Let Sleeping Women Lie
(WARNING: some descriptions of abuse)
Othel (1) does not want to talk about the abuse, does not want to remember anything from the past. But ... he puts on a brave face and asks young Katy Ann (2) about how to deal with the abuse. I think Katy Ann is absolutely flattered. I’m not sure whether Othel was directly abused or whether he solely helped us function and cope with the situation at home.
A return to the dark places Inside and to Evil Eye/I (4). I feel its presence strongly this morning and it fills me with fear and dread as always. It is a fear that we will never get out of this place alive. But we continue with one foot in the Outside world, keeping contact, holding what little ground we have to hold onto.
We feel badly about work, not being able to go. It will be hard for the people we work with. They will have to figure out how to get the work done, how to fill in the gap of us not being there. This makes me see how far reaching the consequences of abuse can go. Our co-workers are indirectly affected by it. The ripples continue to go on and out. Illness and crime do that to all of us.
I am back to feeling I have so little control over “my” life. No real power to change things. Either the stronger ones take control, or most of it, or we all do it as one group. I am constantly reminded that I am not alone. I am never alone.
The Mute (3) comes out with Lyn, waving her arms around, shaking her head back and forth. She wants to speak so much but can’t yet. So she writes something to Lyn, about not being able to speak. Later she draws a picture of herself in our journal. She writes “This is what I look like.” A picture of someone with very funny hair (it sticks straight up) and with an “x” on her mouth.
Self-hatred is here again.
No Self (4) feels suicidal. Wants to take all of the Ativan. And we slip into thoughts about needles that Lyn might have or that she is simply waiting for the right time to put us in hospital. These thoughts belong to Tir (1) mostly but they are mine as well. Maybe even others of us too.
The nature of the being.
The nature of the beast.
Our rage is here again, triggered and wanting to strike out at something, at someone. It hurts to keep it all locked up Inside. Wishing for an eruption, a way out. We have only to open our mouth and wail and scream and yell. But even that won’t come. Our mouth is The Mute’s mouth with the “x” on it. Not allowed. It would bring down the walls of Jericho and bad things would happen again.
WARNING: Memory (please skip if you might get triggered)
No Self, in a session with Lyn, curls up with Susie the doll, Shana’s (4) bear and the rabbit dolls. Her crying comes, followed by memory. She freaks out when she sees Susie’s eyes closed, thinking she is dead. The memory of a little boy’s eyes that would not, could not open anymore. We bring the doll upright so she can see Susie is safe. Una (4) coos to No Self, and softly tells her she must let go of that little boy. He is no longer in pain. He is okay now. She repeats it over and over, like the gentle rhythm of ocean waves, pulling away the sand and sending in clear water. Over and over, rocking and rocking, rhythmically soothing. And hush. It’s okay now.
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What does success mean to us? What does it look like? Self-sufficiency, feeling happy, being at peace, excited about our life and the things we are doing, full of energy, writing our story, being all that we are, fully, and drawing, painting, writing, dancing, singing.
And we are allowed to feel good. We can believe that we deserve it. It is also knowing that we don’t have to suffer anymore, don’t have to hold back anymore, don’t have to fear anymore.
Easier said than done. But we have our moments.
Short-circuiting. A thought that can’t be completed. It gets interrupted by another and then that thought gets interrupted by another and so on. I find it scary because it feels like a loss of control. Words dancing around and not able to be still long enough for anything to make sense. I guess it is the others, many talking at the same time. Chaotic and confusing.
WARNING: Memory (please skip it if you might get triggered)
A massage triggers a vision, maybe a memory. The image is of a huge man towering over us while we are lying down, and he throws off his cloak, naked underneath but painted red everywhere, face included. He looks like the common picture of a devil, horns and all. Another image is of a mask drawn in our sketch book, looking close up into its eye.
WARNING: This could be triggering too
Speaking of eyes, we have been drawing a strange object placed over an eye. At the library we try to find it and come upon something quite similar. A device used for eye operations. It’s a little different from our drawings but close enough. A friend of ours, also a ritual abuse survivor, says she has drawn something similar. I don’t think I want to know this. Very frightening indeed.
Someone says The Censor (2) is a child. One part of me a child while the other three are adult? How bizarre does this all get? Is this even possible or only someone Inside’s perspective?
The Mute is filled with sadness. She comes out with Sarah and cries. No words for her. Trapped. And the sadness spreads. Some of it is about missing Sarah, not seeing her as often as we used to. In some way she is like a mother to us and yet feels as “unattainable” as our own mother. Maybe because Sarah is not our mom, that the only way we can feel okay is for our real mother to be attainable, for us to feel close to her and comforted by her. But that ain’t going to happen folks. Never. We are sure of that.
Someone Inside says my short-circuiting is the rapid switching of alters. We switch and interrupt each other in fast mode. Very jarring. Later we describe this to a friend. I compare it to a switchboard, pardon the pun, where I have to keep putting everyone on hold, no calls complete. As I am describing this I have the vision of me going around and around in circles telling everyone to “please wait, please wait” and I begin to laugh, hysterically. And then it turns into crying. I did not understand how distressing the short-circuiting has been for me. My crying tells me how hard this has been.
It seems as if a huge weight has been lifted today. I feel lighter. I think our working on memories in therapy, as much as we hate doing it and how terribly painful the work is, has its reward. It is as if we shift our burden. This seems almost magical, that all we have to do is talk about the abuse with someone, remember what happened and feel the emotions that were always there, buried and waiting to be released. We no longer have to carry the memories alone. This is the amazing power of healing. The process does seem to be working.
It is June, 1995, and all of our windows are open, letting in a warm summer air. Summer opens us like no other season can. It is the time that people throw open their doors and windows, spill out onto their porches, pour out on to the streets and parks and beaches. All that has been hibernating is now alive and awake once again. Some of us just love summer.
But there are some who dread it. There is one in particular.
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