Makkio Slips Behind the Wall of Dark
Tir (1) feels it. Resistance. Thus she has not been “out” very much in the past few months. She also struggles with her medication, an anti-psychotic. Some are pressuring her to get off of it, afraid of taking it for too long a time. But she is afraid to. To me she seems lost and out of touch with this reality a lot of the time. I think she still needs it. And speaking of medications, Letty (2) is taking the Ativan to help her sleep at night. She is having a lot of trouble with all the memories coming up.
Yet ... resistance can be a gift. It can step down our energy, put the brakes on a little. It means we are not ready for the next thing. Not yet. We move too quickly for some of us, in too big a hurry to “evolve”. We read somewhere that resistance is a signal that change is coming, something new trying to emerge from the unconscious. We can certainly feel that change coming. There is an inner shifting. We stand and wait, quiet, listening, staying as open and receptive as we can be, with just a hint of resistance still. It shows up mostly in the morning. We resist waking up. We resist getting out of bed. We reach back towards the dreams and sleep of the night like a fish swimming upstream. Not yet.
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August 7, 1994. A drawing of another. He is called Split Face (4). One side of his face is called The Lost Side, the other called The Mother Side. Katy Ann (2) draws him but doesn’t understand what or who she has drawn. Her art always comes from some place inside her, some kind of knowing.
I remember when we were in our 20s. We used to drive our mother’s car. I clearly remember having images then of driving into the wrong lane and getting myself killed. Was that a wish for dying? Was I suicidal back then? It was quite scary, as if I didn’t think I had any control. Probably I didn’t. It felt an impulse and beyond my reach.
Another piece of memory. There were other children who were abused and we were a witness. This is also called abuse is it not? Which was worse – us or them? I try to block the memory, dodge it as if it were an arrow headed straight for me.
It begins to surface and two parts of me rise to the battle. The Censor (2) part tries to stop the Remembering and Miss Angry (1) pushes her doubt on me. No, this didn’t happen and it certainly didn’t happen to me. Well, there is some truth to that. It didn’t happen to me, but to others inside. Still my blocking it is not helpful to them. In fact it is a sort of betrayal and abandonment and some are angry at me for this. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It’s all so hard to bear, to deal with, to believe. Yet, this happens every time with a memory and almost seems par for the course. As if this battle must take place each time in order for the memory to eventually take its new place in our mind, in Maura. They then become lessons learned.
I give them my profuse apologies for getting in the way. They forgive me and we carry on.
Reading a book about ritual abuse, about programming and indoctrination. Then the depression hits hard. A bullet from a gun piercing our gut. It is midday and we lie in bed, hoping to simply die right now. We don’t want to eat, don’t want to survive anymore but Ariel (1) says she doesn’t do depression and calls the Crisis Line. Talk to someone for god’s sake! Do something!
Hunger strikes and immediately after the desire not to eat. We want to deny our body what it needs. Is this punishment for Remembering? Is it suicidal, not wanting to live? Is it programming? Sometimes it feels like anger turned inward. I want to hurt myself for my terrible thoughts. I feel so angry at me. You stupid bitch! Why don’t you just die? You’re not worth living!
There are others still to come and we need help with all of this. There are ones who have been kept away so far in order that things not be told and for other reasons. More to come. [The Mute]
I read that and cringe. There are more and I can’t bear it. But what choice do I have? None really.
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The end of August. The end of summer. The beginning of fall. I can feel the resistance so strong now. Resistance to going back to school. That’s what it feels like even though we do not go to school anymore. Returning to high school means something very bad, something I absolutely don’t want to do, and terror. It hurts on a deep level and the fear is monumental. The sky reflects my mood, a dull and heavy gray, full of pressure that pushes me down into the ground, suffocating me. My chest feels tight and I can’t breathe in enough air. I feel sick, tired, and wasted. And a nightmare about falling off a boat.
This is the time of year I often get sick. Back in 1990, I went to Douglas College for a job interview. I was on crutches and had bronchitis. Many times I get sick at the beginning of fall. What is it that so debilitates me, us?
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Despite everything there is a sense we are healing. Very slowly and bit by bit. We hang onto the belief and the hope that we will eventually get better. We must have faith. We must hang on.
For now silence reigns. And a desire to simply wait. Silence is a doorstep, the threshold. From it will emerge a knowing, an understanding of what needs to happen next. That comes from the elders, the wiser ones within. Sit still and wait. It is coming.
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