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.
No comments:
Post a Comment