A White Stone

I get so lost sometimes.  I suppose we all do.  Novels have been written about it, songs sung and serenade us with the misery of it.  Getting lost is part of life.  I guess I consciously understand that now.  But as with everything with me, it’s a matter of degree.  Sometimes I get lost because withdraw from reality and enter into a world of such uncertainty that I can’t find my way back.  I so cruelly and harshly judge  who I think I am with the person I aspire to be, or discover I’m not really who I thought I was, and the dissonance feels so torturous that I can not tolerate the pain and  instinctively retreat into a protective place hidden deep within me.  Imagine having an internal nuclear fall out shelter with thick metal walls that is magically hidden in the cavity of your chest.  Anytime there is an alarm, I instinctively retreat to the safety room, slamming the thick metal door shut, it’s clang echoing so loudly that my ears ring for many long moments after, impairing my ability to hear anything…leaving me cut of from the rest of the world.  There is no way to reach me from the outside.

Maybe we all do something like that at times, when we are feeling hurt, insecure, angry or just sad.  But I’ve come to recognize that I’ve misused and over utilized the safety of that room.  Like Henny Penny, the hysterical chicken, who in her ignorance, but good intentions, nearly got everyone killed because she catastrophized something that was a normal  natural occurrence.  I so often have difficulty discerning the difference between something that is a normal and routine problem and something that should be genuinely concerning.  Everything feels like a catastrophe to me.  I suppose that is a consequence of years of abuse and neglect that have shaped and molded brain and neurochemistry regulating the setting of  my “oh shit” alarm to extreme hypersensitive while simultaneously turning off my “bull shit” alarm allowing my tolerance of maltreatment to go unregulated at all as I fail to stand up for myself in moments that I should.  Recognizing the frequency in which I over and under react to situations makes me feel so vulnerable and socially inept.  It makes me want to retreat to that hidden place within me where the world happens around me but no one can reach me.  They can see me but don’t know that I am not actually there.

The question of how do you “undo” something caused by the absence of knowledge is what’s driven me there today.  If you don’t know…you don’t know, some times there is no “why.”   Some times the only thing that can be done with the absence of knowledge is to start with what you know and take the time and effort to learn? So many times throughout my life, starting with what I know is no where near the place I need to be.  Only in time and through mistakes and reflection will I come to be more socially attuned and adept, but the process is painful, not only due to it’s slowness, but because of the experiences it brings.  Growth hurts sometimes.

When you simply didn’t know the things you should have known, how do you answer the question “how could you not know that?” as the question feels so blaming, as if I could have and should have known the things I needed to sooner than I did.  Sometimes it feels like it seems to other that it is my fault that I should have known but simply chose not to out of selfishness or because it would have been inconvenient or too much work.   But yet I can I understand that as a child I received so many confusing and mixed messages and unless it is the way that you grew up as well, it’s just incomprehensible.  Like the day I got hit in the head with a baseball bat by my grandmother simply because my three year old brother tripped and fell when he walked by me.  Convinced that I pushed him and I was lying, the blow struck my pride and heart as much as it welted my head.  It taught me that telling the truth didn’t matter, that simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time made you a rotten child.  Or excelling and accomplishing success didn’t matter either.  After years of trying, and many falls along the way I finally won my first trophy.  Smiling with pride until my father’s absent congratulations deflated it and he seemed more excited for the family friend who had won first place.  I spent so many decades of my life in chaos where it was modeled that things just happen, and if they are bad it’s not our fault, but simply means we’ve been a victim of other people’s harshness, that I never had to learn and accept that my actions bring consequences.

For someone given such a function intelligence I’ve been pretty stupid and some days that awareness hurts more than others.  Revelations 2:17 says “To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the hidden manna, and will give him a white stone and in the stone a new name written, which no man knoweth saving he that recieveth it.”

So, I remind myself that God forgives and allows us to transform.  He believes we can redeem ourselves and become someone entirely different even when it seems that at times we might be the only one who knows that we are truly different, that we have a new name, because we are the only one that can feel it.  Some feelings run so deep they defy words so there is no way to describe it to others.  The difference is within us,  where no one else can see.  Every morning I touch the white stone that God has given me to be reminded of the power of forgiveness, the power of love, the encouragement to go forward and redeem myself, even when doubt, fear and loneliness hover over me, I must never give up, I will  be different…and I know I am.

Perhaps Love

I am inherently a selfish person.  I don’t mean to be.  I am ashamed to admit it.  But somewhere in my childhood I learned that I needed to put myself first in order to survive.  I am trying to unlearn that, but it has become hard wired.   I look back on the experiences that caused this natural instinct to evolve and realize that I have fine tuned over the decades of my life.  It is with a heavy heart and great sadness that I recognize the degree to which I have missed out on feeling loved and of truly loving others.   I understood very little about it’s true  power and entirely missed the notion that it can be constant, that out of sight does not mean out of mind.   Perhaps love…perhaps it does exist and lasts forever. I am still learning but am thankful for the fact that another truly loves me enough to step outside of himself enough to try to forgive me even when I may not be worthy of it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgaTQ5-XfMM

 

Breathe Me

Life is full of paradox.   Is it the ephemeral beauty of a flower that makes us stop and admire it?  Is it the awareness of our pending death that makes us drink in air  as if it were the sweetest water we have ever tasted?  Does loss make us wiser and more loving? Do mistakes make us grow?

Mahatma Gandhi said “Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.”

The  key to containing the paradox must lie within us, in our attitude, our willingness to be mindful, our tolerance to sit with the discomfort and refrain from behaviors or actions that serve to numb and hide our pain from us, even though we think, at times, in doing so, we will die.

We simply sit, misery around us, trying to breathe it out.  Trying to expel each ache and wound while breathing in new life.

While I know that no one can do this work for me, I am reminded of the way that lives are saved through CPR, simply by someone breathing for another.  How profound it would be if we could breathe in life through another in the same way CPR sends oxygen to the organs that need it, but instead have it save our emotional life, heal our mental anguish, allowing peace and strength to course through our veins.   If only we could have someone else  breathe in love, passion, and the beauty of the earth, contain it, filter it, and then exhale it into us, filling our lungs, their air impermeably mixing with ours, then infusing our blood with new oxygen in a way that will forever  mix their insight, their wisdom, their strengths with ours so that we may forever become something different, as if they were a living, breathing, human air mask…saving us.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFGvmrJ5rjM

The Clouds Veil

 

The Irish say that if you take a mirror outside and have it reflect the light of the moon, when you gaze upon it you will see your future.  There was a time when I wondered about such things because I needed something to look forward to because I was so despondent and depressed. I thought that by knowing my future I could escape my present.   Yet now,  when I realize what a mess I have created in my life, the thought of what my future may be just plain scares me. I don’t want to know my future any more.  I don’t even want to know my past.

Today is the full moon.  Last night its light radiated into my window, caressing me while I restlessly tried to sleep.  I felt no peace or comfort from it like I did a month ago.  I watched as clouds, at first transparent and wispy quickly rolled past the lower half of the moon and then transformed into full and solid clouds that completely blocked it’s view.  Yet the clouds veil did not extinguish the moon’s light, the edges of the clouds still shone of it’s white light and the trees and ferns of the woods beyond my window remained clearly visible.  

I wish instead that the light of the moon, caught within a mirror could turn back time and allow me to be a different, wiser person, to allow me the knowledge and the insight of the experiences that have gone by with the opportunity to make better choices. Would I be different?  Could I be different? Will I be different? Should I feel a sense of control over these things?  Yet some how I don’t and change is so hard fought and comes in such small portions.  I feel helpless like that wispy cloud blown in any direction that the wind commands, rolling along without knowledge of where it will end up.  As the fear of the unknown slowly starts to build, the cloud becomes laden with moisture, becoming dark and thick, gradually blocking out the radiance of the moon so all that remains is the sliver of light that gently lines the edges of the clouds.  I must remember that the view of the moon is only blocked on this side of the clouds, just like the sun, the moon is always there, whether I can see it or not.

 

 

At This Point In My Life

Yesterday I took my daughter to the beach.  I watched as she walked along the sandy shore, with the breeze rippling through the tall grass that lined its edge.  Small pebbles and shells littered the shore.  The blue of the sky reflected of the surface of the water and sea gulls swooped gracefully in and out of the water scavenging for food.  She jumped, splashed and swam in the waves that were as large as she was, allowing joy filled giggles to escape her each time the waves washed over her, knocking her to her knees.  The innocence, simplicity and  beauty of the moment washed over me in the same way that the large, undulating waves of water poured on top of her.

A child’s laughter is perhaps the most beautiful sound in the world to me.  I try to remember whether I laughed as a child.  I watched my daughter play in the water and tried to recall whether I had moments of such pleasure and contentment as a child, trying to recreate the way it felt in my mind.  Trying to capture some remnant, some morsel of happiness and purity that originates from my youth so I can cling to it and nurture it, and allow it to grow within me.  I need some reassurance that any good I have within me is as deeply rooted as my anguish and failures.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r4mi5AJEX9M

Life Flows On

The rain spills forth from the saturated overburdened clouds as the tears spill forth from my heavy and saturated heart.  The rain lands softly on the leaves of the trees that surround me, as the chorus of birds still sing.  There is a glimmer of an orange and purple hue as the sun still rises despite the sorrow burdening my soul.  The heavens weep along with me.   Yet life flows on and so must I.   Life is still beautiful.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fotEuKhBYDc&feature=related

How?

 Have you ever been stuck in an habitual way of life with an unconscious compulsion  driven by experiences that occurred that have left you with no words?  It traps you in a repetitive cycle where crisis keeps occurring.  I’ve lived my life with crazy, chaotic things happening all around me and never knew why.  I’ve felt helpless to stop it, until recently.  I have finally realized that I fuel this cycle and I can’t live like that any more. I am too weary and tired.

Up until the last year or two I never understood who or what I was.  I simply knew I hurt.  I knew I always felt sad and easily angered. I knew I felt misunderstood and alone.  I knew there was something really wrong with me, but I just figured that it was some role that I had to play in this tapestry of life, that my suffering was meant to be for some bigger purpose, my delusional martyrdom.   I read the book by Harold Kushner, Why Bad Things Happen To Good People, written after he lost his son.  He talked about his belief that there it’s not God’s intention  to make us suffer, but through our suffering we can create some sort of meaning.  I’ve taken those words to heart and it’s how I survive.  If something bad happens I try to learn from it, I try to find a universal purpose because just me healing simply isn’t enough.  It’s hard to feel resilient and motivated to endure when you just don’t care enough about yourself to try. Once I was told “quit taking care of everyone else.  Why don’t you just take care of yourself for once.”  Well, it’s because I don’t know how too and I’m afraid that without out it, I’ll just give up. I’m simply not enough.

I can’t help but wonder what other people do, how they feel about themselves and what makes them carry on.  Are there other people in this world who care and respect themselves enough that when burdened by life’s challenges they just simply carry on?  Or is it their love for another that helps them find their strength.  Viktor Frankl described the power of life’s purpose in Man’s Search For Meaning when he wrote about life in a concentration camp, purporting that even though a person was surrounded by cruel atrocities,  life can still be worth living if you find meaning to it.

So how does a person find meaning for their life?  Harold Kushner found it through his work as a Rabbi and then writing several books. Victor Frankl found it through developing a theory for helping others and writing a book. Helen Keller became a ferocious advocate.  It has occurred to me that most of the people inspire me exist only in books.  I’ve had such a shortage of people in my life who simply live each day in happiness just being ordinary.   The few that I have met seem larger than life to me because of the way they are content with their humbleness.  They don’t need to save the world, just one life at a time, entering and departing people’s lives unseen, walking through this crowded world appearing to others as a nothing.  I need someone like that to help guide me on my path, that living as a nobody is plenty life enough.  

I’ve never learned how to do that and when I try myself, it feels as if the balance of atrocities and angst just outweighs any quiet contentment I can muster.  If I was asked  why do I always feel I need to help somebody else?  Because sitting in silence focussing on just my life and recovering from my pain just feels so overwhelming and hurts so very bad.  Because there is no rhyme or reason as to why I was so hurt and damaged in my childhood,  I have this compulsive need to compensate for it, because if I don’t it feels like my hurt has beaten me.

The problem with this compulsive driveness is that it gets in the way of living. It gets in the way of peace.  It hinders my contentment.  In reflecting back I realize how many things I’ve missed, the simple pleasures I ignored while trying to accomplish something grand.  Little things like sitting quietly and putting together a puzzle with my son, or reading a book with my insatiably curious daughter. Instead of soaking in those timeless, priceless moments, my mind was always racing ahead thinking of what I should next, or the many things that I was missing.

It’s hard not to feel angry about the life I’ve lived, but the problem is that I don’t know who or what to be angry at.  It feels so complicated.  I’ve been stuck in this pattern, this way of life that was the result of things I didn’t know, chronic neglect and trauma that I wasn’t aware of, always churning within me.  Perpetuating the dysfunction without knowing it.  I simply could not have been any different.  I didn’t have the knowledge, I didn’t have the strength, I didn’t have the skill set or the courage to know how to change. At this point I recognize, those things just couldn’t be helped.  So much of my pain right now was caused by my foolish actions, things caused by me and yet not entirely my fault.  Most people around me will argue with that because they feel so hurt and angry and perhaps will think that I’m just copping out, playing the “victim role” and displacing blame.  So I just remind myself that if that is what they think, then they simply do not know me and may never understand. 

I have to be enough for myself from now on.  Since I have gained the insight into what’s been motivating me, it makes it easier to make better and healthier choices.  But I sit with mounds of shame and remorse which are my burdens to bear, but what do I do with all this hurt and rage inside of me? How do I allow myself to feel angry about what’s happened to me without making excuses for my mistakes? How does I redeem myself with others when they just don’t understand?

90% Sane

Yesterday I spoke with a psychiatrist.   He told me I was 90% sane but 10% crazier than all get out.  I knew he must be telling the truth because of my reaction.  Instead of being angry because he called me crazy, I was relieved that my sanity level was as high as 90%.

But the problem with that equation is that he didn’t tell me which 10% was crazy.  Now, for the most part, I already know, but for those of you who are in a similar situation, you will understand that there is a place where the boundaries blur, that there is not a fine clear line between sanity and madness. The two slowly blend in a fuzzy place where the difference between sanity and madness is indiscernible.

In an earlier blog I referenced a brother that nearly killed my father.  It’s true.  In a psychotic rage he and my father got into an argument and son assaulted father.  He went to jail and was ordered to get a psychiatric examination to determine if he was competent to stand trial.  This happened only just a few months ago.

For a family who has secrets and who tries do deny their madness, this blew the cover off of it.  It was on the evening television news, the radio, and all over the newspapers. The secret was out, my family is deranged.  Most people knew it anyway, we were the only ones pretending it wasn’t true.  His mug shot, showed him with a long and unkempt beard and intense psychotic eyes. Those eyes that appear to be glassy and empty, that pierce straight through you. They always frightened me as a child. He was always this sort of wild card, you never knew what threats were true and he was always so angry or high on drugs. Often in his anger he would get violent or destructive, chasing me off to my room, threatening to kill me.  I remember one argument that was worse than others ‘Leigh, you’d better not sleep tonight because I’ll kill you if you do.”  And I believed him. My parents did not.  

Shortly there after, I ran away from home.  And then I became the problem child and was dragged to counseling under the guise of “wanting their daughter back.”  My parents wanted the sweet, passive, compliant, eager to please, perfect child that I had always tried to be.  But something had died with in me and that girl was gone for ever.

My relationship with my family has always been a painful one.  Instead of bringing comfort it makes me feel on edge. When I am in need of help  they add a corrosive element.  So after my brother’s recent notoriety and my parents unhealthy and enmeshed response, I finally accepted the notion that 90/10 could easily become 50/50 if I continue to be a part of their lives.   So I decided to save myself and to walk away, I just can’t be a part of it.

But walking away is difficult when they won’t let me go.  I get bizarre phone calls and bits of strange mail and they are quite fond of doing a “drive by” or an unexpected drop in.  They show up places they think that I or my children may be at.  Sometimes it makes me feel like a hostage in my own world.

It’s only been a few months since I’ve severed ties with them.  In my defense I gave them warnings, quite literally, telling them that it came to a choice that they had to make.  And they did not choose me. But they still want me.  I’ve managed to avoid contact always with a struggle, but some days it’s hard and it hurts more than others.  I write about it this morning because my mother called yesterday. Of course she did, the timing is awful, I’m raw and tired from other things, I have no reserve for her.

So, I am faced with the fear that today will be a “drive by day” one where she “pops in” and I am faced with the dilemma of staying home and trying to act normal with my kids while feeling the anxiety mount and my stomach knots intensify or just leaving for the day and finding somewhere to go to avoid my mom.

As my head starts to swirl with the anger from this situation, it occurs to me that maybe it is not so bad…at least I’m not dying, at least it’s not cancer.   There are worse things in this world then being stalked by your mother, and so I will endeavor to get through just today day a moment.  Instead of thinking about how angry my family can make me, I will  think of the people who have truly cared and nurtured me, those who raise me up and allow me to help carry them when they are down. I will focus on those I love who simply want me better.

 

Those of you interested in a scholarly article about the effects of trauma read this.

Discussing Dissociation

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Abandonment is such a tender issue for trauma survivors.  Most survivors with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID/MPD) and Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) have had more than their fair share of genuine abandonment instances.

For severe trauma survivors, abandonment would have been experienced over and over in various situations:

• Each time your parents or caregivers turned a blind eye to the sexual abuse or physical abuse that was occurring to you right there in your own household
• Each time your parents or caregivers abandoned their role of safety and became the perpetrator of your abuse
• Each time your parents or caregivers ignored your physical needs, leaving you to be hungry, cold, unkempt, improperly dressed, neglected in any way
• Each time your parents or caregivers handed you over to someone else that was physically or sexually abusing you
• Each time your parents or caregivers left you alone for extended periods of time…

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