I was three years old.
It was Christmas Eve.
I had been put to bed early but I got up to tell or ask Mommy something important to me. I took a few steps down the stairs and peered through the banisters. Mommy and Daddy were standing at the fireplace, taking turns leaning down and then reaching up and doing something with their hands, speaking to each other in low tones. I had three unhappy epiphanies at once.
Daddy and Mommy were stuffing our stockings.
So there was no Santa Claus.
And I had better forget about whatever I needed to tell them and creep back upstairs without their knowing I had seen them.
Because believing I believed their lies was important to them.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Inner tube with hole
I help people and I hurt people. First I help them, really go out of my way for them, genuinely care about them. Then, when they like me and trust me, I let them down. I don't think I mean to. But after being there for them until they count on me, I'm--not. To the degree that I was a rock for them, encouraged them, supported them, blessed them, I lose interest or I can't anymore. Then I lacerate them with words or just walk away. Because we have developed a relationship, it hurts them much worse than it would have otherwise.
I warned Jerry I was like that. I told him he'd be sorry if he fell in love with me, if he married me. I warned him I would hurt him. But he did anyway. And I have. Just like I hurt my first husband.
I am cruel and mean-spirited. I don't seem so at first. Even I don't believe I am--at first. I told Jerry about a dream I had that hadn't materialized, a dream that was impossible to realize now. He worked hard, in secret, and made it happen. I was thrilled, I thanked him profusely and sincerely, told him how amazing he was. But the day came when I turned on him and said it hadn't worked after all. It had been a lot of work for me and gotten my hopes up and nothing came of it; I wished he'd never interfered and it was all his fault.
Although he always tells me, "There's nothing to forgive," you can't undo something like that.
My response to wounding people so deeply, against my own desire, is to want to cease to exist. I don't think I should never have been born, exactly. I just wish I could become a ghost, inaudible, invisible, cease existing. I am expendable. If I never go out of the house, out of the bedroom, if I don't talk to anyone, maybe it will be as if I don't exist. Maybe if I don't move and barely breathe. But Jerry is in the house. Jerry is in the bedroom. I can never be that invisible.
Paradoxically, my trying hurts him worse. When I explain that it would solve everything if I just removed myself from the situation, disappear from his life so he can recover and go on with it, it wounds him more. He has even wept over it. That makes me crazy. And so, so guilty, like a knife in my gut.
If only they would listen when I warn them at the very beginning, This won't be good for you. You'll be sorry you were drawn in to loving and trusting me. And it will be a Catch-22 for me because I cannot extricate myself from your life without destroying you.
There's no way out that doesn't hurt them worse.
I warned Jerry I was like that. I told him he'd be sorry if he fell in love with me, if he married me. I warned him I would hurt him. But he did anyway. And I have. Just like I hurt my first husband.
I am cruel and mean-spirited. I don't seem so at first. Even I don't believe I am--at first. I told Jerry about a dream I had that hadn't materialized, a dream that was impossible to realize now. He worked hard, in secret, and made it happen. I was thrilled, I thanked him profusely and sincerely, told him how amazing he was. But the day came when I turned on him and said it hadn't worked after all. It had been a lot of work for me and gotten my hopes up and nothing came of it; I wished he'd never interfered and it was all his fault.
Although he always tells me, "There's nothing to forgive," you can't undo something like that.
My response to wounding people so deeply, against my own desire, is to want to cease to exist. I don't think I should never have been born, exactly. I just wish I could become a ghost, inaudible, invisible, cease existing. I am expendable. If I never go out of the house, out of the bedroom, if I don't talk to anyone, maybe it will be as if I don't exist. Maybe if I don't move and barely breathe. But Jerry is in the house. Jerry is in the bedroom. I can never be that invisible.
Paradoxically, my trying hurts him worse. When I explain that it would solve everything if I just removed myself from the situation, disappear from his life so he can recover and go on with it, it wounds him more. He has even wept over it. That makes me crazy. And so, so guilty, like a knife in my gut.
If only they would listen when I warn them at the very beginning, This won't be good for you. You'll be sorry you were drawn in to loving and trusting me. And it will be a Catch-22 for me because I cannot extricate myself from your life without destroying you.
There's no way out that doesn't hurt them worse.
"I've got you."
I haven't been all right today. No sense of purpose, no motivation, just a heaviness, a terrible, empty hurt that isn't physical. I want to go Home.
With an effort, I stir myself to show interest in something other than me. "Are you all right?" I ask Jerry.
"I'm fine," he says, squeezing my hand cheerfully. "I've got you."
After a minute I ask, "Do you always say that because you really are fine or because you want me to think you are?"
"When I have you, I'm fine. When I don't have you, I'm not fine."
I consider that. "How can having me make you fine?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your having me is like a man in the middle of the ocean having nothing but an inner tube with a hole in it."
"How are you like an inner tube with a hole in it?"
"No one can lean on it. It will take you down."
"You don't take me down," he says.
But I know better.
With an effort, I stir myself to show interest in something other than me. "Are you all right?" I ask Jerry.
"I'm fine," he says, squeezing my hand cheerfully. "I've got you."
After a minute I ask, "Do you always say that because you really are fine or because you want me to think you are?"
"When I have you, I'm fine. When I don't have you, I'm not fine."
I consider that. "How can having me make you fine?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your having me is like a man in the middle of the ocean having nothing but an inner tube with a hole in it."
"How are you like an inner tube with a hole in it?"
"No one can lean on it. It will take you down."
"You don't take me down," he says.
But I know better.
Analogy
We were sitting at a long craft table in a kind of warehouse, which was lined with shelves full of objects one could paint or decorate. We were visiting with family while the children played on equipment in an adjoining room and there was a woman we didn't know sitting near us. I think she said her name was Susan. As we talked, a woman approached Susan, holding in both hands a battered shoe box bound with masking tape.
She held it out, saying, "Do you think these are too fragile to--" The box slipped from her hands and hit the floor with the crash of things smashing to smithereens.
Stunned, none of us moved--until the woman who had dropped the box and a man somewhere behind her began laughing uproariously. Susan joined them.
It was all a practical joke. We were filled in on the back story. Susan is a glass-blower and makes things with molten glass. She needed to take a lot of her stuff home and the couple, known pranksters, had offered to help her pack it up. After one missed heartbeat, Susan knew the box held nothing of significance, nothing but junk.
The battered box bothered me more than it did Susan. I keep remembering it and identifying with it. I am like that ugly box all taped together, all the parts of me inside now, no longer separate. When we fall we fall as one unit. Although we sound as if we are smashing to smithereens, we are actually already smashed. There is nothing of significance inside, nothing but junk.
She held it out, saying, "Do you think these are too fragile to--" The box slipped from her hands and hit the floor with the crash of things smashing to smithereens.
Stunned, none of us moved--until the woman who had dropped the box and a man somewhere behind her began laughing uproariously. Susan joined them.
It was all a practical joke. We were filled in on the back story. Susan is a glass-blower and makes things with molten glass. She needed to take a lot of her stuff home and the couple, known pranksters, had offered to help her pack it up. After one missed heartbeat, Susan knew the box held nothing of significance, nothing but junk.
The battered box bothered me more than it did Susan. I keep remembering it and identifying with it. I am like that ugly box all taped together, all the parts of me inside now, no longer separate. When we fall we fall as one unit. Although we sound as if we are smashing to smithereens, we are actually already smashed. There is nothing of significance inside, nothing but junk.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Too many deaths, too many losses
I think I need to get back on my anti-depressant. I'm crying all the time.
It isn't just the death of my first husband ten years ago. It's the death of 16 close friends, casual friends, and extended family members--or family members of friends--this year. It's the loss of our church family, the new pastor's wife telling us (long-time members), "You are NOT WELCOME here!" on New Years Day. It's the betrayal two days ago by my sister-in-law.
It isn't just the death of my first husband ten years ago. It's the death of 16 close friends, casual friends, and extended family members--or family members of friends--this year. It's the loss of our church family, the new pastor's wife telling us (long-time members), "You are NOT WELCOME here!" on New Years Day. It's the betrayal two days ago by my sister-in-law.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Draining
I had known it for weeks. There was a great grief welling up inside me, bulging up toward the surface, determined to burst. But I didn't know what it was about.
On November 5 I read a quote on a friend's blog: "When a widow prepares her heart to move forward, whether she means to or not, her mind begins to remember the worst things about her husband. It's a way of making it easier, like starting a fight before a goodbye."
Three days later the pain was lanced and drained, boiling over in a two-hour torrent. It was the deferred grief over the death of my first husband to brain cancer. The last thing unaffected by his paralysis was his strong left hand. Less than two years after losing him, I had lunch with a widower who extended both hands, cupped, across the table to me so he could say grace. I grasped them as I would a life preserver, knowing that by doing so I was committing myself to him forever. I was ravenous to be loved again, in every way. I thought (me, a spiritually mature, chaste Christian woman!), "I don't know a thing about him but hey, if it doesn't work out I can get a divorce."
Two weeks later we were engaged. (What took you so long? I wondered.) One day under three months from that first date we were married. He assured me if I wasn't through grieving, he would grieve with me. But how could I do that to him? So I had packed the unfinished sadness away.
Instead, I only mentioned to him the bad things about my first husband, like his frustration and eventual anger over my frigidity, my terror of s*x. He had finally told me (a woman whose father had made her feel like a slut, a woman barely able to respond to s*xual overtures, much less intitate them!), "I don't even want to hold or snuggle with you in bed. It makes me want you. If you want s*x, come get it." Ouch. He never believed I actually wanted it, needed it as much as he did.
I have often pictured him in heaven, responding in astonishment to the news that his wife is able to give herself freely to her second husband, even enjoy s*x: "Jessica?"
I would tell my new husband that I hadn't wanted to marry again because the old one had persuaded me no other man would put up with me. I would tell my new husband the things he does better than the old one. There were multitudes of positive things about the old one but I hadn't let myself remember them and now I knew why.
I had been starting a fight before the final goodbye.
Now I know why there are days, despite life with a husband I still consider perfect after 8-1/2 years, when all I do is sit up in bed and weep.
On November 8, I poured it out to G. for two soggy hours: He was a good man. I had forgotten that! He loved me. He provided for me, cherished me and tried with all his might, poor sod, to understand me. We had wonderful times together, close, fun times. And I miss him.
(* is to avoid predators.)
On November 5 I read a quote on a friend's blog: "When a widow prepares her heart to move forward, whether she means to or not, her mind begins to remember the worst things about her husband. It's a way of making it easier, like starting a fight before a goodbye."
Three days later the pain was lanced and drained, boiling over in a two-hour torrent. It was the deferred grief over the death of my first husband to brain cancer. The last thing unaffected by his paralysis was his strong left hand. Less than two years after losing him, I had lunch with a widower who extended both hands, cupped, across the table to me so he could say grace. I grasped them as I would a life preserver, knowing that by doing so I was committing myself to him forever. I was ravenous to be loved again, in every way. I thought (me, a spiritually mature, chaste Christian woman!), "I don't know a thing about him but hey, if it doesn't work out I can get a divorce."
Two weeks later we were engaged. (What took you so long? I wondered.) One day under three months from that first date we were married. He assured me if I wasn't through grieving, he would grieve with me. But how could I do that to him? So I had packed the unfinished sadness away.
Instead, I only mentioned to him the bad things about my first husband, like his frustration and eventual anger over my frigidity, my terror of s*x. He had finally told me (a woman whose father had made her feel like a slut, a woman barely able to respond to s*xual overtures, much less intitate them!), "I don't even want to hold or snuggle with you in bed. It makes me want you. If you want s*x, come get it." Ouch. He never believed I actually wanted it, needed it as much as he did.
I have often pictured him in heaven, responding in astonishment to the news that his wife is able to give herself freely to her second husband, even enjoy s*x: "Jessica?"
I would tell my new husband that I hadn't wanted to marry again because the old one had persuaded me no other man would put up with me. I would tell my new husband the things he does better than the old one. There were multitudes of positive things about the old one but I hadn't let myself remember them and now I knew why.
I had been starting a fight before the final goodbye.
Now I know why there are days, despite life with a husband I still consider perfect after 8-1/2 years, when all I do is sit up in bed and weep.
On November 8, I poured it out to G. for two soggy hours: He was a good man. I had forgotten that! He loved me. He provided for me, cherished me and tried with all his might, poor sod, to understand me. We had wonderful times together, close, fun times. And I miss him.
(* is to avoid predators.)
Overlay
All this time I was integrating, guess what? The integration was being accomplished by a part of me we call the "reporter." My reporter self was organizing everyone inside--or just sweeping them under a rug and announcing us "fixed."
So this time "Reporter/Interpreter Self" came out and complained that he (yes, he) runs the whole show and everyone inside resents him for it, resents his control and his speaking for them, even though his--my--motives were pure. I was just trying to protect them.
"I have to juggle it all," he said. "The internal system is like the solar system, with its orbits and speeds. My job is to hold all the dark stuff. I carry grief."
Do I have the memories? (I'm switching from being him and not being him. Sorry for the confusion.) "No, just the feelings. The memories are walled off."
"Then Jesus comes into the mix," RS explained, "and He's trying to protect and help everyone. I don't know how to adjust to keep the internal balance. He'll have a gravitational influence and will want to run the whole thing. I don't know how that will work."
He said he is the only one left except for the Original Self.
Here my notes say, "Make bread--add dirt and rocks. He takes it and makes a perfect loaf of bread." Was I the one making bread, adding dirt and rocks? Is Jesus the one who takes the mess and turns it into bread? What did that have to do with anything?
G: He cares about (you?). Such a noble and important job. You've done well.
"All that is negative, bad, and dark, I take on," I say. "I don't like this role but somebody has to do the dirty work. I'm Eeyore, gloomy and down on himself. I can only have the balloon after it's popped.
"Maybe I could just not exist. Maybe I could pop, too. If I'm just an alter, maybe I can be conscious but not involved." Then, "I want to go home."
G: "My burden is light. Come to Me, all you who are heavy-laden and I will give you rest."
"I don't want to be the one to make everyone else look good. I'm the bad one. I want to fade away and die."
G: He brings more life, not less. There may need to be a healing of the memories others hold. There is more the living God want to do just for you. It's hard for you to trust Him with your decision-making and vigilance."
"We're not ready to integrate. Yet in almost every dream I've had for months, I am lost and trying to find my way home. I am in a huge college, trying to find my way to my classroom. I am late for a test for which I have not studied. Or I am at a resort, maybe at a conference or women's retreat. I'm on my way to dinner but I have to leave the others to go back to my room to get something. I finally give up looking for my room but in the meantime I have missed dinner. Or I'm trying to find my way back to Jerry. Always lost, always trying to get home."
G. is talking to me, saying things about "embracing all of you, accepting all." A dust cloud of confusion has stirred up around my mind. I can hear what he is saying, he is using words and phrases I know, but I cannot make sense out of any of it.
(October 25, 2012)
So this time "Reporter/Interpreter Self" came out and complained that he (yes, he) runs the whole show and everyone inside resents him for it, resents his control and his speaking for them, even though his--my--motives were pure. I was just trying to protect them.
"I have to juggle it all," he said. "The internal system is like the solar system, with its orbits and speeds. My job is to hold all the dark stuff. I carry grief."
Do I have the memories? (I'm switching from being him and not being him. Sorry for the confusion.) "No, just the feelings. The memories are walled off."
"Then Jesus comes into the mix," RS explained, "and He's trying to protect and help everyone. I don't know how to adjust to keep the internal balance. He'll have a gravitational influence and will want to run the whole thing. I don't know how that will work."
He said he is the only one left except for the Original Self.
Here my notes say, "Make bread--add dirt and rocks. He takes it and makes a perfect loaf of bread." Was I the one making bread, adding dirt and rocks? Is Jesus the one who takes the mess and turns it into bread? What did that have to do with anything?
G: He cares about (you?). Such a noble and important job. You've done well.
"All that is negative, bad, and dark, I take on," I say. "I don't like this role but somebody has to do the dirty work. I'm Eeyore, gloomy and down on himself. I can only have the balloon after it's popped.
"Maybe I could just not exist. Maybe I could pop, too. If I'm just an alter, maybe I can be conscious but not involved." Then, "I want to go home."
G: "My burden is light. Come to Me, all you who are heavy-laden and I will give you rest."
"I don't want to be the one to make everyone else look good. I'm the bad one. I want to fade away and die."
G: He brings more life, not less. There may need to be a healing of the memories others hold. There is more the living God want to do just for you. It's hard for you to trust Him with your decision-making and vigilance."
"We're not ready to integrate. Yet in almost every dream I've had for months, I am lost and trying to find my way home. I am in a huge college, trying to find my way to my classroom. I am late for a test for which I have not studied. Or I am at a resort, maybe at a conference or women's retreat. I'm on my way to dinner but I have to leave the others to go back to my room to get something. I finally give up looking for my room but in the meantime I have missed dinner. Or I'm trying to find my way back to Jerry. Always lost, always trying to get home."
G. is talking to me, saying things about "embracing all of you, accepting all." A dust cloud of confusion has stirred up around my mind. I can hear what he is saying, he is using words and phrases I know, but I cannot make sense out of any of it.
(October 25, 2012)
This is what it feels is happening
You'd think that would have done it. The Shepherd brings the little lost lamb home. Happy ending.
But I wake up in tears almost every morning.
Here's what it feels like. It feels like the dissociative barriers are down. It feels like there are no parts walled off or left outside. It's all just me.
I used to be either/or. Either depressed or anxious or competent and confident. I wasn't aware of other paradigms.
Now I am both/all/and. We are--I am--co-conscious. It's all me. Depressed and anxious--but whatever happened to competence and confidence? The walls were there for a reason, to enable me to function. Now functioning is beyond me. If the intolerable conflicts caused by opposing beliefs have been resolved, why am I non-functioning?
I asked G, "Is it possible I'm whole and I'm just having the kinds of grief, loss, sadness, worry, fears that normal people have? Is that it?"
"Don't decide for yourself what this looks like," G says. "Just see what remains." "Don't try to control parts, let it reveal itself in its own time." "Just enjoy discovering, synchronizing, finding dissociative barriers," 'Let Jesus find, bring things up," "Don't try to orchestrate healing--let it come to you, take what the system offers," "Let Christ do the healing through the indwelling Spirit," "Be in 'receive' mode."
Can I cry while I do all that?
(October 25, 2012)
But I wake up in tears almost every morning.
Here's what it feels like. It feels like the dissociative barriers are down. It feels like there are no parts walled off or left outside. It's all just me.
I used to be either/or. Either depressed or anxious or competent and confident. I wasn't aware of other paradigms.
Now I am both/all/and. We are--I am--co-conscious. It's all me. Depressed and anxious--but whatever happened to competence and confidence? The walls were there for a reason, to enable me to function. Now functioning is beyond me. If the intolerable conflicts caused by opposing beliefs have been resolved, why am I non-functioning?
I asked G, "Is it possible I'm whole and I'm just having the kinds of grief, loss, sadness, worry, fears that normal people have? Is that it?"
"Don't decide for yourself what this looks like," G says. "Just see what remains." "Don't try to control parts, let it reveal itself in its own time." "Just enjoy discovering, synchronizing, finding dissociative barriers," 'Let Jesus find, bring things up," "Don't try to orchestrate healing--let it come to you, take what the system offers," "Let Christ do the healing through the indwelling Spirit," "Be in 'receive' mode."
Can I cry while I do all that?
(October 25, 2012)
Anxiety, depression, a sense of doom.
G opened in prayer for any identities, inner conflicts, lie messages to be exposed and come to the front. "I bless you with a sense of joy and peace of the living God," he ended.
"I am surrounded with joy," I said dismally, "and can't take it in. I am in prison, I am shackled. I am poison to other people. I destroy them. My life is filled with love and joy but I can't connect to it. I have to be sober, proper, serious, narrow--. I don't have a right to joy."
"Ask God what is blocking it."
"I'm getting words like 'proper,' 'critic,' 'black clothes,' 'Puritan,' 'bonnet,' and 'pinched nose.' It may be a religious or legalistic spirit. My ancestors on my mother's side were Puritans."
G quoted Scripture: "The letter of the law brings death."
"We think we are more righteous, more vigilant ferreting out moral error than Christ. In His name, I renounce that! I renounce self-flagellation and self-condemnation--the gloomy despair of my great-grandmother as a child, writing her journal confessing how evil (and how depressed) she always was.
"Lord, you hand me bread to give others," I continued, "and I don't keep any for myself, even though there is plenty. I want to come home. I want to find my way home."
I told G about the vision I had years ago of Jesus giving a party for me. There was a long table with chairs around it. I could sit anywhere I liked and I could choose anyone I wanted to sit in the chairs. I chose to sit at one end. I had Jesus sit at the other. I told Him, "I'd like DK to be there. Not right beside me. A few chairs down." All the other chairs remained empty.
And the food? He asked.
"Steak. No, spaghetti."
Both steak and spaghetti appeared on the table--then, in response to my indecision, every other kind of food I like, lots of it. The table was covered with steaming dishes.
And presents?
Now there were packages of all shapes and sizes around the food, piled higher and higher until--
"NO!" I had cried out in my vision. I got out of my chair, ran to the other end of the table and in tears threw my arms around His neck. "I ONLY WANT YOU!"
After describing this to G, I asked him, "Why do I reject myself when He doesn't reject me? I've shoved that hungry part of myself away. Why do I do that? Where did I get that message? I know it's because I'm afraid. Even if He offers me bread, I see myself, head hanging down, shaking it and saying, 'I can't. I can't.' Others are hungrier. I already have so much. I don't have a right to eat when they're dying from hunger. The food won't get to them. It will block their getting it.
What is the lie? "It's something about His sovereignty. We give to organizations that feed them but it's never enough! It doesn't seem fair. My depriving myself doesn't help them and my having enough (plenty) doesn't help them either."
What is the truth? G nailed it: "The poor you will have with you always."
"That's right, isn't it? Jesus said so."
G: There are not enough good things to go around--good jobs, water, food, housing. That's the way the world is designed this side of heaven. It's idealistic to believe resources can be more equitable--because of greed and human sinfulness. Only in the fullness of the kingdom will there be enough for everyone.
"That's true. I can pray for them. I can give money. But I can never feed them all, right? I can't be God. . . I can't understand why He's allowed that. But He does all things well. My depriving myself only makes Him sad. He wants everyone happy. If I let myself be happy at least there will be one more person happy."
G: I can pray. I can't be God. He has allowed it. I must accept it. He knows what He's doing.
"If it's true that there are millions who have none of the good things we have--and they're still going to hell, that's not fair."
G: Does He say it's fair?
"No, but He says it will ultimately be fair."
G: Where are your feelings coming from?
"I was like that even before I was a Christian. I heard the gospel and I thought, I have to let everyone else go through the door, urge them to, before I can go in--before I will go in.
"I feel like I don't have a right to call out for my mother in the night. Daddy tells her to let me cry. She picked me up once as a baby and shook me hard, in anger. 'Be quiet! BE QUIET!' (Not 'Don't cry!" That would have programmed me differently.)
"I am distributing food. Jesus breaks the bread and hands me chunk after chunk and I pass it on. If I stopped long enough to stuff a little of it in my own mouth I would choke on it. Why? Because it's not meant for me.
Others are hungrier than I am. I can wait. I want my mother but she is helping all my 'little friends,' as my grandmother called them. They all need her. I have 'ticket #1' for her attention, I know that. I don't tell myself I can't have her attention, I tell myself I can wait. My neediness is not as great as theirs and I choose to let them go ahead of me. Someday it will be my turn.
"But it never is.
"On the boat [I grew up on] my mother gave any extra food, the leftovers, to the men: my dad, brother and the three crewmen. I remember her asking who wanted thirds of spaghetti. I was still hungry, I hadn't even had seconds, I would have said yes. But she wasn't asking me. I don't deserve things men have a right to. I say 'It's okay, it's okay' when it's really not. It's okay that I don't get enough. I'm sad, I'm hungry. I feel left out."
"Ask the Lord if it's okay."
I ask and report, "He says, It's not okay. He says It wasn't okay that 99 sheep were happy. I went after the one that was unhappy. So I'm the little lost lamb? Even if it's my fault I got lost? Can you reach down that far, Lord? I'd like You to come get me if You don't mind. I'd like to be rescued.Will the other sheep mind if You leave them? Will they resent me?" I wait, listening. Then, "He says I can be in both places at once.
"Wow."
G (our time is up): I bless you, every fiber of your being, with an acceptance of the truth. God says, I have chosen you. I have rescued you. I have bought you out of the slave market, out of the kingdom of darkness, I have given you My name and character, My family. You are co-heirs with My son. I bless you with a profound sense of your value. Not only do you not deserve punishment, He was punished for you. He became sin for us. He took on Himself the wrath of God. There is no condemnation, no shame, blame, or guilt.
(Session of October 11? My dates seem confused.)
G opened in prayer for any identities, inner conflicts, lie messages to be exposed and come to the front. "I bless you with a sense of joy and peace of the living God," he ended.
"I am surrounded with joy," I said dismally, "and can't take it in. I am in prison, I am shackled. I am poison to other people. I destroy them. My life is filled with love and joy but I can't connect to it. I have to be sober, proper, serious, narrow--. I don't have a right to joy."
"Ask God what is blocking it."
"I'm getting words like 'proper,' 'critic,' 'black clothes,' 'Puritan,' 'bonnet,' and 'pinched nose.' It may be a religious or legalistic spirit. My ancestors on my mother's side were Puritans."
G quoted Scripture: "The letter of the law brings death."
"We think we are more righteous, more vigilant ferreting out moral error than Christ. In His name, I renounce that! I renounce self-flagellation and self-condemnation--the gloomy despair of my great-grandmother as a child, writing her journal confessing how evil (and how depressed) she always was.
"Lord, you hand me bread to give others," I continued, "and I don't keep any for myself, even though there is plenty. I want to come home. I want to find my way home."
I told G about the vision I had years ago of Jesus giving a party for me. There was a long table with chairs around it. I could sit anywhere I liked and I could choose anyone I wanted to sit in the chairs. I chose to sit at one end. I had Jesus sit at the other. I told Him, "I'd like DK to be there. Not right beside me. A few chairs down." All the other chairs remained empty.
And the food? He asked.
"Steak. No, spaghetti."
Both steak and spaghetti appeared on the table--then, in response to my indecision, every other kind of food I like, lots of it. The table was covered with steaming dishes.
And presents?
Now there were packages of all shapes and sizes around the food, piled higher and higher until--
"NO!" I had cried out in my vision. I got out of my chair, ran to the other end of the table and in tears threw my arms around His neck. "I ONLY WANT YOU!"
After describing this to G, I asked him, "Why do I reject myself when He doesn't reject me? I've shoved that hungry part of myself away. Why do I do that? Where did I get that message? I know it's because I'm afraid. Even if He offers me bread, I see myself, head hanging down, shaking it and saying, 'I can't. I can't.' Others are hungrier. I already have so much. I don't have a right to eat when they're dying from hunger. The food won't get to them. It will block their getting it.
What is the lie? "It's something about His sovereignty. We give to organizations that feed them but it's never enough! It doesn't seem fair. My depriving myself doesn't help them and my having enough (plenty) doesn't help them either."
What is the truth? G nailed it: "The poor you will have with you always."
"That's right, isn't it? Jesus said so."
G: There are not enough good things to go around--good jobs, water, food, housing. That's the way the world is designed this side of heaven. It's idealistic to believe resources can be more equitable--because of greed and human sinfulness. Only in the fullness of the kingdom will there be enough for everyone.
"That's true. I can pray for them. I can give money. But I can never feed them all, right? I can't be God. . . I can't understand why He's allowed that. But He does all things well. My depriving myself only makes Him sad. He wants everyone happy. If I let myself be happy at least there will be one more person happy."
G: I can pray. I can't be God. He has allowed it. I must accept it. He knows what He's doing.
"If it's true that there are millions who have none of the good things we have--and they're still going to hell, that's not fair."
G: Does He say it's fair?
"No, but He says it will ultimately be fair."
G: Where are your feelings coming from?
"I was like that even before I was a Christian. I heard the gospel and I thought, I have to let everyone else go through the door, urge them to, before I can go in--before I will go in.
"I feel like I don't have a right to call out for my mother in the night. Daddy tells her to let me cry. She picked me up once as a baby and shook me hard, in anger. 'Be quiet! BE QUIET!' (Not 'Don't cry!" That would have programmed me differently.)
"I am distributing food. Jesus breaks the bread and hands me chunk after chunk and I pass it on. If I stopped long enough to stuff a little of it in my own mouth I would choke on it. Why? Because it's not meant for me.
Others are hungrier than I am. I can wait. I want my mother but she is helping all my 'little friends,' as my grandmother called them. They all need her. I have 'ticket #1' for her attention, I know that. I don't tell myself I can't have her attention, I tell myself I can wait. My neediness is not as great as theirs and I choose to let them go ahead of me. Someday it will be my turn.
"But it never is.
"On the boat [I grew up on] my mother gave any extra food, the leftovers, to the men: my dad, brother and the three crewmen. I remember her asking who wanted thirds of spaghetti. I was still hungry, I hadn't even had seconds, I would have said yes. But she wasn't asking me. I don't deserve things men have a right to. I say 'It's okay, it's okay' when it's really not. It's okay that I don't get enough. I'm sad, I'm hungry. I feel left out."
"Ask the Lord if it's okay."
I ask and report, "He says, It's not okay. He says It wasn't okay that 99 sheep were happy. I went after the one that was unhappy. So I'm the little lost lamb? Even if it's my fault I got lost? Can you reach down that far, Lord? I'd like You to come get me if You don't mind. I'd like to be rescued.Will the other sheep mind if You leave them? Will they resent me?" I wait, listening. Then, "He says I can be in both places at once.
"Wow."
G (our time is up): I bless you, every fiber of your being, with an acceptance of the truth. God says, I have chosen you. I have rescued you. I have bought you out of the slave market, out of the kingdom of darkness, I have given you My name and character, My family. You are co-heirs with My son. I bless you with a profound sense of your value. Not only do you not deserve punishment, He was punished for you. He became sin for us. He took on Himself the wrath of God. There is no condemnation, no shame, blame, or guilt.
(Session of October 11? My dates seem confused.)
Saturday, October 27, 2012
When no other alters or spirits came to the fore, G and I both thought I might be integrated. He set a final two-hour session, to include Jerry, to wrap things up and give us both guidance for how I could proceed in wholeness.
But once home, I was hit with terrible depression, the worst in a long time. I did nothing but cry. I wondered if I was having trouble adjusting to wholeness. Maybe it was easier to have compartments, easier to have other parts handle aspects of life, have someone else to blame. Maybe dissociation was an excuse, a means to let me keep things at arm's length.
Or maybe I just wasn't whole at all. Maybe the alters were hiding and I still had years of healing to go.
Either way, it was wrenching.
G and I held what was supposed to be our victory lap on Skype. I sat at my desk, red-eyed and surrounded by soggy tissues and Jerry was not an active part of it.
(October 11, 2012)
But once home, I was hit with terrible depression, the worst in a long time. I did nothing but cry. I wondered if I was having trouble adjusting to wholeness. Maybe it was easier to have compartments, easier to have other parts handle aspects of life, have someone else to blame. Maybe dissociation was an excuse, a means to let me keep things at arm's length.
Or maybe I just wasn't whole at all. Maybe the alters were hiding and I still had years of healing to go.
Either way, it was wrenching.
G and I held what was supposed to be our victory lap on Skype. I sat at my desk, red-eyed and surrounded by soggy tissues and Jerry was not an active part of it.
(October 11, 2012)
Same session
That was during the first hour of the session. After a break, we met for another hour. I saw the little girl (I assume the one in clogs) frantic with happiness, leaping like a puppy on the others, joining them.
G asked God to "find any lost sheep--You're good at doing that--and lead them home." I felt peace. Then he told me, "When all the lie messages are broken, any demons present may just hunker down, lie under the bed, so to speak, and wait." He had me maintain eye contact with him--it was hard--while he asked, "Are any still there?"
The difficulty keeping eye contact made me feel something wasn't right. "Maybe," I said.
"Do you have any legal right to remain?"
I spoke for it.
"There is evidence that our family, my great-grandparents, were Jewish.Our name was Schoen(e). My grandfather and his brother were trapeze artists in a small, traveling circus. They called themselves the Schoene Brothers until about 1914--World War I--and then changed it to The Flying Landrys, after my grandmother's maiden name. (She was French-Canadian.)
"I've become convinced we hid our Jewishness not just out of fear of persecution but as an act of rejecting our relationship with God, our identity as His people. Just as Pharaoh, confronted by Moses, hardened his heart, and each time he did, God responded by hardening his heart further, so our family has hardened ourselves and been hardened. There are generational sins of addictions and of arrogance and there is a generational sin of defiance of and autonomy from God.
"I repented for that and I wrote all my family explaining what I had come to believe and suggesting they repent of it, too. I got two or three responses, all negative, just what I had expected. In their responses to me, they re-enforced that rejection of Jehovah."
In the session I renounced that sin again and severed connections with any spirits associated with it.
G asked God to "find any lost sheep--You're good at doing that--and lead them home." I felt peace. Then he told me, "When all the lie messages are broken, any demons present may just hunker down, lie under the bed, so to speak, and wait." He had me maintain eye contact with him--it was hard--while he asked, "Are any still there?"
The difficulty keeping eye contact made me feel something wasn't right. "Maybe," I said.
"Do you have any legal right to remain?"
I spoke for it.
"There is evidence that our family, my great-grandparents, were Jewish.Our name was Schoen(e). My grandfather and his brother were trapeze artists in a small, traveling circus. They called themselves the Schoene Brothers until about 1914--World War I--and then changed it to The Flying Landrys, after my grandmother's maiden name. (She was French-Canadian.)
"I've become convinced we hid our Jewishness not just out of fear of persecution but as an act of rejecting our relationship with God, our identity as His people. Just as Pharaoh, confronted by Moses, hardened his heart, and each time he did, God responded by hardening his heart further, so our family has hardened ourselves and been hardened. There are generational sins of addictions and of arrogance and there is a generational sin of defiance of and autonomy from God.
"I repented for that and I wrote all my family explaining what I had come to believe and suggesting they repent of it, too. I got two or three responses, all negative, just what I had expected. In their responses to me, they re-enforced that rejection of Jehovah."
In the session I renounced that sin again and severed connections with any spirits associated with it.
All things new
We made love (I told G) and it was like experiencing it for the very first time, like a virgin on her wedding night. Not only wonder but physical pleasure. No baggage, no flashbacks, no fantasies.
Just that once and then it was gone again.
September 28, 2012
Just that once and then it was gone again.
September 28, 2012
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Parental inversion
Mummy found out--and it was my fault.
I knew that because Daddy had made it clear what we did together, the two of us, had to be kept secret and he assigned me to keep that secret. I was the one responsible to keep her from knowing--knowing she had failed as a wife and he was having to find sexual gratification in her little girl instead. Responsible to keep her innocent, keep her happy and fulfilled and productive and--everything I wasn't.
The consequences of her finding out, he somehow communicated to me, would be really, really bad. She would feel bad about herself, ashamed, guilty, because she couldn't meet his needs. It was really, really important that she not feel bad. She might kill herself!
I knew my job was important because Mommy was so important. It was hard but Daddy praised me, made me feel proud I could do what she could not. He said I was really good at it. I loved my mother so much I would do anything for her, even this.
Still, there were times I didn't want to do it anymore. Times I thought, If only she knew, maybe she would stop it and I wouldn't have to do it anymore. Times I squirmed and thought about crying out for her. Did he warn me not to, did he really cover my mouth with his hand--or did I just know? She could not hear me from downstairs and even if she did, would she come? What if she came and actually saw what was happening--would she intervene and rescue me? Would she see I needed rescuing? If she didn't, would I be able to use my voice and say, "Help!"?
That was before. Then the worst happened. She came upon us unexpectedly and saw it happening. I froze. My heart caught. I couldn't breathe. She was there, in the bedroom. In the possibility of that paralysis of fear, there was a flicker of hope. What Daddy said must not happen, what I had longed would happen, what Daddy said I must not let happen--was happening right now. She knew. She was even saying so, telling him she had seen it and known what was happening, bringing the terrible secret into the uncomfortable light. It could go either way. It could be the disaster Daddy had warned about or rescue, with the relief of knowing it was over.
She was angry. She was saying angry words to him. I waited, hoping this meant I would be free. But he was angry back. It was like the tennis matches that had won him the Tri-State title. Slamming the ball back past her, lobbing it over her head, putting English on it so it bounced funny and her return dribbled at her feet. As I watched the master, watched how deceit was done, I learned what I did not want to know.
Game, set, match.
And watching, I knew he was playing his very best, all out--desperately in fact--for my sake. All the skill, all the finesse he had ever put into anything he had ever done (and he had done a lot, working his way up from "poor white trash" born to high wire artistes in a small, traveling circus to a doctorate in anthropology from a top university), he put into what I realized was defending me. I had messed up, I had blown it. Maybe by wanting her to know (there could have been no other way) I had failed to keep the secret. Her knowing was my fault.
But he made up for my wrong-doing. He saved the match, pulled it out when it was impossible to win, took the game right from doubles to singles so he could slug every ball himself--and he did that for me. He rescued us both, thereby protecting her.
From then on, I did my job like a trouper (just as he and his parents had done in the circus). Unwavering. She would never know, never again have reason to suspect from the slightest glance or sigh on my part that anything was wrong.
(September 13, 2012)
The Beast
There is also a wide metal band around my neck attached to the chain that is attached to the beast that is fear. Sometimes the band is around my wrist instead--or in addition to.
The Beast has turned into my cherished chow-chow Cherokee. It's not a bad Beast after all. (When Cherokee died, I instantly vowed I would not even THINK about that, would not look back even to the good memories, would not let in the grief, lest it overwhelm and choke me. I have since renounced that vow--but I still don't let myself go there.) This beast is safe, like Aslan, she will walk me out of the stable.
Who am I kidding? The leash that binds us is still a chain. This Beast is not a pet at all. Just because it is mild at the moment means nothing. It has strong teeth and sharp claws. It could turn and harrow me in an instant.
har·row 1 (h
r
)
I am the sacrificial lamb, maybe for all humanity. Somebody has to be. I am the world's trash can, the world's toilet, all the garbage--
It hurts Me when you do that.
(September 6, 2012)
The Beast has turned into my cherished chow-chow Cherokee. It's not a bad Beast after all. (When Cherokee died, I instantly vowed I would not even THINK about that, would not look back even to the good memories, would not let in the grief, lest it overwhelm and choke me. I have since renounced that vow--but I still don't let myself go there.) This beast is safe, like Aslan, she will walk me out of the stable.
Who am I kidding? The leash that binds us is still a chain. This Beast is not a pet at all. Just because it is mild at the moment means nothing. It has strong teeth and sharp claws. It could turn and harrow me in an instant.
har·row 1 (h
r)
n.
A farm implement consisting of a heavy frame with sharp teeth or upright disks, used to break up and even off plowed ground.
tr.v. har·rowed, har·row·ing, har·rows
1. To break up and level (soil or land) with a harrow.
2. To inflict great distress or torment on.
Yes, that's the right word.
I am the sacrificial lamb, maybe for all humanity. Somebody has to be. I am the world's trash can, the world's toilet, all the garbage--
It hurts Me when you do that.
(September 6, 2012)
Trying to breathe
That was his summary of what happened last session (August 11).
I have been having some nightmares, waking scared or sad. G says there is a primary or alter who holds anxiety, still fears intimacy. I still have a knot in my psyche where I do not allow myself sexual pleasure. Giving is fine.
Now I am seeing I have never distinguished sexual love from lust. If I am enjoying sex, lust takes over and fills my mind with flashbacks and fantasies and dirty words. Here, in G's office, Teddy bears on the couch, pictures of his children on the bookshelves, pictures of him proudly holding fish he has caught, we command the spirit of lust to leave in the authority of Jesus Christ. . . .
It comes to me suddenly: Letting myself enjoy sex would involve letting go. Letting go of control. Letting go of being on alert for danger from without. I can't afford to let go when I am on duty, when it is up to me to protect myself.
And then, of course, there is the knot of conflict about my right to feel pleasure.
The little skinny, starving self in the doorway is facing into the dark stable now, although the big clogs on her feet are still facing out. The dark wolf creature is still crouching in the cell, half-filling it. He is tied to me--or I am tied to him--but even when I am next to him in the cell he does not threaten or scare me. He does not seem to care that I am there. He does not turn his head to look at me. He is just there.
Is it love she can't take in? Like the time I had asthma and couldn't breathe, couldn't take in any of the cool night air that was all around me, was gasping, panting, dying for lack of the very element I was immersed in?
(August 23, 2012)
I have been having some nightmares, waking scared or sad. G says there is a primary or alter who holds anxiety, still fears intimacy. I still have a knot in my psyche where I do not allow myself sexual pleasure. Giving is fine.
Now I am seeing I have never distinguished sexual love from lust. If I am enjoying sex, lust takes over and fills my mind with flashbacks and fantasies and dirty words. Here, in G's office, Teddy bears on the couch, pictures of his children on the bookshelves, pictures of him proudly holding fish he has caught, we command the spirit of lust to leave in the authority of Jesus Christ. . . .
It comes to me suddenly: Letting myself enjoy sex would involve letting go. Letting go of control. Letting go of being on alert for danger from without. I can't afford to let go when I am on duty, when it is up to me to protect myself.
And then, of course, there is the knot of conflict about my right to feel pleasure.
The little skinny, starving self in the doorway is facing into the dark stable now, although the big clogs on her feet are still facing out. The dark wolf creature is still crouching in the cell, half-filling it. He is tied to me--or I am tied to him--but even when I am next to him in the cell he does not threaten or scare me. He does not seem to care that I am there. He does not turn his head to look at me. He is just there.
Is it love she can't take in? Like the time I had asthma and couldn't breathe, couldn't take in any of the cool night air that was all around me, was gasping, panting, dying for lack of the very element I was immersed in?
(August 23, 2012)
Clothed from on high
The shape of a woman
overshadows me,
a crystal outline
lifting out of the mud.
Clear, silent, still.
Holy?
As she clothes me
with herself,
melting to conform to my shape,
I think,
This is me!
I look at my hands
as if for the first time,
turn them over,
closing and opening them.
Warm, they tingle.
Are they part of me?
Have they always been part of me?
I gaze around the
strange, familiar room.
It makes me dizzy,
as if I've had
a little too much wine.
I report all this to G.
She is like my skin, I say.
It's like I am feeling
for the first time.
Is this the original self?
Bless her, says G.
She is your essence, soul, spirit.
When our time is up
still awed and disoriented
I leave the room
to rejoin my husband.
I am overwhelmed
with love for him,
as if seeing him
for the first time.
(August 11, 2012 #3)
overshadows me,
a crystal outline
lifting out of the mud.
Clear, silent, still.
Holy?
As she clothes me
with herself,
melting to conform to my shape,
I think,
This is me!
I look at my hands
as if for the first time,
turn them over,
closing and opening them.
Warm, they tingle.
Are they part of me?
Have they always been part of me?
I gaze around the
strange, familiar room.
It makes me dizzy,
as if I've had
a little too much wine.
I report all this to G.
She is like my skin, I say.
It's like I am feeling
for the first time.
Is this the original self?
Bless her, says G.
She is your essence, soul, spirit.
When our time is up
still awed and disoriented
I leave the room
to rejoin my husband.
I am overwhelmed
with love for him,
as if seeing him
for the first time.
(August 11, 2012 #3)
Saturday, October 6, 2012
In the meadow
Jesus is sitting on a park bench.
All the happy children are playing,
swarming all over Him.
Three mothers stand approving
behind them.
(I am in counseling,
reporting what I am seeing.
G says the mothers are Primary Identities.)
As I watch, the mothers merge into one.
The little ones--most of them--
are sucked up into her
and now are bumping around
inside her like
a litter of puppies,
each in its own bubble.
Jesus hands the last one through.
Nothing is left outside but--what?
A brown fluttering--a dead leaf?
Fluttering, fluttering
on the ground,
above the ground.
Now it has become
a brown butterfly.
Now it is growing,
now brightly colored.
We are all in a farmyard.
Jesus and the mother walk together,
leaving a trail of brown manure.
One of me is left behind in the mud puddle
(does that make it a muddle?).
The one left behind
caused the mud puddle.
Jesus is leaving it behind
because He is pure and clean
and so are all the rest of us.
All but me.
Something is churning in the mud.
Every now and then I see
pinkness poking through--
a child? a pig? a flower?
Little pink shape.
That's me.
In the dirt
but not of the dirt.
IT'S NOT MY DIRT.
But I am mired in it,
the manure in the pig pen.
(August 11, 2012 #2)
In the doorway
I watch myself from inside the dark stable.
It is really a prison, lined with cells
but there is straw on the floor.
I know mine.
I don't think there is anyone in
any of the other cells.
But I live in mine.
All the doors are slightly ajar
and the walkway between the rows
is open at one end.
Outside is blue sky
golden with sunshine
and the sounds of
happy children.
I see myself
standing in the doorway,
looking out--
emaciated figure
in open shoes
several sizes too big.
What is she starving for?
She wants to go out
but she is afraid
she is too small
they won't notice her
and she'll be trampled underfoot.
And if she needs to,
where can she hide?
Jesus is saying,
Come hide in My robes.
But the cell is dark and familiar.
There is a big, rough, hairy beast in my cell,
only in mine,
but that is familiar, too.
It is fear.
There is a chain from it to me.
I watch
as she uses the chain
to pull herself through the darkness
back to the comfort of the beast.
(August 11, 2012)
Twice-married, once widowed
I lie beside him
watching him sleep,
wondering why
I have had two (stable, godly) husbands
and so many women
have none.
Why am I so blessed?
Tears puddle beneath my neck
as I keep my eyes
fixed
on the pulse in his.
Which will come first:
will his heart stop before
he gets disgusted with me
and leaves?
watching him sleep,
wondering why
I have had two (stable, godly) husbands
and so many women
have none.
Why am I so blessed?
Tears puddle beneath my neck
as I keep my eyes
fixed
on the pulse in his.
Which will come first:
will his heart stop before
he gets disgusted with me
and leaves?
Friday, September 28, 2012
I am not defined by them
I am not one of them.
I am not defined by them.
I am not responsible for taking care
of either one of them (especially
since they are no longer in this life.)
(September 28, 2012)
I am not defined by them.
I am not responsible for taking care
of either one of them (especially
since they are no longer in this life.)
(September 28, 2012)
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Freud
Freud's greatest contribution to mental health:
Freud initially thought that many of his female patients were relating
actual memories of sexual abuse in early childhood (mostly by their
fathers). He concluded this abuse was responsible for their neuroses and
other mental health problems. In light of the repessed sexuality
among Victorians, it was certainly possible that fathers were turning to
their daughters for sex. The fact that Freud listened to these former
victims and took them seriously was a tremendous breakthrough in
understanding and resolving shame, denial, and dysfunctionality.
Freud's greatest contribution to mental illness: Within a few years Freud changed his mind, deciding that the women's memories of incest were in fact products of their own fantasies and desires--constituted "wish fulfillment." By doing so, he betrayed his clients and did them a grave disservice, re-enforcing shame, denial, and repression, setting sympathetic appreciation of their trauma back further than he had advanced it.
I just needed to say that.
Freud's greatest contribution to mental illness: Within a few years Freud changed his mind, deciding that the women's memories of incest were in fact products of their own fantasies and desires--constituted "wish fulfillment." By doing so, he betrayed his clients and did them a grave disservice, re-enforcing shame, denial, and repression, setting sympathetic appreciation of their trauma back further than he had advanced it.
I just needed to say that.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
"The only problem. . . is Jessica."
I have been reading through Mum's letters to her own mother and her father's mother (whom we called DiggyDee and Nana) and one of the recurring themes is her desire for freedom from me. Mum, with the rest of the family, leaves for six weeks and does not mention missing me, gets home and does not mention being happy to see me, wants me to go straight from nursery school in the morning to kindergarten in the afternoon to give her time to herself and then go to bed early so she can have time with my brothers.
Mum was an only child and after her father's death, she was her mother's whole life. Little wonder that in her rare visits, DiggyDee spent her whole time protecting my mother from my interruptions, telling me Mommy was doing "important things." I'd stand in the doorway watching her wistfully; I only got her attention if I was bleeding. No wonder I did not feel my grandmother was my ally. To her, just like to everyone else in my life, I was pretty much just a nuisance.
From one year of Mum's letters "home":
"J's nursery school will go until June 11th or so--thank goodness--and this year J is delighted to find she will be old enough for day camp--three mornings a week. That will help." (May 19)
"Jessica will be in day camp three mornings a week, so that will give me a bit of a rest and some free time for myself while (husband) and the boys are gone." (May 27)
"The only problem that stands in the way [of a family vacation] is Jessica. She is too young to fit in on such a long trip." (June 13) I was five and the trip would last six weeks. Wasn't I too young to be left that long?
While on the six-week vacation, which they worked out very nicely for me by letting one of my friends and her whole family house-sit, even buying a gym set for us girls before they left, she wrote arranging for Brother #1 to come visit the grandmothers so she could help Brother #2 with projects when they came home: "(It) would also lessen the strain after we get home, for Jessica will undoubtedly make many demands upon me to make up for the long separation. . ." (July 21)
". . . [H]ow hectic it has been getting things back into running order, reassuring Jessica that we are truly here and will stay, etc." (August 10)
"Jessica is back in nursery school, but the five-year olds don't stay for lunch, so she gets out at 1:30. In order to get a couple of free hours to get my breath, I have been letting her go down to the public kindergarten in the afternoons. . . [B]y getting her to bed soon after supper I have more time for the boys in the evening." (Sept. 13)
"The patch of peace and quiet that I was expecting when (husband) and (oldest brother) left did not materialize. Half an hour after they left. . . I was reading Jessica a story. . ." [I am grateful that that!] "She kept scratching at herself and when I looked at her closely, she was peppered with spots. . . [It] is only German measles and not a bad case at that. . . but my little holiday has had to be readjusted. Instead of having my mornings free I have been racking my brains to entertain. . ." (Feb. 9)
(Husband) is going to N.Y. and Boston the end of this month. . . Jessica would never forgive us if we all went off again and left her--and if we took her, I'd get nothing at all done in N.Y. as far as seeing about placing the children's books. . . There's nothing I'd like better than to hole up in a . . . study for a week--just to sleep and write! Surely, this summer, I'll be able to arrange to have just a week or ten days of the kind of vacation I long for--one where I'm completely free of children of all ages and sizes. . . [Jessica] comes home at 11:30 which makes the morning too short to accomplish much of anything. Also, in the afternoons, her friends usually come here and if she is invited anywhere it is not until after three. . . When spring and good weather come to stay, the problem will ease for then they'll be outdoors most of the time. . ." (Mar. 9)
A revealing comment about Ted (more revealing about my mother as a mother than about my brother): "Ted and J. are on vacation this week and poor Ted is bored to death. He doesn't go out and hunt up friends but keeps wanting me to 'do something with him' until I'm desperate. When I suggest some easy job he could do to help he does it half-heartedly and then retires back to his reading. . ."
Then, "Friday we did take the day off--borrowed (a friend's) car and left J. with her for the afternoon and the night. . ." (April 2)
To her credit, my mother knocked herself out for my 6th birthday party--made cheese, peanut butter, and egg salad sandwiches, potato salad, carrot and celery strips and two birthday cakes for my entire nursery school class of 16 kids for a three-car caravan to the Columbus Zoo, 30 miles away. Two days later she wrote the grandmothers all about it, adding with surprise, "Jessica was perfectly incredible. Even with being up so early and all the excitement of the day she didn't go to pieces once. . . and went up to bed like a lamb. . ." (April 14)
I don't remember a single thing about the magnificent picnic and party at the zoo which Mum went to so much trouble to organize for me--but I do remember the incident I have already shared about catching my ankle in the spokes of Peter's bike.
The same day Mum and I both wrote to the grandmothers mentioning my healing ankle, she wrote about plans to bring me to stay with them for awhile: "I'm afraid you'll find her a handful all by herself, for she is at a very aggressive and wilful stage and I find my patience taxed every hour of the day. How I long for my vacation to start. . ." (May 1)
This is not describing the eager-to-please clown Pucky. I wonder if this was after Mum may have caught Dad molesting me, confronted him about it, been reassured nothing was going on ("You have a dirty mind! Don't you trust me?") and "gone back downstairs, taking hope with her and leaving me in a dungeon," as I posted recently. Is this when I felt betrayed by her, began to "distrust turquoise" (her favorite color) and all women, not letting her into my life?
I did go spend a week with my widowed grandmother and great-grandmother. During that week, Nana died. I remember running out of the house so I wouldn't be in the way.
Mum was an only child and after her father's death, she was her mother's whole life. Little wonder that in her rare visits, DiggyDee spent her whole time protecting my mother from my interruptions, telling me Mommy was doing "important things." I'd stand in the doorway watching her wistfully; I only got her attention if I was bleeding. No wonder I did not feel my grandmother was my ally. To her, just like to everyone else in my life, I was pretty much just a nuisance.
From one year of Mum's letters "home":
"J's nursery school will go until June 11th or so--thank goodness--and this year J is delighted to find she will be old enough for day camp--three mornings a week. That will help." (May 19)
"Jessica will be in day camp three mornings a week, so that will give me a bit of a rest and some free time for myself while (husband) and the boys are gone." (May 27)
"The only problem that stands in the way [of a family vacation] is Jessica. She is too young to fit in on such a long trip." (June 13) I was five and the trip would last six weeks. Wasn't I too young to be left that long?
While on the six-week vacation, which they worked out very nicely for me by letting one of my friends and her whole family house-sit, even buying a gym set for us girls before they left, she wrote arranging for Brother #1 to come visit the grandmothers so she could help Brother #2 with projects when they came home: "(It) would also lessen the strain after we get home, for Jessica will undoubtedly make many demands upon me to make up for the long separation. . ." (July 21)
". . . [H]ow hectic it has been getting things back into running order, reassuring Jessica that we are truly here and will stay, etc." (August 10)
"Jessica is back in nursery school, but the five-year olds don't stay for lunch, so she gets out at 1:30. In order to get a couple of free hours to get my breath, I have been letting her go down to the public kindergarten in the afternoons. . . [B]y getting her to bed soon after supper I have more time for the boys in the evening." (Sept. 13)
"The patch of peace and quiet that I was expecting when (husband) and (oldest brother) left did not materialize. Half an hour after they left. . . I was reading Jessica a story. . ." [I am grateful that that!] "She kept scratching at herself and when I looked at her closely, she was peppered with spots. . . [It] is only German measles and not a bad case at that. . . but my little holiday has had to be readjusted. Instead of having my mornings free I have been racking my brains to entertain. . ." (Feb. 9)
(Husband) is going to N.Y. and Boston the end of this month. . . Jessica would never forgive us if we all went off again and left her--and if we took her, I'd get nothing at all done in N.Y. as far as seeing about placing the children's books. . . There's nothing I'd like better than to hole up in a . . . study for a week--just to sleep and write! Surely, this summer, I'll be able to arrange to have just a week or ten days of the kind of vacation I long for--one where I'm completely free of children of all ages and sizes. . . [Jessica] comes home at 11:30 which makes the morning too short to accomplish much of anything. Also, in the afternoons, her friends usually come here and if she is invited anywhere it is not until after three. . . When spring and good weather come to stay, the problem will ease for then they'll be outdoors most of the time. . ." (Mar. 9)
A revealing comment about Ted (more revealing about my mother as a mother than about my brother): "Ted and J. are on vacation this week and poor Ted is bored to death. He doesn't go out and hunt up friends but keeps wanting me to 'do something with him' until I'm desperate. When I suggest some easy job he could do to help he does it half-heartedly and then retires back to his reading. . ."
Then, "Friday we did take the day off--borrowed (a friend's) car and left J. with her for the afternoon and the night. . ." (April 2)
To her credit, my mother knocked herself out for my 6th birthday party--made cheese, peanut butter, and egg salad sandwiches, potato salad, carrot and celery strips and two birthday cakes for my entire nursery school class of 16 kids for a three-car caravan to the Columbus Zoo, 30 miles away. Two days later she wrote the grandmothers all about it, adding with surprise, "Jessica was perfectly incredible. Even with being up so early and all the excitement of the day she didn't go to pieces once. . . and went up to bed like a lamb. . ." (April 14)
I don't remember a single thing about the magnificent picnic and party at the zoo which Mum went to so much trouble to organize for me--but I do remember the incident I have already shared about catching my ankle in the spokes of Peter's bike.
The same day Mum and I both wrote to the grandmothers mentioning my healing ankle, she wrote about plans to bring me to stay with them for awhile: "I'm afraid you'll find her a handful all by herself, for she is at a very aggressive and wilful stage and I find my patience taxed every hour of the day. How I long for my vacation to start. . ." (May 1)
This is not describing the eager-to-please clown Pucky. I wonder if this was after Mum may have caught Dad molesting me, confronted him about it, been reassured nothing was going on ("You have a dirty mind! Don't you trust me?") and "gone back downstairs, taking hope with her and leaving me in a dungeon," as I posted recently. Is this when I felt betrayed by her, began to "distrust turquoise" (her favorite color) and all women, not letting her into my life?
I did go spend a week with my widowed grandmother and great-grandmother. During that week, Nana died. I remember running out of the house so I wouldn't be in the way.
My mother the saint
Don't get me wrong. My mother became a wonderful, selfless, generous person. People thought her a saint and I, who knew her best, knew her to be one.
But I still have had to dig out from under the harm she did my self-worth in my early years by her greedy guarding of her own time at my expense. Ironically, "her time" was devoted to writing (a murder mystery and then) children's books--books in which I was always one of the characters, Becky or Margie or Emily or Joan. They were all me, all "cute, irritating, funny, and teasable." What was wrong with me that she preferred their company to mine? She lived in their world, couldn't wait to get out of ours into hers, where all three of us kids--and Dad--lived lives she managed, all with very satisfactory endings.
In addition to books, she wrote articles for magaines, each one solving some problem common to families. She told me privately years later that by the time her articles were published, the solution was no longer working in our own family.
And she wrote frequent letters to her own mother and her father's mother, who lived together in another state--and who expected a weekly missive plus prompt turnarounds to their own letters, responses written the day their letter arrived. This, from a mother of three!
But I still have had to dig out from under the harm she did my self-worth in my early years by her greedy guarding of her own time at my expense. Ironically, "her time" was devoted to writing (a murder mystery and then) children's books--books in which I was always one of the characters, Becky or Margie or Emily or Joan. They were all me, all "cute, irritating, funny, and teasable." What was wrong with me that she preferred their company to mine? She lived in their world, couldn't wait to get out of ours into hers, where all three of us kids--and Dad--lived lives she managed, all with very satisfactory endings.
In addition to books, she wrote articles for magaines, each one solving some problem common to families. She told me privately years later that by the time her articles were published, the solution was no longer working in our own family.
And she wrote frequent letters to her own mother and her father's mother, who lived together in another state--and who expected a weekly missive plus prompt turnarounds to their own letters, responses written the day their letter arrived. This, from a mother of three!
Monday, July 16, 2012
My mother's capacity for denial
I have found copies of the letters my mother wrote to her mother from the time I was four on!
Just after my sixth birthday she writes, "Poor Jessica had a little mishap Monday night while she was visiting Jemi Abbott. (Jemi's brother) Peter started to bring her home on his bike and she got her foot caught in the spokes of the wheel. They rushed her over to the clinic and phoned us and we got there almost as soon as she did. She was incredibly brave--not a whimper out of her though the skin was badly scraped over the ankle bone and the whole foot was swollen. . . They had to give her a shot of anti-tetanus. . ."
She edits out the fact they also had to chloroform me and do surgery. (I remember her describing to me later in life how the doctor had me count from ten to one and that before I was halfway through he started operating. When she expressed alarm--I was still counting--he told her it was fine, I was completely out.)
In her next letter to my grandmother three days later, she enclosed one I dictated to her: "I can walk on my foot now and I've got a new bandage. It makes me sad to look at my foot because part of my ankle's gone." Mum wrote in parentheses after this, "(Exaggeration!)"
But now, so many years later, I look at my foot and still see one ankle sheared off.
She denied how bad the accident really was--but she did say nice things about me, so I'll give her partial credit. :o)
Just after my sixth birthday she writes, "Poor Jessica had a little mishap Monday night while she was visiting Jemi Abbott. (Jemi's brother) Peter started to bring her home on his bike and she got her foot caught in the spokes of the wheel. They rushed her over to the clinic and phoned us and we got there almost as soon as she did. She was incredibly brave--not a whimper out of her though the skin was badly scraped over the ankle bone and the whole foot was swollen. . . They had to give her a shot of anti-tetanus. . ."
She edits out the fact they also had to chloroform me and do surgery. (I remember her describing to me later in life how the doctor had me count from ten to one and that before I was halfway through he started operating. When she expressed alarm--I was still counting--he told her it was fine, I was completely out.)
In her next letter to my grandmother three days later, she enclosed one I dictated to her: "I can walk on my foot now and I've got a new bandage. It makes me sad to look at my foot because part of my ankle's gone." Mum wrote in parentheses after this, "(Exaggeration!)"
But now, so many years later, I look at my foot and still see one ankle sheared off.
She denied how bad the accident really was--but she did say nice things about me, so I'll give her partial credit. :o)
Sacrificial lamb
I was the lamb sacrificed to my mother's writing career. And my children were the lambs sacrificed to mine.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Afterthought
Pucky split off, came into being, at that moment in that scene in the bedroom when all was exposed. I was a spectator to all that was said--Mommy asking the perpetrator, Did I just see you molesting our daughter? They were arguing over my head. No, of course not, Barbara. You have a dirty mind. Don't you trust me? So she was mollified.
Why didn't she ask me, the victim, Was he molesting you? Was it all right? Did you like it?
Why didn't she even look at me, the tiny child in bed with her naked father and, in spite of his smooth words recognize the power imbalance, the lamb helpless and silent in the grip of the lion? Why didn't she even acknowledge my presence? If only she had made eye contact with me and gently extended her hand--!
No wonder I came to doubt I existed!
So Pucky, the decoy, the liar, emerged to try harder to protect their guilty secret.
But this, after I left counseling yesterday, was new and it came to my mind with the conviction of truth: She wanted to believe him because she wanted to continue having him babysit me while the boys were in Sunday School, so she could have time for herself to write her books.
Why didn't she ask me, the victim, Was he molesting you? Was it all right? Did you like it?
Why didn't she even look at me, the tiny child in bed with her naked father and, in spite of his smooth words recognize the power imbalance, the lamb helpless and silent in the grip of the lion? Why didn't she even acknowledge my presence? If only she had made eye contact with me and gently extended her hand--!
No wonder I came to doubt I existed!
So Pucky, the decoy, the liar, emerged to try harder to protect their guilty secret.
But this, after I left counseling yesterday, was new and it came to my mind with the conviction of truth: She wanted to believe him because she wanted to continue having him babysit me while the boys were in Sunday School, so she could have time for herself to write her books.
Bird with the broken wing
G read me his notes from last week. A few of the things I had told him sounded brand new to me. Like, "Mommy went downstairs [after confronting Daddy] and took all hope with her. I was left in the dungeon."
As a result, I would not let anyone get close. I wouldn't confide in my mother, who wanted me to, much less my dad, who didn't care whether I did or not. In fact I grew up intensely distrusting the color turquoise and didn't understand why until I realized it was my mother's favorite color. I was an angry little girl.
But "here's the thing," as my friend L. always says. Dad had made it my job to protect her from knowing and I clearly had not done my job well enough. Because Daddy had warned me we must never let Mommy know (she was wonderful and fragile and we couldn't hurt her) and because although I hadn't told her she found out and was very narrowly prevented from believing the truth, I had to redouble my efforts to keep her off track.
Pucky was a bird pretending a wounded wing to keep the family distracted. Pucky was me, the victim, saying, "See, I'm fine. I'm fine! I'M FINE! La la la la la, no pain here. Safe, healthy, normal little girl here. Nothing amiss, nothing going on. Look at me, have you ever seen a happier little girl?"
In our only home movie, which covered Thanksgiving and Christmas when I was six and our trip out west when I was seven, I see myself as an appallingly self-important, cocky little person. Everyone else is doing normal things, chewing, passing the potatoes, chatting cheerfully with one another; looking up from their gifts to thank the giver; loading the car, standing by rivers, on mountaintops, overlooking panoramic views. By contrast I am marching back and forth in my new majorette's costume, flailing my baton. I am swaggering after my brothers, swinging my arms. I am bouncing, prancing, dancing, strutting. No other little girls are jumping around, prancing or swaggering with me; I am not a part of a playful group. Nor is anyone paying attention to me. Yet I am desperately showing off to a non-existent audience.
No, Pucky was not a bird pretending to have a broken wing. She was a bird whose wing, whose whole body, was not only really broken but utterly shattered--pretending it wasn't. The alternative would have been--what? Slumping to the ground catatonic, I presume.
Control was all-important. I'd majorly flubbed it once. Mommy had not only suspected, she had known. And it was up to me to be sure I never gave her a single minute to ever wonder about it again.
As a result, I would not let anyone get close. I wouldn't confide in my mother, who wanted me to, much less my dad, who didn't care whether I did or not. In fact I grew up intensely distrusting the color turquoise and didn't understand why until I realized it was my mother's favorite color. I was an angry little girl.
But "here's the thing," as my friend L. always says. Dad had made it my job to protect her from knowing and I clearly had not done my job well enough. Because Daddy had warned me we must never let Mommy know (she was wonderful and fragile and we couldn't hurt her) and because although I hadn't told her she found out and was very narrowly prevented from believing the truth, I had to redouble my efforts to keep her off track.
Pucky was a bird pretending a wounded wing to keep the family distracted. Pucky was me, the victim, saying, "See, I'm fine. I'm fine! I'M FINE! La la la la la, no pain here. Safe, healthy, normal little girl here. Nothing amiss, nothing going on. Look at me, have you ever seen a happier little girl?"
In our only home movie, which covered Thanksgiving and Christmas when I was six and our trip out west when I was seven, I see myself as an appallingly self-important, cocky little person. Everyone else is doing normal things, chewing, passing the potatoes, chatting cheerfully with one another; looking up from their gifts to thank the giver; loading the car, standing by rivers, on mountaintops, overlooking panoramic views. By contrast I am marching back and forth in my new majorette's costume, flailing my baton. I am swaggering after my brothers, swinging my arms. I am bouncing, prancing, dancing, strutting. No other little girls are jumping around, prancing or swaggering with me; I am not a part of a playful group. Nor is anyone paying attention to me. Yet I am desperately showing off to a non-existent audience.
No, Pucky was not a bird pretending to have a broken wing. She was a bird whose wing, whose whole body, was not only really broken but utterly shattered--pretending it wasn't. The alternative would have been--what? Slumping to the ground catatonic, I presume.
Control was all-important. I'd majorly flubbed it once. Mommy had not only suspected, she had known. And it was up to me to be sure I never gave her a single minute to ever wonder about it again.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Rear-view mirror
Years ago, when I was functioning better than I am now, I taught a class at church on crisis counseling. I remember opening with a defense of counseling in general (although I can't find it in my notes). Something like, "When you're driving, you don't stay focused on what's in the rear-view mirror. But when you need it to help you get where you want to go, you'd better use it."
Anyway, I guess I feel the need to defend my focusing so much on my past. If I could function well without having to deal with it, I would.
Anyway, I guess I feel the need to defend my focusing so much on my past. If I could function well without having to deal with it, I would.
She couldn't handle the truth
My mother couldn't deal with the truth. She had to dissociate too, compartmentalizing what she knew to be true from what she wanted to believe was true. She could not believe both at once, so she chose to believe her husband, the man on whom she was dependent financially, who joked when she had to ask
for money, "What did you do with the dollar I gave you last week?" The one with the power because he was a man (I do not say this as a feminist; I'm not) and because he could out-yell and out-lie her. She chose the man who told her, time after time, "I did not have an affair with that woman,""I did not touch that child." Or even, "I'll never do it again."
The man she--naively--loved.
As for me, I saw how threatening truth was. It threatened the trust between my parents. It threatened their marriage. And I learned how ineffective it was to deliver me. Neither Mommy nor I could stop a predator with truth. I had to add layers of new denial and put them in newly-constructed secret places. I had to view what happened that morning as a "safe, father-bonding" thing, G says.
If she had asked me, even in private, if I had had a stomach-ache, would I have said no--or, with hesitation, "Yes, I guess so."? Would I have told her the truth if it meant breaking oneness with him?
If she had talked to me directly at the time, offered her hand, and said gently, "Let's go downstairs," would I have gone? What if he had ordered me not to?
We'll never know whether she could have stopped it right there. And if she hadn't been able to, would she have turned him in? What if I had spent my childhood feeling guilty that my father was in prison because of me, instead of spending it sailing around the world with my family in a boat that same man, whom I idolized, had built? Four years living with him as a safe, fun, courageous father, bonding with my family, the best years of our lives?
How many others out there are, right now, enslaved without shackles, bonded to their abusers by a loyalty superseding truth and common sense--the Stockholm Syndrome.
Like me, they are learning the only place they can hide is in their own mind.
The man she--naively--loved.
As for me, I saw how threatening truth was. It threatened the trust between my parents. It threatened their marriage. And I learned how ineffective it was to deliver me. Neither Mommy nor I could stop a predator with truth. I had to add layers of new denial and put them in newly-constructed secret places. I had to view what happened that morning as a "safe, father-bonding" thing, G says.
If she had asked me, even in private, if I had had a stomach-ache, would I have said no--or, with hesitation, "Yes, I guess so."? Would I have told her the truth if it meant breaking oneness with him?
If she had talked to me directly at the time, offered her hand, and said gently, "Let's go downstairs," would I have gone? What if he had ordered me not to?
We'll never know whether she could have stopped it right there. And if she hadn't been able to, would she have turned him in? What if I had spent my childhood feeling guilty that my father was in prison because of me, instead of spending it sailing around the world with my family in a boat that same man, whom I idolized, had built? Four years living with him as a safe, fun, courageous father, bonding with my family, the best years of our lives?
How many others out there are, right now, enslaved without shackles, bonded to their abusers by a loyalty superseding truth and common sense--the Stockholm Syndrome.
Like me, they are learning the only place they can hide is in their own mind.
The confrontation
I want Mommy to know (so she will stop it).
Mommy mustn't know (because she's good and what we're doing is bad, because she'd be horrified and it would hurt her. I don't want to hurt or disappoint Mommy. Because Mommy is good.) That was my dilemma.
Daddy has me in bed with him. We are both naked and he is doing things to me. Suddenly Mommy is in the room, too and she is leaning over her side of the bed, shouting at Daddy. He is on the other side, raising himself to one elbow to face her, then sitting up to defend himself more effectively. I must be between them, shrinking into the bed. I am (also) watching all of us from the end of the bed.
I feel exposed, scared, guilty. Mommy wasn't supposed to know! Daddy told me that over and over and I knew it even without his telling me. Still, this is what I have been longing for--to have Mommy find out and take me away from him, make him stop. I am crucified where the two mutually exclusive needs conflict.
Now I see the two of them arguing and though I cannot hear their words, I know what they are saying.
Earle, what are you doing?
What do you mean?
You know what I mean! What are you doing to her?
What? I was just rubbing her back. She likes it.
No, you weren't! That's not what I saw! She was lying on her back. You were touching her!
Barbara, you have a dirty mind! She had a stomach ache. I was rubbing her stomach.
Listening, I knew that what Mommy had caught us doing was wrong. Because Daddy was lying about it--I hadn't had a stomach ache--I thought it must have been my fault and he was protecting me. He was protecting me from her knowing and protecting her from being hurt.
She lashed out one last time: I can't leave you alone with her anymore!
First, he had pretended innocence, casting doubt on the evidence of her own senses: What do you mean? (There's nothing's wrong.) Then he contradicted the evidence of her senses: I was just rubbing her back. She likes it. (I wasn't hurting her. It was mutual.) Then he re-interpreted what her senses told her: She had a stomach ache. I was rubbing her stomach. (Not only wasn't I doing anything bad, I was doing something good. I was making her feel better.) And turned the attack on her: You have a dirty mind!
Now deliberately, icily, he demanded, "DON'T YOU TRUST ME?"
The question hangs in the air unanswered to this day, though both of them are long gone. It was the fatal, winning thrust. She pursed her lips to keep back the angry retort. Then her shoulders slumped and she shut down, smouldering inside, as she did whenever her attempts to reason with his bullying just made it worse. She recognized her defeat. She couldn't say she didn't trust him, although she didn't trust him. She could not pick me up and take me out of the room with her. That would imply she didn't trust him. He had just--masterfully--guaranteed that he would have continued access to me into the indefinite future.
He was so cunning. Just as cunning as he was with Eve in the garden at the dawn of time.
I'll bet they knew
My brother's instant, furious response to my account of being molested by Daddy as a toddler took me aback: Why
did you send this out? What possible good can it do for us? I'm
angry, not at [Dad], I dealt with that long ago, but with you. Are you
punishing us because you can't reach him? Skimming it made me sick, I
couldn't read it. Sorry, but this is my first reaction. I love you, but really . . .
This was the first time I knew my brother had ever been mad at Dad for molesting me. (I had told him about the time it happened when I was 13. For most of my life that was the only time I remembered it happening. It was the time I based my book New Every Morning on.) Knowing that my brother had been angry at Dad on my behalf was briefly comforting before I realized he was now angry at me.
I was stunned. I thought, He's a father of a just-past 13-year old daughter himself! Would this be his reaction if she e-mailed him that she had been raped as a tiny, defenseless child? I'm angry with you. . . Are you punishing us?. . . made me sick. . . couldn't read it. . . I love you, but. . . "
Where had all that rage come from? I wondered. He almost sounds as if I am accusing him of something. Complicity maybe. His response sounded guilty, couched as it was in such violent denial. It almost sounds as if he knew it happened.
The more I thought about it, the more it confirmed something deep inside me. He knew. Mum sent him upstairs to tell us breakfast was ready and he saw or heard something. The bedroom door was open and Daddy had me in bed with him and was doing something to me. I'll bet Ted knew.
And he wasn't the only one. My mother knew, too.
This was the first time I knew my brother had ever been mad at Dad for molesting me. (I had told him about the time it happened when I was 13. For most of my life that was the only time I remembered it happening. It was the time I based my book New Every Morning on.) Knowing that my brother had been angry at Dad on my behalf was briefly comforting before I realized he was now angry at me.
I was stunned. I thought, He's a father of a just-past 13-year old daughter himself! Would this be his reaction if she e-mailed him that she had been raped as a tiny, defenseless child? I'm angry with you. . . Are you punishing us?. . . made me sick. . . couldn't read it. . . I love you, but. . . "
Where had all that rage come from? I wondered. He almost sounds as if I am accusing him of something. Complicity maybe. His response sounded guilty, couched as it was in such violent denial. It almost sounds as if he knew it happened.
The more I thought about it, the more it confirmed something deep inside me. He knew. Mum sent him upstairs to tell us breakfast was ready and he saw or heard something. The bedroom door was open and Daddy had me in bed with him and was doing something to me. I'll bet Ted knew.
And he wasn't the only one. My mother knew, too.
Sarah Bernhardt
That's not the only inner actress, apparently. I outgrew Pucky and wanted to be called by my real name, which I could only pronounce "Dedika." As I entered the tears and torment of puberty, my mother gently ridiculed my weepiness and depression, calling me Sarah Bernhardt.
Pucky
From the time I was three, they called me Pucky. My brothers acted in plays, some of which Dad wrote, at the local playhouse. I got in on the last one or two, as one of the fairies in A Midsummer Night's Dream--all I remember is the thrill, to applause, of multiple group curtain calls--and maybe it was because of Puck's puckish personality. Or maybe it was because whenever Tim was leaning over my crib and I started to cry, he'd call out in panic, "Mommy, come get her. She's puckering!"
Anyway, it was Pucky my brothers remember during those years, when they remember me at all. Pucky was the one Ted describes in "Am I missing? (June 10) as "cute and irritating and funny and teasable."
G asked me about Pucky when we met on June 28. I dismissed her immediately as having nothing to do with my trauma. "Pucky was fine. Pucky was--what did Ted say?--'cute and irritating and funny and--' something else. It was when Pucky tried to be cute and funny and this time they were irritated and annoyed that someone else came out and ran into the shoe closet and hid.
"I wasn't good enough. I was bland. I had no personality, I was nothing. It was not enough to be. I had to perform, entertain, be on stage. I was quiet and withdrawn. Nobody wanted me. So Pucky came out. They turned me on and off like a light switch.
"Pucky was my on-stage self. Pucky was desperate for acceptance, 'programmed to please.' She tried hard, so hard! Like Dick Van Dyke, sometimes she overdid it, and was irritating. She couldn't understand why her timing was always off."
"I'm angry at Pucky--but she did the best she could. I feel sorry for her. I feel angry that's what it took.
G: "Jealous because she got the attention?"
I ignored him, wondering instead, "Is Pucky real or just a facade?" Then, "It's just her stage name. I created a stage presence. I created Pucky so I would really exist. At times she would be funny and cute and they'd laugh and affirm her so I'd try to build on that. She'd do it again and it would bore them. They named her Pucky. She was an extension of me, a face I held out for them to interact with. A mask."
G: "We're created for unconditional love, for whole squiggle--" (I'm just copying from my cold, very incomplete notes. It looks like it says "for whol[e] an" Or "am." Or "arm." But none of those can be right.) "When we're only accepted for a false self we know it's not authentic."
"And they wouldn't let me be smart. I was the kid, the little sister, a girl. I learned to throw any game I played with a male. When I grew up and tried to be part of intellectual discussions, they'd wave my ideas aside as irrevelant interruptions. And these were 'modern, liberated' liberals, proud of their tolerance and freedom from prejudice. No, I had to be cute, the comic relief, the clown. Years later I sent one brother an essay I wrote for my Master's degree and he wrote back, 'You really do have a brain!' Ouch!"
I sighed, bitter. "I guess I, the one telling you this, am the Original Self," I said. Then, "I'm NOT boring!"
G: "You can be giddy and fun or thoughtful and reflective."
"Is Pucky shallow?"
G: "She can be wisdom-finding and embracing. . . Brooding doesn't win acceptance. . . The culture of acceptance in this family was difficult." That's the understatement of my life!
"Pucky was me trying to be loved, accepted--and noticed!" I said. "Pucky was me acting."
Maybe Pucky was a good name for the who played a part, albeit pathetically.
Anyway, it was Pucky my brothers remember during those years, when they remember me at all. Pucky was the one Ted describes in "Am I missing? (June 10) as "cute and irritating and funny and teasable."
G asked me about Pucky when we met on June 28. I dismissed her immediately as having nothing to do with my trauma. "Pucky was fine. Pucky was--what did Ted say?--'cute and irritating and funny and--' something else. It was when Pucky tried to be cute and funny and this time they were irritated and annoyed that someone else came out and ran into the shoe closet and hid.
"I wasn't good enough. I was bland. I had no personality, I was nothing. It was not enough to be. I had to perform, entertain, be on stage. I was quiet and withdrawn. Nobody wanted me. So Pucky came out. They turned me on and off like a light switch.
"Pucky was my on-stage self. Pucky was desperate for acceptance, 'programmed to please.' She tried hard, so hard! Like Dick Van Dyke, sometimes she overdid it, and was irritating. She couldn't understand why her timing was always off."
"I'm angry at Pucky--but she did the best she could. I feel sorry for her. I feel angry that's what it took.
G: "Jealous because she got the attention?"
I ignored him, wondering instead, "Is Pucky real or just a facade?" Then, "It's just her stage name. I created a stage presence. I created Pucky so I would really exist. At times she would be funny and cute and they'd laugh and affirm her so I'd try to build on that. She'd do it again and it would bore them. They named her Pucky. She was an extension of me, a face I held out for them to interact with. A mask."
G: "We're created for unconditional love, for whole squiggle--" (I'm just copying from my cold, very incomplete notes. It looks like it says "for whol[e] an" Or "am." Or "arm." But none of those can be right.) "When we're only accepted for a false self we know it's not authentic."
"And they wouldn't let me be smart. I was the kid, the little sister, a girl. I learned to throw any game I played with a male. When I grew up and tried to be part of intellectual discussions, they'd wave my ideas aside as irrevelant interruptions. And these were 'modern, liberated' liberals, proud of their tolerance and freedom from prejudice. No, I had to be cute, the comic relief, the clown. Years later I sent one brother an essay I wrote for my Master's degree and he wrote back, 'You really do have a brain!' Ouch!"
I sighed, bitter. "I guess I, the one telling you this, am the Original Self," I said. Then, "I'm NOT boring!"
G: "You can be giddy and fun or thoughtful and reflective."
"Is Pucky shallow?"
G: "She can be wisdom-finding and embracing. . . Brooding doesn't win acceptance. . . The culture of acceptance in this family was difficult." That's the understatement of my life!
"Pucky was me trying to be loved, accepted--and noticed!" I said. "Pucky was me acting."
Maybe Pucky was a good name for the who played a part, albeit pathetically.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
A beautiful thing happened. That which threatened the reality of my memories of incest in early childhood turned into the greatest proof so far that my memories are real.
So I did not make that up. I am not crazy!
And I do exist. :o)
The day I posted, "Am I missing?" Ted wrote me, "I think it went something like this. When you were born, Tim and I had already been sleeping in the upstairs room for several years. We continued sleeping there for more years, while you were in a crib, then a cot, with Mum or Mum&Dad, in the Davis [Street]-side room. [Then] you and Mum and/or Dad moved to the middle room. . .
So Tim and I have a solid feel for it being our room till I was 9/10 and he was 11/12; you have a solid feel for it beng your room. . . from the age of three or four on [till we moved to Japan]."
Yes! I shared that room with my parents from the age of 3 until we left that house!
So I did not make that up. I am not crazy!
And I do exist. :o)
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Am I missing?
My brother Tim shared with Jerry and me a (true) anecdote his rabbi told him: Paul Newman was visiting one of the Jewish summer camps for children he had funded with the profits from his food products. He and the kids were having lunch together, with jars of his signature spaghetti sauce and salad dressings on the table. One little girl kept looking from the pictures of Paul Newman on the jars to the real Paul Newman and back again. Puzzled, she finally asked him, "Are you missing?"
I think I am missing. I have memories of being molested by my father in my childhood home in Yellow Springs, Ohio. I remember having a twin bed against the wall in their room, the large middle room upstairs, and the incest--more than once--took place in my parents' big bed.
But I just double-checked with my brothers, one eight years older than I am and one six years older. Both of them said (independently) that they slept in the middle room the whole time we lived in that house. They had bunk beds in there. They said Mom and Dad slept in the room on the other side of the stairs. That shook me up. If I'd remembered the venue wrong, had my memories of incest being wrong, too?
On top of that, neither of them have any memories of where I did sleep. We lived in that house together for seven years. Yet Tim can't place what bedroom I slept in. And Ted says, "You were very much around, Jessica. You were cute and irritating and funny and teasable. But all my memories are of you outside the house . . . swinging on the swing or trashing the flowers or heading off to Joan's house or riding a tricycle . . . and I remember you driving with us places in the car . . . but I just can't place you inside that house, except when it's a photograph that I'm remembering.
"I haven't the slightest idea where you slept at any time; are you sure you ever actually lived in our house, not at Joanie Clark's?"
This morning I lay awake mentally reviewing every room in the house, including all four bedrooms. I remember each of them but I can't remember where I slept, if I didn't sleep in the middle room with Mommy and Daddy.
If I wasn't there, do I exist?
I think I am missing. I have memories of being molested by my father in my childhood home in Yellow Springs, Ohio. I remember having a twin bed against the wall in their room, the large middle room upstairs, and the incest--more than once--took place in my parents' big bed.
But I just double-checked with my brothers, one eight years older than I am and one six years older. Both of them said (independently) that they slept in the middle room the whole time we lived in that house. They had bunk beds in there. They said Mom and Dad slept in the room on the other side of the stairs. That shook me up. If I'd remembered the venue wrong, had my memories of incest being wrong, too?
On top of that, neither of them have any memories of where I did sleep. We lived in that house together for seven years. Yet Tim can't place what bedroom I slept in. And Ted says, "You were very much around, Jessica. You were cute and irritating and funny and teasable. But all my memories are of you outside the house . . . swinging on the swing or trashing the flowers or heading off to Joan's house or riding a tricycle . . . and I remember you driving with us places in the car . . . but I just can't place you inside that house, except when it's a photograph that I'm remembering.
"I haven't the slightest idea where you slept at any time; are you sure you ever actually lived in our house, not at Joanie Clark's?"
This morning I lay awake mentally reviewing every room in the house, including all four bedrooms. I remember each of them but I can't remember where I slept, if I didn't sleep in the middle room with Mommy and Daddy.
If I wasn't there, do I exist?
Friday, June 8, 2012
Progress report
I'm going on my tenth month of counseling with G. A lot has happened which I haven't written up yet--details concerning getting in touch with the three primary identities, Pain, Denial and Confusion, whom we renamed Jessica, Warrior, and Shalom.
Yesterday G asked how I felt I was doing, how communication was going with the primaries and with my inner children.
I said, "I don't even know if I still have any inner kids."
Then I looked at my lap. "And yet here I am, holding a Teddy bear I brought with me."
Then I looked at my lap. "And yet here I am, holding a Teddy bear I brought with me."
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
My brother's second response--6 minutes later
Jessica,
Sorry for my immediate reaction. It probably hurt you as much as your letter hurt me. I should have waited before screaming back. . .
Love. . .,
ted.
Sorry for my immediate reaction. It probably hurt you as much as your letter hurt me. I should have waited before screaming back. . .
Love. . .,
ted.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Response from one brother
Why
did you send this out? What possible good can it do for us? I'm
angry, not at [Dad], I dealt with that long ago, but with you. Are you
punishing us because you can't reach him? Skimming it made me sick, I
couldn't read it.
Sorry, but this is my first reaction.
I love you, but really . . .
Sorry, but this is my first reaction.
I love you, but really . . .
Letter to my brothers
I thought there was just the once, when I was 13. Now I realize there was a pattern throughout my earliest childhood. How very post post-traumatic stress can be!
At his suggestion, Mommy would drag herself out of bed and trudge downstairs to make breakfast and, on Sundays, take you boys to church. "I'll take care of J," he would assure her.
Upstairs, alone with him, I would snuggle into his warmth. He would curl his naked body around me and I felt safe and loved for a few minutes. I would let myself drift back to sleep, trying to ignore the growing hardness pressing against me. Soon he would stir and start to feel for me and begin the massage. He would find hidden places where, as he promised, he could make me feel good.
Then he would make me turn over and instead of pleasure I would feel fear welling up, and confusion. "It's okay," he said. "It's okay." I believed him. I had to believe him. He was my Daddy. But it didn't feel okay. I felt rubbed raw. He wanted my legs apart; involuntarily, nervously, I would snap them together. "You like this!" he would say gently, soothingly. "Say you like it. Say 'More! More! Do it to me!'" I would repeat all the words, the crude words, mechanically. I would hold it the way he said to and rub it like he told me to, on and on and on 'til my hand ached--but my thoughts flew out of that place, fluttering frantically to and fro. Was that bacon I smelled? Was Mommy making pancakes? Couldn't I please go now, go down and be safe with the others? I thought I heard their muffled voices, happy. Couldn't I go now? A robin sang outside and in relief my mind burst through the window and locked on birdsong. There was space around the music. In that big emptiness I was not pinned down. I was free, no matter what was happening to my body.
In bed, Daddy's arms and legs held me down. I tried to blank out what he was doing, what I was feeling and hearing. "Mommy can't do this like you can," he was whispering in my right ear. "You do it better. But don't tell her. It would make her feel bad. This is just between us, you and me. This is our special time." And when I stiffened and reared and twisted, he urged me on: "Yes, yes!" But my trained response was becoming panic. Not groans of pleasures but cries of pain: "No, no!" Something hard was filling my mouth, choking me. I couldn't breathe. I tried to pull away, fighting for my life, jerking my head first one way, then the other. He grabbed it between both hands and the whispering in my ear became an urgent hiss, "Stop it! STOP IT!" And then--did he say it aloud or did I just know?--"She can't hear you." Mommy was in church--with Jesus. Neither one of them could hear me. There was no one to rescue me. The birds? Where were the birds? There! Lock on! I must hang onto their joy because I am dying! Something thick and sticky is gagging me.
Another morning. Oh no, she's leaving us again. Mommy, don't go! Don't leave me alone with him! Take me with you. But of course she can't hear me because I am not speaking. She doesn't know. She must know! I have to stay. Besides, he says it's okay. My feelings must be wrong. I won't move. I won't move at all. I'll be asleep and he'll go back to sleep, too. No, no, please don't. Please not again. It is starting to feel good. My body is relaxing--but my mind won't relax. He says this is good too but this--OW! Don't, Daddy, don't! Please stop! He must be right. Daddies know best. Daddies don't lie. It must be me that is bad. I have to let him do this. He told me to. I have to. Mommy can't or won't do this for him. She doesn't like it, he says. He says I like it. But it's piercing me, breaking me.
THE BIRDS! Where are the birds? I will listen to the birds. I will only remember the trilling, the warbling, I will hang onto their joy. The torture, the terror, are going somewhere else. He said I liked it. He said I made him feel good, too. He showed me what to do. He praised me for doing it well.
It has taken me sixty years to sort out the lies. I am no longer helpless. I have a voice now. I can admit the truth: I hated it! Well, some of it. I did enjoy some of it--and I was ashamed of enjoying it. I felt guilty and dirty and bad. But it wasn't my fault! He hurt me. He betrayed me. He used me. I feared him--and my fear was justified.
It was his job to protect me from men like him. It was not my job to make him "feel good." It was not my job to make up for any failure on my mother's part to please him sexually. It was not my job to be his pseudo-wife. It was not my job to keep his secrets. It was not my job to protect my mother's feelings. It was not my job to save their marriage. It was not my job to be the living sacrifice.
It was not my fault. I am not bad. I do not deserve to be punished. I do not have to punish myself, cut my arms, deny myself sexual pleasure. He had no right to do that to me. What he did was wrong. It was immoral. It was illegal. He was a child molester. It was rape. He raped me. He raped his own daughter. He deserved prison. He deserved death. He deserved hell. He. was. evil. And one final truth.
I loved him.
At his suggestion, Mommy would drag herself out of bed and trudge downstairs to make breakfast and, on Sundays, take you boys to church. "I'll take care of J," he would assure her.
Upstairs, alone with him, I would snuggle into his warmth. He would curl his naked body around me and I felt safe and loved for a few minutes. I would let myself drift back to sleep, trying to ignore the growing hardness pressing against me. Soon he would stir and start to feel for me and begin the massage. He would find hidden places where, as he promised, he could make me feel good.
Then he would make me turn over and instead of pleasure I would feel fear welling up, and confusion. "It's okay," he said. "It's okay." I believed him. I had to believe him. He was my Daddy. But it didn't feel okay. I felt rubbed raw. He wanted my legs apart; involuntarily, nervously, I would snap them together. "You like this!" he would say gently, soothingly. "Say you like it. Say 'More! More! Do it to me!'" I would repeat all the words, the crude words, mechanically. I would hold it the way he said to and rub it like he told me to, on and on and on 'til my hand ached--but my thoughts flew out of that place, fluttering frantically to and fro. Was that bacon I smelled? Was Mommy making pancakes? Couldn't I please go now, go down and be safe with the others? I thought I heard their muffled voices, happy. Couldn't I go now? A robin sang outside and in relief my mind burst through the window and locked on birdsong. There was space around the music. In that big emptiness I was not pinned down. I was free, no matter what was happening to my body.
In bed, Daddy's arms and legs held me down. I tried to blank out what he was doing, what I was feeling and hearing. "Mommy can't do this like you can," he was whispering in my right ear. "You do it better. But don't tell her. It would make her feel bad. This is just between us, you and me. This is our special time." And when I stiffened and reared and twisted, he urged me on: "Yes, yes!" But my trained response was becoming panic. Not groans of pleasures but cries of pain: "No, no!" Something hard was filling my mouth, choking me. I couldn't breathe. I tried to pull away, fighting for my life, jerking my head first one way, then the other. He grabbed it between both hands and the whispering in my ear became an urgent hiss, "Stop it! STOP IT!" And then--did he say it aloud or did I just know?--"She can't hear you." Mommy was in church--with Jesus. Neither one of them could hear me. There was no one to rescue me. The birds? Where were the birds? There! Lock on! I must hang onto their joy because I am dying! Something thick and sticky is gagging me.
Another morning. Oh no, she's leaving us again. Mommy, don't go! Don't leave me alone with him! Take me with you. But of course she can't hear me because I am not speaking. She doesn't know. She must know! I have to stay. Besides, he says it's okay. My feelings must be wrong. I won't move. I won't move at all. I'll be asleep and he'll go back to sleep, too. No, no, please don't. Please not again. It is starting to feel good. My body is relaxing--but my mind won't relax. He says this is good too but this--OW! Don't, Daddy, don't! Please stop! He must be right. Daddies know best. Daddies don't lie. It must be me that is bad. I have to let him do this. He told me to. I have to. Mommy can't or won't do this for him. She doesn't like it, he says. He says I like it. But it's piercing me, breaking me.
THE BIRDS! Where are the birds? I will listen to the birds. I will only remember the trilling, the warbling, I will hang onto their joy. The torture, the terror, are going somewhere else. He said I liked it. He said I made him feel good, too. He showed me what to do. He praised me for doing it well.
It has taken me sixty years to sort out the lies. I am no longer helpless. I have a voice now. I can admit the truth: I hated it! Well, some of it. I did enjoy some of it--and I was ashamed of enjoying it. I felt guilty and dirty and bad. But it wasn't my fault! He hurt me. He betrayed me. He used me. I feared him--and my fear was justified.
It was his job to protect me from men like him. It was not my job to make him "feel good." It was not my job to make up for any failure on my mother's part to please him sexually. It was not my job to be his pseudo-wife. It was not my job to keep his secrets. It was not my job to protect my mother's feelings. It was not my job to save their marriage. It was not my job to be the living sacrifice.
It was not my fault. I am not bad. I do not deserve to be punished. I do not have to punish myself, cut my arms, deny myself sexual pleasure. He had no right to do that to me. What he did was wrong. It was immoral. It was illegal. He was a child molester. It was rape. He raped me. He raped his own daughter. He deserved prison. He deserved death. He deserved hell. He. was. evil. And one final truth.
I loved him.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
January 26, 2012
"It's so important to deny Daddy is bad and what he did was bad," G said. "Denial is very strong there.
"There is a dynamic conflict present that may have some validity: "Sexual arousal is pleasurable--I don't want it to be pleasurable. I don't want to like it." I like it--I must not like it. There is no resolution to that conflict but to split. Part of the self retained some aspect of purity. Other parts felt dirty and shamed.
"What is God's truth? In real time, Daddy molested others. You weren't the only one. That truth makes it hard to keep denial in place. The little girl needed to process this: I have a safe, loving daddy, I'm a special, beloved daughter--it's hard for her to accept the fact that he's a scoundrel."
"Scoundrel. Yes, he was a scoundrel. That's the word! But if I believe that, I have to give up what he told me about who I am, my identity. When we were in bed, I was special. I pleased him. When we were downstairs in the living room with the rest of the family he often made it clear by frowns, gestures and grunts I didn't please him. If I give up the good identity I am left with being in the way, annoying, a nuisance, an irritation."
"You had his exclusive attention in private but he dismissed you as an annoying interruption in public. He commmunicated to you, I want to be with you. We have a special relationship. We pleasure each other. No one else can please me like you can--whether he believed it or did it deliberately to deceive you."
"He was an anthropologist who studied human behavior. He was in a position to deliberately manipulate a person to achieve a desired result."
"We don't want her to lose her significance as a beloved daughter."
"I shouldn't exist. That's got to be a pretty basic conflict. I need to stop existing and it's too late. I was able to make myself invisible. I'd sneak back upstairs and hide in the closet among the shoes. They'd let me go. They didn't even notice I'd left. They wouldn't seek me. No one would come say, 'We missed you. Are you all right?'"
As I spoke, I saw the same little girl coming down the runway, all grown up. She was still wearing a white dress. This one had a train. She was crowned with roses. With the vision came a knowing: You are still a princess, still loved, whether your father tells you so or not. You are special anyway.
If I understand my notes correctly, the older self beckoned the younger shy self down to join her (as a separate self, I was watching this) and when she did, the older one took her hand. (The thumb of her other hand was in her mouth.)
Then Jesus was there and he was giving the little girl a Teddy bear. He was telling her (I could not hear Him but I knew), "Keep this forever to show I'm a good Daddy." She took her thumb out of her mouth to take the bear. "I'm a Giver, not a taker," He was saying. "I have no expectations." He kept on talking to her and then she talked to Him. I couldn't hear them.
Jesus picked her up. She smiled and snuggled into his shoulder--and as she did, another self burst out, agitated: "Don't trust Him! Don't trust Him!"
The little girl, blissful, paid no attention. Jesus was inviting her to integrate--with her other selves? With Himself?
The new self was distraught. "Don't do it! It's not safe! He's not safe!" And then, "Don't leave me! If you integrate, Jesus will take over my job protecting you--and I don't trust Him!"
The little girl had a protector. That was news to me. Even bigger news: the protector didn't feel safe!
I watched Jesus with the protector, taking her fear away. The protector watched the little one go right into harm's way--into bed with the perpetrator! The little one wasn't scared. She felt fine. She felt pleasure. The protector knew the situation was bad and harmful, a furnace, a lion's den. But the little girl didn't know, didn't have to know it was dangerous!
That was how Jesus had protected her. That's how she was able to come out unscathed.
The protector threw herself on Jesus in relief. He will protect us if it happens again. We're in a scary place NOW--with our church--and He won't let us be hurt. The situation may be fearful but we do not need to be afraid. He was making a distinction. Though we go through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil, because You are with us.
G was telling me, "Let's thank the protector for a noble and difficult job." But I was the protector and I was realizing Jesus and I, both of us, had something in common, had the same goal.
He had been protecting both of the selves--little girl unafraid-though-in-harm's-way-self and self afraid for her and desperate to save her.
Because of Jesus, the little one did not process fear. Part of us (me?) held fear away from her, felt it for her. Jesus protected all of us by allowing dissociation. It--dissociation--was the protective system He provided to keep us sane, to keep us whole.
January 26, 2012 (Part 2)
"There is a dynamic conflict present that may have some validity: "Sexual arousal is pleasurable--I don't want it to be pleasurable. I don't want to like it." I like it--I must not like it. There is no resolution to that conflict but to split. Part of the self retained some aspect of purity. Other parts felt dirty and shamed.
"What is God's truth? In real time, Daddy molested others. You weren't the only one. That truth makes it hard to keep denial in place. The little girl needed to process this: I have a safe, loving daddy, I'm a special, beloved daughter--it's hard for her to accept the fact that he's a scoundrel."
"Scoundrel. Yes, he was a scoundrel. That's the word! But if I believe that, I have to give up what he told me about who I am, my identity. When we were in bed, I was special. I pleased him. When we were downstairs in the living room with the rest of the family he often made it clear by frowns, gestures and grunts I didn't please him. If I give up the good identity I am left with being in the way, annoying, a nuisance, an irritation."
"You had his exclusive attention in private but he dismissed you as an annoying interruption in public. He commmunicated to you, I want to be with you. We have a special relationship. We pleasure each other. No one else can please me like you can--whether he believed it or did it deliberately to deceive you."
"He was an anthropologist who studied human behavior. He was in a position to deliberately manipulate a person to achieve a desired result."
"We don't want her to lose her significance as a beloved daughter."
"I shouldn't exist. That's got to be a pretty basic conflict. I need to stop existing and it's too late. I was able to make myself invisible. I'd sneak back upstairs and hide in the closet among the shoes. They'd let me go. They didn't even notice I'd left. They wouldn't seek me. No one would come say, 'We missed you. Are you all right?'"
As I spoke, I saw the same little girl coming down the runway, all grown up. She was still wearing a white dress. This one had a train. She was crowned with roses. With the vision came a knowing: You are still a princess, still loved, whether your father tells you so or not. You are special anyway.
If I understand my notes correctly, the older self beckoned the younger shy self down to join her (as a separate self, I was watching this) and when she did, the older one took her hand. (The thumb of her other hand was in her mouth.)
Then Jesus was there and he was giving the little girl a Teddy bear. He was telling her (I could not hear Him but I knew), "Keep this forever to show I'm a good Daddy." She took her thumb out of her mouth to take the bear. "I'm a Giver, not a taker," He was saying. "I have no expectations." He kept on talking to her and then she talked to Him. I couldn't hear them.
Jesus picked her up. She smiled and snuggled into his shoulder--and as she did, another self burst out, agitated: "Don't trust Him! Don't trust Him!"
The little girl, blissful, paid no attention. Jesus was inviting her to integrate--with her other selves? With Himself?
The new self was distraught. "Don't do it! It's not safe! He's not safe!" And then, "Don't leave me! If you integrate, Jesus will take over my job protecting you--and I don't trust Him!"
The little girl had a protector. That was news to me. Even bigger news: the protector didn't feel safe!
I watched Jesus with the protector, taking her fear away. The protector watched the little one go right into harm's way--into bed with the perpetrator! The little one wasn't scared. She felt fine. She felt pleasure. The protector knew the situation was bad and harmful, a furnace, a lion's den. But the little girl didn't know, didn't have to know it was dangerous!
That was how Jesus had protected her. That's how she was able to come out unscathed.
The protector threw herself on Jesus in relief. He will protect us if it happens again. We're in a scary place NOW--with our church--and He won't let us be hurt. The situation may be fearful but we do not need to be afraid. He was making a distinction. Though we go through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil, because You are with us.
G was telling me, "Let's thank the protector for a noble and difficult job." But I was the protector and I was realizing Jesus and I, both of us, had something in common, had the same goal.
He had been protecting both of the selves--little girl unafraid-though-in-harm's-way-self and self afraid for her and desperate to save her.
Because of Jesus, the little one did not process fear. Part of us (me?) held fear away from her, felt it for her. Jesus protected all of us by allowing dissociation. It--dissociation--was the protective system He provided to keep us sane, to keep us whole.
January 26, 2012 (Part 2)
Saturday, February 25, 2012
My job
G says I (the one the others call "Walks-on-Water") am a strong-willed, controlled, independent woman. Every week he says things like, "The strongest part of you can get in the way a little." Or, "Because of your strength, you want to be in charge and in control but you make it hard on the others."
Today I told him the little ones were shaking, that they feel unprotected and left behind, vulnerable, without boundaries. But I didn't understand why. The other day I thought they had all flowed from the locker room into Jesus. I'm not in touch with where they are or what they are doing.
This time G didn't just suggest. He gave me clear instruction. "The barriers are thinned. Wherever you go you take them all with you. Pray for them bless them, so even if you're not giving them protection, they'll feel safe, loved and have joy. Weaker joy makes it harder for them to deal with conflicts through synchronization. They need to be themselves, able to express significant life needs.
"Joy is not just a nice emotion. It's a simple way of talking about the deepest experience of a human being. Unconditional joy is people celebrting you, loving to be with you. Eye contact with sparkle. Your joy center is like a pilot light. It turns the flame on and the flame goes back and forth between two people.
"It's not just about physiology. There is a spiritual component. The eyes are the window to the soul. It's a sharing, a bonding--from their brain to ours and back, building each other's joy like electro-magnetic charges from one to the other. Something dynamic happens.
"As you relate to your other identities: 'I like ice cream,' 'I want to swing,' it builds this sense of 'Wow, you really love me--because you did what I requested.' Some parts may feel neglected if too much adult stuff is going on. They feel left out. You have to talk to them, ask how they feel.
"Listen to God. Ask him how to bring balance. Be an anointed, inspired leader of the system and lead the family in the right direction. Take authority, help them, listen to them instead of deciding for them where they are. Don't assume. When they're quiet, are they peaceful and merged? Or terribly afraid and hiding out?
"Discovering and working with the identities is the most significant part of all this."
January 26, 2012 (Part 1)
Today I told him the little ones were shaking, that they feel unprotected and left behind, vulnerable, without boundaries. But I didn't understand why. The other day I thought they had all flowed from the locker room into Jesus. I'm not in touch with where they are or what they are doing.
This time G didn't just suggest. He gave me clear instruction. "The barriers are thinned. Wherever you go you take them all with you. Pray for them bless them, so even if you're not giving them protection, they'll feel safe, loved and have joy. Weaker joy makes it harder for them to deal with conflicts through synchronization. They need to be themselves, able to express significant life needs.
"Joy is not just a nice emotion. It's a simple way of talking about the deepest experience of a human being. Unconditional joy is people celebrting you, loving to be with you. Eye contact with sparkle. Your joy center is like a pilot light. It turns the flame on and the flame goes back and forth between two people.
"It's not just about physiology. There is a spiritual component. The eyes are the window to the soul. It's a sharing, a bonding--from their brain to ours and back, building each other's joy like electro-magnetic charges from one to the other. Something dynamic happens.
"As you relate to your other identities: 'I like ice cream,' 'I want to swing,' it builds this sense of 'Wow, you really love me--because you did what I requested.' Some parts may feel neglected if too much adult stuff is going on. They feel left out. You have to talk to them, ask how they feel.
"Listen to God. Ask him how to bring balance. Be an anointed, inspired leader of the system and lead the family in the right direction. Take authority, help them, listen to them instead of deciding for them where they are. Don't assume. When they're quiet, are they peaceful and merged? Or terribly afraid and hiding out?
"Discovering and working with the identities is the most significant part of all this."
January 26, 2012 (Part 1)
"Jesus, don't look."
"Jesus is in church."
G had asked me if I could see Jesus in the bedroom where bad things were going on. I was adamant: Jesus wasn't there. My mother was in church and He had gone with her. They had both left me unprotected.
Before G could say anything, I realized Jesus was also in the room with Daddy and me. "He was there," I admitted, "--but He had His back to me."
"He had His back--?"
"Because I told Him not to look. I told Him to turn away. Jesus did not see the sex because it's bad. I didn't want Him to see what was happening."
As I said this, I saw Jesus turn around and come to the side of the bed. He leaned over and tried to comfort me, maybe pick me up. I didn't want Him to. He was good. He wasn't supposed to see things like that. I didn't want Him there.
"There are three things in that bed," I told G. "Me, Daddy, and the pleasure between us. One of those things has to be bad. Either I'm bad or Daddy's bad or pleasure--passion--is bad. I've had lots of therapy and I've accepted that I wasn't bad. I don't want Daddy to be bad. So pleasure must be bad--at least for me to enjoy pleasure must be bad, even though the part of me that felt pleasure didn't feel bad."
"There is a part of you that is very loyal to your Daddy."
"Yes. It was important to protect Daddy and our secrets. He's a good daddy. Daddy did those things because he loved me. Daddy would never hurt me."
G suggested I invite Jesus to speak truth to this Daddy-loyal idenity. I heard Jesus say, What happened was wrong with Daddy, but it's okay with your husband. You're not bad and pleasure's not bad. The timing was bad--you're too young to be awakened to those things--and those things are not supposed to happen between daddies and daughters. Your daddy loved you but several things he did to you were not loving. What he did was bad. He knew better.
"He knew better," G repeated when I told him what I was hearing.
Daddy got delight from the sexual things, as I did, but the context was wrong. There are good and safe things to do with a daddy, Jesus was saying, but the things your daddy did to you are not those things.
January 12, 2012
G had asked me if I could see Jesus in the bedroom where bad things were going on. I was adamant: Jesus wasn't there. My mother was in church and He had gone with her. They had both left me unprotected.
Before G could say anything, I realized Jesus was also in the room with Daddy and me. "He was there," I admitted, "--but He had His back to me."
"He had His back--?"
"Because I told Him not to look. I told Him to turn away. Jesus did not see the sex because it's bad. I didn't want Him to see what was happening."
As I said this, I saw Jesus turn around and come to the side of the bed. He leaned over and tried to comfort me, maybe pick me up. I didn't want Him to. He was good. He wasn't supposed to see things like that. I didn't want Him there.
"There are three things in that bed," I told G. "Me, Daddy, and the pleasure between us. One of those things has to be bad. Either I'm bad or Daddy's bad or pleasure--passion--is bad. I've had lots of therapy and I've accepted that I wasn't bad. I don't want Daddy to be bad. So pleasure must be bad--at least for me to enjoy pleasure must be bad, even though the part of me that felt pleasure didn't feel bad."
"There is a part of you that is very loyal to your Daddy."
"Yes. It was important to protect Daddy and our secrets. He's a good daddy. Daddy did those things because he loved me. Daddy would never hurt me."
G suggested I invite Jesus to speak truth to this Daddy-loyal idenity. I heard Jesus say, What happened was wrong with Daddy, but it's okay with your husband. You're not bad and pleasure's not bad. The timing was bad--you're too young to be awakened to those things--and those things are not supposed to happen between daddies and daughters. Your daddy loved you but several things he did to you were not loving. What he did was bad. He knew better.
"He knew better," G repeated when I told him what I was hearing.
Daddy got delight from the sexual things, as I did, but the context was wrong. There are good and safe things to do with a daddy, Jesus was saying, but the things your daddy did to you are not those things.
January 12, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Soul split
G had my husband join us for this session: "We're trying to assess where she is in the restoration process. Last time Jesus showed up and did these cool things. She isn't switching as much. The dissociative walls are thinning. I think we're much closer to wholeness. What have you noticed?" he asked.
"I've seen very little switching," my husband said. "She gets frustrated at the computer when she's unable to send things out after working on them all day. Other than that--virtually no switching. Are the parts hiding? or integrated?"
"The current conflict [at church] is triggering past memories. In the past she was told 'Don't tell' and she told herself, 'Don't tell.' Now the church leaders are telling her 'Don't tell' but she is telling herself 'DO tell!'"
"God is telling me to tell," I interrupted. "He says to bring the deeds of darkness into the light for His judgment."
"She is able to say, 'I won't be silent about this--' and have people support her."
We got onto the subject of sex. I knew we would. I knew we had to. I told the men, "I don't want to be distracted by intimacy. I avoid it. I'm too busy. It's okay to give pleasure but not to receive it."
"Why?" persisted G. Because you don't feel you deserve it? Because of guilt?"
"Pleasure leads to disappointment and hurt. It means letting down your guard and being hurt more."
G asked, "Is there one who still believes this?"
"Yes," I said, "but she doesn't want to talk about it. She feels she is bad if she likes sex. That was the whole point of dissociating--so she wouldn't have to be involved in it or be affected by it. Enjoying it makes her feel like a prostitute."
"If authentic pleasure makes you feel like a prostitute, it sets up intolerable conflict," said G. Your soul splits."
"I wasn't like that when we got married," I said. "I was all over him. I couldn't wait to marry him and be able to have sex. But now I'm pulling back. Why? Where is that part of me that could abandon herself joyously to sex and intimacy?"
"In this marriage," G said, "these conflicts have no place to hide. It's self-sabotage. Go to your journal," he said, "--not a public one--and connect with this self."
December 29, 2011
"I've seen very little switching," my husband said. "She gets frustrated at the computer when she's unable to send things out after working on them all day. Other than that--virtually no switching. Are the parts hiding? or integrated?"
"The current conflict [at church] is triggering past memories. In the past she was told 'Don't tell' and she told herself, 'Don't tell.' Now the church leaders are telling her 'Don't tell' but she is telling herself 'DO tell!'"
"God is telling me to tell," I interrupted. "He says to bring the deeds of darkness into the light for His judgment."
"She is able to say, 'I won't be silent about this--' and have people support her."
We got onto the subject of sex. I knew we would. I knew we had to. I told the men, "I don't want to be distracted by intimacy. I avoid it. I'm too busy. It's okay to give pleasure but not to receive it."
"Why?" persisted G. Because you don't feel you deserve it? Because of guilt?"
"Pleasure leads to disappointment and hurt. It means letting down your guard and being hurt more."
G asked, "Is there one who still believes this?"
"Yes," I said, "but she doesn't want to talk about it. She feels she is bad if she likes sex. That was the whole point of dissociating--so she wouldn't have to be involved in it or be affected by it. Enjoying it makes her feel like a prostitute."
"If authentic pleasure makes you feel like a prostitute, it sets up intolerable conflict," said G. Your soul splits."
"I wasn't like that when we got married," I said. "I was all over him. I couldn't wait to marry him and be able to have sex. But now I'm pulling back. Why? Where is that part of me that could abandon herself joyously to sex and intimacy?"
"In this marriage," G said, "these conflicts have no place to hide. It's self-sabotage. Go to your journal," he said, "--not a public one--and connect with this self."
December 29, 2011
In the locker room
Usually there are three primary identities in a fractured person, G said.
One has the job of holding the pain--the rawness of the memory, depression, anger. From this identity can come protectors.
Another one maintains denial. "If I accept this is really happening, I will die." This belief isn't foolish. It's necessary.
The third is confused.
I have a hard time believing in these primary identities. (Am I denial?) I don't understand or identify with any of them. (Am I confusion?) Supposedly, they are all parts which "feel like the real me."
Today the one who came to the front struggled to discover who s/he was. "I'm not little--but I'm not [my real age]! I'm not a radical, I'm not depressed or angry. I'm not a passive reporter. I screen outside information. I may be a kind of peacemaker. I keep balance inside the system."
"What requires you to stay separate?" G asked.
"I'm cautious. I protect the whole. Is this true? Is that safe? Does this apply to us? Is that helpful? I screen those things. I've been in charge of walls. I build walls to protect against threats and hurts from outside.
"I'm not just a surface guard, looking around. My work is deeper, more foundational. I deal with structures.
"Some walls do not need to be there. Do I let them down now--inside walls? outside walls? Bunker walls? God is a better protector than I am. I want Jesus Christ to be our protector now. I know He can do a better job than I can. He knows everything so He can anticipate any threat and He's all-powerful so He can deal with each one appropriately. If I pull down all the dissociative walls between each of us--will that be good?"
I don't know if G answered that. (My notes are sketchy and two months old.) At some point he asked where the rest of us were. I saw them all in a kind of locker room, with makeshift curtains dividing temporary living spaces. Maybe this was the bunker they'd chosen to hide in from the bombs going off at church.
G complimented me for having had courage and taken risks to protect the system. He said I had an opportunity to merge with the original self. Or else he was talking to the young ones in the locker room, encouraging them to have courage and take risks. Maybe he said they had an opportunity to merge with the original self. (These notes are cold.)
They were peeking out from behind the curtains and I read their minds: "I'm listening." They were curious.
G said, "Invite Jesus to show you what memories contain the deepest of conflicts, that will have the most wonderful and deepest effects." As often happens, he talks too much and I halfway tune him out, as what is happening within me absorbs my attention. I was seeing all ten or so of me come to the open center of the room. Jesus was standing in the midst.
One at a time each self, some with boldness, some more shyly, was holding out her traumatic memory to Him, each one like a ball or globe. Each memory contained a lie: "I am not allowed to have pleasure. I have to suffer," was one of them. That was a generational lie. I saw ancestors wtih dour, severe faces. Prudes. A spirit of masochism had attached to that one.
By Your stripes we are healed. Somehow that truth was being conveyed to all of us.
Sometimes Jesus knelt to listen or speak to a self and receive the ball she was handing Him, putting it into his heart. Sometimes while he was kneeling, others, already free of their balls and no longer hesitant or serious, were climbing all over Him.
One self was invisible. Jesus peeked into her robe or jacket to see the very little girl inside. He pulled off her hood and offered her His hand, inviting her out. She joined the others who were free, playing with them, enjoying each other.
All this time, as each of the others held out their lies to Jesus and He received them somehow into Himself, there was a little boy sitting apart, his arms folded, his whole face pulled into a frown.
I was giving G a running commentary and I described what he was doing. G said, "Have Jesus tell him he can come to Him, too."
But I said, "He already told him. He already knows he's welcome. Jesus reached out to him but he would have none of it. He pushed his chair even farther back. Jesus laughed at him."
G didn't want to hear that so I had to explain. "It's more like a chuckle. The boy is doing this to himself. He's telling himself 'I'm supposed to be punished. I'm bad. I must pay for my sins! The others are getting away with their sins. I'm the only one who is doing it right!' He is telling himself he doesn't have the right to come to Jesus like the others do. He is supposed to deny himself and suffer. But he knows better."
Finally the boy got up and came to Jesus, who welcomed him with an embrace. Then he ran back and kicked over the chair! He refused to deprive himself of joy any longer! Truth overcame the lie, "I have to be perfect.' The confict was resolved. Now merging was possible. All the little selves were streaming toward me now, being absorbed into me.
G prayed for me in closing, ". . . Help her to feel stronger, richer, more like a 'me.' We speak shalom to her. . ."
December 16, 2011
One has the job of holding the pain--the rawness of the memory, depression, anger. From this identity can come protectors.
Another one maintains denial. "If I accept this is really happening, I will die." This belief isn't foolish. It's necessary.
The third is confused.
I have a hard time believing in these primary identities. (Am I denial?) I don't understand or identify with any of them. (Am I confusion?) Supposedly, they are all parts which "feel like the real me."
Today the one who came to the front struggled to discover who s/he was. "I'm not little--but I'm not [my real age]! I'm not a radical, I'm not depressed or angry. I'm not a passive reporter. I screen outside information. I may be a kind of peacemaker. I keep balance inside the system."
"What requires you to stay separate?" G asked.
"I'm cautious. I protect the whole. Is this true? Is that safe? Does this apply to us? Is that helpful? I screen those things. I've been in charge of walls. I build walls to protect against threats and hurts from outside.
"I'm not just a surface guard, looking around. My work is deeper, more foundational. I deal with structures.
"Some walls do not need to be there. Do I let them down now--inside walls? outside walls? Bunker walls? God is a better protector than I am. I want Jesus Christ to be our protector now. I know He can do a better job than I can. He knows everything so He can anticipate any threat and He's all-powerful so He can deal with each one appropriately. If I pull down all the dissociative walls between each of us--will that be good?"
I don't know if G answered that. (My notes are sketchy and two months old.) At some point he asked where the rest of us were. I saw them all in a kind of locker room, with makeshift curtains dividing temporary living spaces. Maybe this was the bunker they'd chosen to hide in from the bombs going off at church.
G complimented me for having had courage and taken risks to protect the system. He said I had an opportunity to merge with the original self. Or else he was talking to the young ones in the locker room, encouraging them to have courage and take risks. Maybe he said they had an opportunity to merge with the original self. (These notes are cold.)
They were peeking out from behind the curtains and I read their minds: "I'm listening." They were curious.
G said, "Invite Jesus to show you what memories contain the deepest of conflicts, that will have the most wonderful and deepest effects." As often happens, he talks too much and I halfway tune him out, as what is happening within me absorbs my attention. I was seeing all ten or so of me come to the open center of the room. Jesus was standing in the midst.
One at a time each self, some with boldness, some more shyly, was holding out her traumatic memory to Him, each one like a ball or globe. Each memory contained a lie: "I am not allowed to have pleasure. I have to suffer," was one of them. That was a generational lie. I saw ancestors wtih dour, severe faces. Prudes. A spirit of masochism had attached to that one.
By Your stripes we are healed. Somehow that truth was being conveyed to all of us.
Sometimes Jesus knelt to listen or speak to a self and receive the ball she was handing Him, putting it into his heart. Sometimes while he was kneeling, others, already free of their balls and no longer hesitant or serious, were climbing all over Him.
One self was invisible. Jesus peeked into her robe or jacket to see the very little girl inside. He pulled off her hood and offered her His hand, inviting her out. She joined the others who were free, playing with them, enjoying each other.
All this time, as each of the others held out their lies to Jesus and He received them somehow into Himself, there was a little boy sitting apart, his arms folded, his whole face pulled into a frown.
I was giving G a running commentary and I described what he was doing. G said, "Have Jesus tell him he can come to Him, too."
But I said, "He already told him. He already knows he's welcome. Jesus reached out to him but he would have none of it. He pushed his chair even farther back. Jesus laughed at him."
G didn't want to hear that so I had to explain. "It's more like a chuckle. The boy is doing this to himself. He's telling himself 'I'm supposed to be punished. I'm bad. I must pay for my sins! The others are getting away with their sins. I'm the only one who is doing it right!' He is telling himself he doesn't have the right to come to Jesus like the others do. He is supposed to deny himself and suffer. But he knows better."
Finally the boy got up and came to Jesus, who welcomed him with an embrace. Then he ran back and kicked over the chair! He refused to deprive himself of joy any longer! Truth overcame the lie, "I have to be perfect.' The confict was resolved. Now merging was possible. All the little selves were streaming toward me now, being absorbed into me.
G prayed for me in closing, ". . . Help her to feel stronger, richer, more like a 'me.' We speak shalom to her. . ."
December 16, 2011
First cluster of lies
"Get to the root of the tree," G keeps reminding me. "Any conflicts you're having in the present are irrelevant; when the earliest conflicts affecting primary identities are resolved, the rest of the conflicts all the way up into the branches will be resolved."
So each session we ask the Lord to take us to the earliest unresolved conflict. Today it was a cluster of false beliefs:
I am weak, helpless, unprotected. I have no boundaries.
We asked God to speak truth to that lie and He said, "You have ego strength. Dissociation was your survival mode. It enabled you to function."
People can do what they want to me and I have to take it.
God said, You are smart. Inside you stand up for yourself, determined that 'You can't make me, you can't break me.'
G said those lies represented the very start of dis-synchronization of the original identity. The whole system developed believing this and split into primary identities.Pain, fear, or anger drives the inner vow I made: "I must take care of myself (because no one else will)."
He said if any other lie messages are still alive it is because they are rooted in memories that certain parts of me hold so they feel true. He said the Holy Spirit needs to link with those memories and the parts holding those memories and to replace those false beliefs. His truth resolves the lies.
December 1, 2011
So each session we ask the Lord to take us to the earliest unresolved conflict. Today it was a cluster of false beliefs:
I am weak, helpless, unprotected. I have no boundaries.
We asked God to speak truth to that lie and He said, "You have ego strength. Dissociation was your survival mode. It enabled you to function."
People can do what they want to me and I have to take it.
God said, You are smart. Inside you stand up for yourself, determined that 'You can't make me, you can't break me.'
G said those lies represented the very start of dis-synchronization of the original identity. The whole system developed believing this and split into primary identities.Pain, fear, or anger drives the inner vow I made: "I must take care of myself (because no one else will)."
He said if any other lie messages are still alive it is because they are rooted in memories that certain parts of me hold so they feel true. He said the Holy Spirit needs to link with those memories and the parts holding those memories and to replace those false beliefs. His truth resolves the lies.
December 1, 2011
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