--but seven-year olds are! I bet you like--let's see--" The titles of several horse books rushed into my mind, as if she were showing them to me all at once. "Black Beauty? Misty of Chincoteague? And I bet you like Anne of Green Gables." I felt her pleasure and agreement.
A day or two later, Gail called. She wanted to know if I was all right with her "slip of the lip" the other day. I told her yes, that it was good to know for sure that I'm multiple, that I had suspected the possibility, wasn't afraid of it and had been spending time every day getting to know Jessica.
She was relieved. "I saw two, actually," she admitted.
"Two?"
"Two little girls. They're both in the upper part of an A-framed cabin, like an attic. One is talking to herself. She's on one side, jabbering away. She's frustrated, more animated.
"There's another one, facing away. Almost asleep, like, 'Don't bother me. Let me sleep!" I'm not getting a name. She's artistic but very much alone. 'Just keep things quiet, under control, and maybe nobody will see me.'"
Now I'm getting that her name might be Melissa.
I think there may also be a Jenny.
From my journal, June 22, 2007
Monday, August 29, 2011
Question
Has anyone out there tried to post a comment? I'm having trouble using my lil.shaver@verizon.net account. You can contact me c/o JessicaRenshaw@verizon.net if you want to post something and I'll see if I can post it for you.
Learning from Jessica
Here she is with her doll Cynthia and my brother Ted. When I think of "my" little ones, there are three younger and at least three older who could qualify as young (13 and under) but she is a fully-developed personality, not a fragment, with a decided world view and influence on the system as a whole.
She explained it to me one day, drawing two pie charts. "Here's how you see us. You think you're the main one." She drew the percentage of my share of the pie as about 5/6 of the whole with the rest of the inside people crowding into the remaining sixth.
Then she said, "This is how it really is" and drew a pie with herself occupying about 3/5. My slice of consciousness and influence was about 1/8.
Then she listed our differing perspectives. I see her (she claimed) as always depressed and crying, feeling inadequate and unworthy, et cetera, et cetera. She sees me as self-confident to the point of cockiness, too busy, over-committing--"and then when the deadline comes, you leave us to do the things you promised to do." I'm impatient with the rest of us, riding roughshod over them, irked by their non-cooperation.
In short, she said, "You are Walks-on-Water. I am All-About-Survival."
Wow. That was sobering--for awhile. I tried to make more time for them, pay attention to their needs, spend time doing things with them that they enjoy. We watched hummingbirds, took pictures of them, made an album. We read Winnie-the-Pooh pop-up books and Little Red Hen and Little House on the Prairie. For awhile. But periodically I take the bit in my teeth and I'm off running again, saving the world and forgetting all about them, getting out of earshot. Like a carriage drawn by six horses, one shooting out front, others standing still or digging in their hooves, we end up in a tangle of fallen bodies, the whites of terrified eyes, twisted legs, reins, sweat, and saliva. Somebody always gets hurt.
"Stay close to me," I say. "Let me know what you want. Stop me if I'm getting too far ahead."
"You scare us. And you don't listen. What's the use of trying to get your attention? You'll do what you want anyway."
The trouble is, they're right. I have to pull way back and take them into consideration.
Though broken, we're really one person. We have to move ahead (or not) as a team.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Jessica
My little ones call me Mommy--at least one of them does. They knew about me long before I knew about them. I'd wondered whether I could possibly be multiple myself--but didn't seriously consider it until four years ago.
I had met many multiples by then, met and ministered to their little ones. I knew all fractured parts are good, all have broken off for a purpose that helps the whole system survive and function. I knew some seem almost whole and others are splinters of the self, knowing only one event of abuse in the middle of the life story and perhaps holding the terror, rage, shame, or helplessness of that event, keeping it out of the consciousness of the parts that had to carry on daily life. Some know several of the others, some feel all alone.
I was a professional writer and speaker at the time--or at least I had been. But I had felt blocked in my writing for months. Now I was trying to prepare a 30-minute talk on abortion for a meeting that very evening and my mind was completely blank. I'd spoken publicly many times and this time I was to speak on a subject I knew well. I was bewildered as I fought for ideas to organize into words and found--nothing.
With time running out, I called Gail, a discerning friend who ministered on a prayer team with me. "It's one of your alters," she said. "I see a scared little girl, cowering, crying in a corner, 'I can't do this! I can't do this!' She's afraid of your doing these things. She's thinking, 'If I say the wrong thing, I'm going to get smacked! Every move I make is wrong!' She's terrified. This is the one--because she didn't perform, she goes back in her corner and cowers--"
Too stunned by Gail's opening words to interrupt the flow until now, I finally asked tentatively, "So--I'm multiple?"
"Yes, we believe so."
"Who's we? The team?"
"Yes. We've suspected it."
"That confirms what I've suspected, too. I thought there might be a two- or three-year old."
"This one's six or seven."
After we hung up I went upstairs to my safe place, propped up against the head of the bed, and asked aloud in wonder, "So there's someone else inside? Do you have a name? Do you want to tell me what it is?"
When I got up to speak at His Nesting Place that evening, words came to me, the right ones, for the right length of time. It was such a relief.
I had met many multiples by then, met and ministered to their little ones. I knew all fractured parts are good, all have broken off for a purpose that helps the whole system survive and function. I knew some seem almost whole and others are splinters of the self, knowing only one event of abuse in the middle of the life story and perhaps holding the terror, rage, shame, or helplessness of that event, keeping it out of the consciousness of the parts that had to carry on daily life. Some know several of the others, some feel all alone.
I was a professional writer and speaker at the time--or at least I had been. But I had felt blocked in my writing for months. Now I was trying to prepare a 30-minute talk on abortion for a meeting that very evening and my mind was completely blank. I'd spoken publicly many times and this time I was to speak on a subject I knew well. I was bewildered as I fought for ideas to organize into words and found--nothing.
With time running out, I called Gail, a discerning friend who ministered on a prayer team with me. "It's one of your alters," she said. "I see a scared little girl, cowering, crying in a corner, 'I can't do this! I can't do this!' She's afraid of your doing these things. She's thinking, 'If I say the wrong thing, I'm going to get smacked! Every move I make is wrong!' She's terrified. This is the one--because she didn't perform, she goes back in her corner and cowers--"
Too stunned by Gail's opening words to interrupt the flow until now, I finally asked tentatively, "So--I'm multiple?"
"Yes, we believe so."
"Who's we? The team?"
"Yes. We've suspected it."
"That confirms what I've suspected, too. I thought there might be a two- or three-year old."
"This one's six or seven."
After we hung up I went upstairs to my safe place, propped up against the head of the bed, and asked aloud in wonder, "So there's someone else inside? Do you have a name? Do you want to tell me what it is?"
All I got was an impression: Donald. But it didn't feel true.
"Donald? You're a boy?" Gail had spoken of a little girl and my impression was of a girl. The name Donald had no associations for me. I didn't even like it. Wouldn't part of me choose a name we liked? I felt she was testing me with sarcasm.
"I don't like the name Donald! I think you're--little Jessica!" As soon as I said it, the name felt right. She even seemed pleased that I'd seen through her facade to her real identity.
"Are you the one keeping me from writing--not God?"
"Yes." (Not as strong as a voice, just an agreement in my spirit.)
"So I have a little saboteur inside!"
No response--but no offense.
"Why?" A lot of impressions came at once: it was scary, having words out there where people could read or hear them and be hurt or disagree with them. I'd taken a lot of flak for writing my opinions on moral issues and apparently my stand had terrified her. She was the one within me saying, "I can't! I can't!" She had shut me down. Now I was about to go speak to a group about abortion--
"But they're pro-life!" I assured her. "We're on the same side." She wasn't convinced.
"How old are you?" I asked.
"Seven."
"I had no idea you were there!Why didn't you tell me?" Trying not to accuse.
"Because you always say your favorite age is two- to three-year olds." (That's true.)
"Now that I know you're there, I'll love you whatever age you are." Then I said, 'I am so sorry for what you went through! I am so sorry no one knew about it and protected you! If you're seven, I guess you were in Japan with us; I was seven when that disgusting old man French-kissed us. You were innocent! You should never have had to experience that!"
I put my arms around her for a long time and stroked her small back. I felt the terror. I felt her whole body shaking with fear. It was a curious sensation. It wasn't my fear. I wasn't shaking. But it was inside me and it was very real.
"I want to be a good mommy to you," I told little Jessica. "I want to help you know you are safe and loved. I want to be a safe person you can talk to, if you want to. I want to get to know you and know what you like, so we can do fun things together."
She was shivering hard, but she listened.
When I got up to speak at His Nesting Place that evening, words came to me, the right ones, for the right length of time. It was such a relief.
When you have a friend with multiple personalities--
My first experience with little ones wasn't with my own. I had no idea I had any.
I had a friend, K., who was sometimes confident, competent, creative, and happy, sometimes withdrawn and depressed, with episodes of self-cutting, sometimes so shy that when I opened the door at her soft knock she would be standing with her head tucked down, her shoulders hugging themselves, her arms twisting together.
Now all those "roles" are familiar to me because I know myself better, but then I just knew that my heart went out to my friend. When the shy one came to visit, I would let her in and we--grown-ups ourselves--would go upstairs and put a sign on the guest room door: "NO GROWN-UPS ALLOWED" and we would be children together and feel safe. We'd sit on the floor and read stories or draw or I would comb her beautiful long hair.
Sometimes she would invite me to come with her to her counseling sessions. I would watch as she re-lived painful abuse, feeling it again in her body, and listen with her to the quiet wisdom of her counselor, like a comforting brook. There was a part of her she called the Mean One that carried out the self-mutilation. I remember when a sudden switch brought the Mean One to the fore for the first time. From several feet away I felt the breath knocked out of me, felt some kind of powerful magnetic force emanating from her that nearly forced me off the couch.
But at the same time I was amazed at this newly revealed part of K. Reacting with wonder, I exclaimed, "Why, you're not bad!"
Now I know why I feel comfortable with multiples--I often say, "When you have a friend with multiple personalities, you have a lot of friends!"--why I don't fear them and have an instinctive empathy with them.
We are one.
I had a friend, K., who was sometimes confident, competent, creative, and happy, sometimes withdrawn and depressed, with episodes of self-cutting, sometimes so shy that when I opened the door at her soft knock she would be standing with her head tucked down, her shoulders hugging themselves, her arms twisting together.
Now all those "roles" are familiar to me because I know myself better, but then I just knew that my heart went out to my friend. When the shy one came to visit, I would let her in and we--grown-ups ourselves--would go upstairs and put a sign on the guest room door: "NO GROWN-UPS ALLOWED" and we would be children together and feel safe. We'd sit on the floor and read stories or draw or I would comb her beautiful long hair.
Sometimes she would invite me to come with her to her counseling sessions. I would watch as she re-lived painful abuse, feeling it again in her body, and listen with her to the quiet wisdom of her counselor, like a comforting brook. There was a part of her she called the Mean One that carried out the self-mutilation. I remember when a sudden switch brought the Mean One to the fore for the first time. From several feet away I felt the breath knocked out of me, felt some kind of powerful magnetic force emanating from her that nearly forced me off the couch.
But at the same time I was amazed at this newly revealed part of K. Reacting with wonder, I exclaimed, "Why, you're not bad!"
Now I know why I feel comfortable with multiples--I often say, "When you have a friend with multiple personalities, you have a lot of friends!"--why I don't fear them and have an instinctive empathy with them.
We are one.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Amy
I am Amy. I am five. I remember wearing this dress. I liked it so much that ever since I have loved those two colors best.
I also like horses (baby ones), dogs with curly fur and floppy ears like Flopsy [her nightlight]. I like ice cream, dollies, making cakes in my toy stove, bean soup with bacon and buttered bread, our piano (Daddy called it a "white elephant") and I liked helping Mommy in the kitchen.
I want to learn to play the piano. I want to have a horse. I like cooking with Jerry! I liked having a dog and I like having a cat. I miss Mommy.
Amy needs stories, ice cream cones, hugs, uninterrupted time to talk, reassurance, and love. These are some other pictures in our bedroom which feature her favorite color combination.
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