I am going to try to start writing more again on my blog- things to try and explain better what it is like to have a dissociative disorder and also the continuing struggle of my recovery from the seventeen years of abuse and torture by my father. I often like to think that by writing things out here on my blog I am somehow dispersing some of the pain that I am having (I know I have written about this before). But the weight of the trauma that occurred is too much for one person I think. I like to think that by telling the story and talking.... Ok, I just got totally sidetracked because I was typing and crying the entire time and then I glanced over at the sidebar on my computer where I have the weather for here and for Italy and there is a little box saying it is 61 degrees fahrenheit and then SNOW! in the background. I had to put the arrow over the image because I could hardly believe it and it read 'snow showers/sun'. Strange. Anyway, if I explained or tried to describe every other thought I have had since I have started typing this and nothing more than that- it would take me an hour probably. And during that hour of trying to write down and explain the fast and layered thoughts that I can have in just a few moments of time; in that hour I would have so many other thoughts and distractions... And it sort of feels like always getting lost and then sometimes being found.
I started typing this out because I want to go out today but it is painful and.... it makes me cry to even try to explain it, but I am going to go on anyway... as usual... There is a classical music concert tonight and it is a great program with great artists and it is FREE and if I went... well it would probably be a mix of good and bad, but I will try to come back to that... About the going though: After 5 years of therapy I still find myself constantly having the urge to 'freeze'. I mean, there is always this idea, this feeling in me that if I stop what I am doing- if I do not go out, go forward, go to a concert- that somehow the beyond grotesque and massive and painful beyond any words I have truth about my past, well, that somehow the story that keeps pouring out of me will become less real. If I do go out- go forward- let myself be alive and feel more alive- then the past starts to become more clear and it starts to become solid in my mind. It begins to become real. I have really discovered in the past month or two that I can 'negotiate' between the different ways I have of my thinking. My therapist has been campaigning this idea for a few years now, but it was always so impossible feeling because if I negotiate between the different ways of my thinking I WILL BE OF COURSE ADMITTING THE FACT THAT I HAVE MULTIPLE WAYS OF THINKING. And that, the fact that I have many ways of thinking or the real truth- the better way to say it and explain it but it is hard for me to do because I then am ACKNOWLEDGING THE REALITY OF IT- anyway it is more precise to say that I have several or multiple 'ways of being' me. Ew. See that? That is called a switch. There is the part of me that is trying to explain dissociative identity disorder or something, there is the part of me that has a reaction of hating to think or talk or have anything to do with any of these thoughts, and I think now yet again a different way of being me that wrote even the first part of this one little sentence.
I have started to become much more aware of when I 'switch' from one way of being me to another. There is one thing about it that I find incredibly weird, sort of fascinating; and that is that I switch A LOT and also VERY EASILY. By 'very easily' I mean for example: If I am writing in the notebook that I have started to try to negotiate myself into writing three pages into every day- I often switch at the end of the line on the page. I mean: I start writing and when I get to the edge of the right side of the paper- I often can not or do not or will not or cantwontdont- remain the same way of being me or carry the same thought back to the beginning of the new line, the clean and fresh and blank and ready to be written in space of the clear line at the far left (the beginning) of the page (line). Anyway- it seems like that was difficult to explain- it is so easy for me to switch my thoughts though, or my way of being. For example I just noticed there was a hair on my computer and I moved my right hand off the keyboard, picked up the hair with my left hand and dropped the hair to floor and while dropping it my left wrist just lightly touched my own (and that is hard for me to believe- but that is another topic for a whole different day I guess- I will just say I have difficulty or some ways of being me have trouble accepting that this body is real and mine and theirs-ours-mine AND that all of this different ways of being me that feel like and some ways of being me believe or need to believe or needed to believe- that ALL of the different ways of being me are in fact all in one real and here-right-now and alive and ONE body.) Ok... so major sidetracking going on here- but as someone used to say to me: the proof is in the pudding. What the hell does that mean? I know what it is supposed to mean but it does not seem like a very logical metaphor or analogy or whatever it is; 'expression' even.... I think that I can try to write about my different ways of being and I can try to explain how I feel or what a dissociative disorder is like or how my brain arranges things in layers... but I start to get messed up (sometimes on purpose), mixed up, turned around, confused and/or lost. Anyway- I think it does not matter that my writing is not so linear- I mean- I guess it is actually better- in my writings of trying to understand or explain something to other people and/or my self/ different ways of being me... in the writing there is the explanation; the different thoughts, the change in topic, ect. Anyway- I start to get confused so before I totally lose the thought I was trying to say I wanted to continue by saying (and perhaps all of the last ramble above was to try to distract myself? Hmmm...) Anyway- I was saying that when my wrist touched to my ('my') thigh something in my brain moved and just that tiny little touch and even coming from 'my-self'- I felt nauseous and sick in a panic like I need to get away from this cage-body. In one second I felt like 'Oh my god I am going to die, I can not tolerate a body'. And then I was back to typing. Two paws to the keyboard (a slightly sarcastic version of my-self here now perhaps???... Oh WHO can REALLY say for SURE.......) ANYWAY- I was at: Two paws to the keyboard, hands distanced and not touching or even close to it, 'body' (the body, my body) stiff and trying always careful now careful now, not to move so that there is not a little switch. A switch that creates a problem- the problem of knowing I am real and then back to the whole 'if the present is real then the past is becoming to feel always more real too'.
One 'way of being me' (ok... I used to say 'one way of my thinking' but then there was something my doctor said... acknowledging the full truth and reality maybe? Something like that... Anyway- I need to talk to him more about why ' different ways of being me' is perhaps more accurate or a better description of the affliction (!) than to say 'the different ways of my thinking'........
The next door neighbor just came over for something and I spoke to him and I was thinking as I talked that I would lose my 'train of thought' that I had been on and two things- if I can manage that: 1. Now I realize as I return to my computer that even though I may have gotten distracted from my exact thought, that I COULD return to it by reading what I had written just before the neighbor knocked... but as I realized that- that I could remember where I was in my writing- I also had a quick moment/feeling/thought/reaction/rug burn (stay with me dear reader, I know it seems an impossible mess, my doctor says it is a possible mess. Those are not the words he said at any time really, but he has been saying for five years now that I can heal from what my dad did to me and go on and live a real awake and alive and aware and real life. Again, not a quote there.) I had to go back to see- was I using a parenthesis? Was I writing out one thought and putting another (in parenthesis) into that and perhaps even another parenthesis inside that previous parenthesis? Anyway- (My excessive use of the word ANYWAY is my way of trying to come back to a thought, or a way of thinking or fuck... a 'different way of being me'. I wanted to write the word me-ness there. ANYWAY- WHEN I REALIZED (ALL CAPS IS LIKE I AM HAVING TO SHOUT NOW OVER ALL OF THE OTHER RUSH OF THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD>>> IT IS BARELY WORKING THOUGH) WHEN I Realized I could return to what I had been writing, 'pick up where I had left off' (which is like everywhere and all the time or mostly often) WHEN I REALIZED THAT I ABSOLUTELY COULD RETURN BACK TO MY SAME THOUGHT IT made me feel sick because there are parts of me, ways of being me (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) which hate all of this. By all of this I mean: the truth about the past and the truth about the fact that I have a 'divided mind'; a dissociative disorder.
For some ways of my existence there is nothing worse then the truth about the past and the truth about the way my mind (OH MY GOD, I JUST 'ACCIDENTLY' typed the word 'minds'. Scary.) ANYWAY>>>>>>> FOR SOME WAYS OF BEING that I are (^) (?) (Are?) - for some or even many- the thoughts about the past and knowing about my mind in the present is grotesquely and seemingly feeling impossible- a real torture. My second thing I wanted to write is that as the neighbor was speaking to me I saw my reflection in the mirror, felt like I hardly recognized 'my'self' and then I felt like it was completely crazy that I had just been writing about how bad I feel and 'my divided mind' (I write about it like it is a fucking weight on my back) (*Obvious reference to my FATHER, literally, I mean, there.)... ANYWAY- it seemed crazy to be talking about finding a lost or missing extension cord and I was just writing about the aftermath-trauma-etc. that happened because of what my father did and then I had to of course be some happy version of myself. greeting the neighbor and acting 'fine' and when/ perhaps because I saw my own reflection I suddenly just wanted to tell the neighbor in a very loud voice- ok, a small shout; "I WAS RAPED BY MY VERY OWN FATHER FOR SEVENTEEN YEARS".
There is always some conflicts in my mind about how to say or what the exact number of the 'yearage' of the events/massive trauma were. My very earliest memories of him 'hurting me' and by hurt I mean RAPING, not twisting my arm or some other such small silliness... Anyway- my first memory of a rape situation (for lack of a better way to put it) is from when I was three. I having a clear and shining memory of being all of the great old age of three years of this life and I remember looking down at a big red splotch of blood in my very otherwise clean and safe and pure and white underwear and I remember having a pain in my... I want to say 'pelvis'- but that is such a fucking lie- I had pain in? at? from? on? inside of?------- my vagina hurt. My three year old small and tight and white and furless little (second animal/self reference here)... I had to go back to read the first part of that sentence! I tried to dump my thought! 'The' thought. The truth and no, just the truth that when I was three I remember standing in the bathroom right in front of the toilet and looking down into my underwear and seeing a very large splotch of very red blood in my otherwise (and what once were....) underpants. And I felt pain in my vagina. And the memory is short- just that- looking down into my underwear and seeing the big red circle/dot of blood and having the pain in my vagina and I remember I felt very confused. And that is it. That is all I remember. So that is probably my earliest memory of something 'having happened' (not arm a'twistin') but I have no idea if there was more or something or stuff before that and so ...well it seems like, no, IT IS TRUE, that the abuse, the abuse went on for all of my growing up years. My father stopped raping and fucking hurting me physically when I was seventeen. So do I say I was abused for seventeen years? Or is fourteen more accurate? I guess it is important because both my mother and father used to say that I was always SO OVER DRAMATIC ABOUT EVERYTHING. So I want to be sure not do any of that now in the telling of this truth..... Whoa... I just had a sensation like I was going to pass out- literally I thought I might fall out of my chair and there was a big switch - huge switch there- and I know I could go back and keep typing where I was but I am not going to.
There is no good way to end this I guess 'far too long' or 'much too long'... dialogue? monologue? no, certainly not that...
Anyway- I started writing because I want to go to this concert tonight- or a part or few parts of me do but there is all of the pain about going out, being REAL, hearing live wonderful music and the shit horror reality of my past.
I started writing because I was hoping that maybe if I wrote down some of my thoughts of some of my (own) thoughts))))) ... I thought that if I wrote that maybe I would feel like I had done a 'good work' and let parts of my thinking or 'ways of my thinking' have a chance to speak out here- I thought that maybe if I allowed myself to let parts of my mind that I usually try to tune out completely have a chance to really speak what needs to be said, or at least some small tiny part of it- that perhaps I might feel a little better. That perhaps I would know it is 2008 and the abuse stopped a long time ago and now I am free to do what I want, go anywhere I want- I AM NO LONGER THE PRISONER OF ANYONE- Writing that last sentence made me start to cry. I am going to stop this typing/writing/telling about the things in my head thing and I am done for now.
See you soon. (Oh the meaning of that sentence is so much I could howl like a... dog? ew. Another animal reference (I think... I know the animal reference thing happens, comes up because my father treated my like I was an A N I M A L. ANIMAL.ANIMALANIMALANIMAL. That would have been animal abuse FOR SURE.) I am not a fucking animal.)
I hate what my father did and I hate the fact that he left all of this mess and pain and I have to... I have to go on now.
-Oh yeah, p.s.....if I make it to the concert (a swishy/switching feeling in my head now)... If I go to the concert I will write here about that. Or at least I will write that I went. If I go. Which I am unsure of. Because I am scared. Not an ANIMAL. Blood on the floor later. Blood would be everywhere later.
ONE FINAL NOTE: I AM GOING TO DO A 'SPELL CHECK' here and correct the words that come up from that, but I can not go back and edit what I have written or try to explain it in a 'better' or different way... because it... because trying to 'rearrange' or 'fix' any of what I have written here and how I have written it, well, I guess it would sort of be like shitting in the pudding. (If you know what I mean.....)