Court, shopping and withdrawing
It’s become obvious that I’ve been withdrawing from everything lately. It always starts slowly… I’ll sit at my desk, rather than go out with the others for breaks at work; I’ll leave the car out with the intention of going to take photos, but end up putting it away a few hours later because I’m “too tired” or it’s now “too dark” to take photos. I wasn’t really sure why I’ve been withdrawing, or rather, which particular stressor was causing the withdrawal. I only knew that is was happening. Yesterday, I moved one step closer to eliminating one stressor – the dissolution of my marriage. The laws in New Zealand require you to have been separated from your partner for two years before you can dissolve the marriage (get a divorce). That milestone was up on 14 February of this year. So we took the papers to the Family Court to start the official process… it was an interesting trip which caused the activation of ones that hadn’t been present for quite some time.
We took two hours off work to take the papers to court, thinking that would be plenty of time for the fairly simple matter of handing over some papers and paying a fee… how wrong was I!
It started off well… we went into the Family Court reception and were served by the nice lady who took our Protection Order application nearly two years ago. She checked the forms, notarized them where it was appropriate and double checked that none of our personal details appeared on the forms to protect us from any contact from the husband. Then we asked some seemingly innocent questions about what would happen next… in particular asking about how he was to be notified of the dissolution when we didn’t know where he lived… This is where the smooth operation came to a screaming halt.
“What do you mean you don’t know where he lives?” The slightly stunned clerk asked…
“Well, we actively try to avoid knowing anything about him because of the Protection Order.”
“So, what’s this address here…” as she points to the address we’ve listed.
“That’s his lawyers address.” We reply, thinking it makes perfect sense to serve the papers to his lawyer.
“You can’t serve the papers to his lawyer, it has to be him in person.”
“But… I have no idea where he is.”
“You need to try and find him.”
At this point, the clerk confers with another worker about the situation and asks what my options are… Meanwhile we’re dissociating, spinning and trying to keep it together despite the internal chaos… we can’t find him… don’t make us have to find him… don’t make us talk to him or his family again…
After a rather convoluted discussion, the clerk comes back to tell us that we have to try and find him through any means necessary; but if we can’t, we can fill in another form to say that the papers can be served on his parents… But we still need someone to serve them… Someone over 18 to serve the papers to them in person… Someone would have to go to his parents house, knock on the door and give the papers to them…
This news brought another round of dissociation and internal noise… we can’t go to the witch’s house… she hates us… she’ll yell at us… please don’t make us!
Thankfully another woman yelled out that we could pay someone from the court where they live to serve the papers on our behalf…
This just left the problem of trying to find him! So off to the public library we went, looking for electoral roles… We walked there thinking it would be quicker than taking the car, but on the way there was all sorts of activation by different parts… Can we buy a toy? Oh look, a sale! Can we go see that movie? That’s a pretty dress. The desire to get sidetracked was immense… there was so much panic about trying to find the husband. With each comment, suggestion or pull, M tried to assure each one that we would go back later, but that we really needed to find the husband to make us all safe.
We found that the husband hadn’t changed his details official details from when he lived with us. We tried telephone directories and the Internet, but couldn’t find him.
There was another round of attempted distractions on the way back to court, but M deflected each one. When we returned to court, we filled in even more paperwork to say that we’d tried to find the husband. All the while, the internal noise was getting louder and louder.
It was only when we were driving away that the noise quietened. So much so, that by the time we got to a toy store, to keep the promise of buying something later, all the young ones had gone quiet.
On the surface, I can see the noise and chaos was an indication of our stress about the situation. But, I think it goes deeper than that. It was about our fear of having to do anything to do with him, fearing possibly having to see him again, fear that he will react when he gets the papers… It’s also about dissolving the marriage, and therefore admitting we made a mistake in getting married… it’s an indication of our failure.
I still feel the anxiety, disconnection and withdrawal from life… I don’t quite know how to ease that. I’ve tried making an appointment with my psychiatrist to get a review of my medication, but need ACC approval and funding before I can go – which means it could be several months before I get in to see him. This week, I’m wanting to quit therapy… I cancelled Jo and have come close to cancelling Liz several times. Everything about therapy annoys me at the moment – trying to talk, all of Liz’s responses, her making us draw when we retreat and can’t talk…
We found this photo called Just Red by Burning Image… it’s a good representation of how we’re feeling…
Letter to a young one
Dear young one,
First of all, you are young. You are not a little adult, you are a young girl… This alone should explain so much to you, but it won’t because I know you are fighting and struggling to make sense of the world you find yourself in. You are strong, brave and stubborn… You take on so much of the world around you, that it is hard to make you out as an individual identity. But, please remember that you are a young girl…
I sense that you need to hear the words “I forgive you”, but there is nothing to forgive you for. You did an amazing job holding it all together when those around you were hurting you and themselves. I’m so sorry that you had to take on this burden of abuse. This burden had nothing to do with how pretty, thin, attractive or loud you were… there are no reasons why… there are excuses, but no reasons. I’m not sure what will ease your sense of guilt and ownership over the abuse… I could quote you research about alcoholic fathers, absentee mothers, sibling rivalry and a society built around ignoring the child as an individual with rights, but I know that you will look for excuses within that research… You will look for any proof that the abuse was, and is, your fault. So I won’t hand you that information to confuse you further, instead I would like to do what should have happened long ago… get down to your eye level, look you straight in the eye and say “It wasn’t your fault”. You hold no blame for what happened, they were events done to you, not by you. Even the events where you are sure you were the instigator, you weren’t. You were trying to find new ways to protect yourself and ease the burden.
I stand in awe of what you accomplished through all of the pain of what was happening to you. Do you know that? I don’t know how you did it. You have a strength I cannot fathom. The amount of times you picked yourself up and kept on going… the amount of times you looked towards the pain and kept on going. I’m so proud to consider that you are what I have come from. You excelled in all that you tried – I have the reports which tell of your intelligence, I’m told you moved with grace and poise on the dance floor and you played above your grade in sports you enjoyed. I know you consider these accomplishments nothing, and I wish you could tell them with pride. But what really amazes me, is that you defended those around you whom you thought were being picked on. Your sense of social justice remained intact, despite all of what happened to you. Not only did it remain intact, but you actively found ways to defend and help those who were being victimised. You couldn’t succeed all the time, but you tried… and kept on trying no matter what.
I’m not sure that I will ever understand what happened to you. Looking back, I don’t know what advice I could give you that would ease your burden. I could say “don’t trust people”, but then I wonder if you didn’t have some form of trust, whether you would still hold to that sense of social justice? I could tell you not to go near the kindergarten playground, or near that woodshed… but I know that this wouldn’t solve the problems you faced. I want to protect you from the pain you faced, but I know I am helpless to do so. My only hope now, is to help you heal. I’m not sure how to do this, and in this I need your help. I need to know what you need, and when you need it. I try my best to help you heal, but I know I make mistakes. I hope you forgive these errors… I know this is asking a lot of you, especially when so many people have let you down in the past, but I again need you to be strong. This is a different strength, this isn’t about putting up with more pain… this is about telling me when it hurts, telling me when you are scared, telling me when you need help. We all need help young one, but it takes strength to ask and receive that help…
Thank you for all you have done for me, young one. You have given me so many gifts, it is now my turn to return some of those gifts, if you will let me. You will notice that I don’t mention the word “love”… I avoid using this word as we all know that I don’t understand the concept… instead, please understand that I respect and admire you. I couldn’t have made it this far without you…
Yours sincerely,
M
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Now playing: Anna Nalick – Breathe
via FoxyTunes
Respite care failure
M is not particularly good at communicating, while she may have a solid reason for any decision, this is often no communicated well to the rest of us. So when she was reluctant to call the crisis team, I thought she was blocking our attempts to achieve safety, or possibly protecting the young ones in her care from the trigger of going to hospital. I was wrong. Her greatest fear was realised, the crisis team can’t do anything to help us stay safe. She wasn’t worried about the respite care or the hospital, she’d prepared her young ones for that; she was worried about them not being able to do anything. In some respects, what happened was worse – we had several phone conversations with a very nice and understanding crisis nurse who explained about coping mechanisms and grounding techniques, but informed us that there were no respite beds available. After referring to our notes and talking to us for over half an hour, she assured us that the nearly full local psychiatric ward wasn’t the right place for us. Instead she encouraged us to continue with our coping mechanisms and taking it a day at a time.
It was the worst case scenario, the crisis team were trying their best, but don’t have the resources to help us. The were polite, friendly and called back twice to check on us, and to try reassure us that we can do this. It was devastating. This was M’s biggest fear… we need safety and we can’t get it. We’ve now officially tried all of our options. There is nowhere else to turn. Sometimes when we’ve called the crisis team, the service has been so bad that it’s kicked us into a release of anger that has driven us through the suicidal ideation and out the other side. It’s acted like a release on the pressure valve. We couldn’t even get that today… the nurse was so polite and trying to suggest ways to get appropriate boundaries in place with the mother etc.
In many ways our suicide attempts have appeared impulsive… there’s been a final trigger that has pushed us over the edge. But the plans are well thought out, just waiting for that final trigger. This is what we fear may happen again. In many ways we’re calm and functional – when we told the mother we were calling the crisis team she asked when things had got bad again, we explained that they’d never been good. I know this could be an indication that the mother has no clue as to our true level of functioning, rather than any indication of how we appear to be coping, but it gives a hint as to how we appear to the world. The crisis nurse could see through the veneer, she said we sounded in trouble, she just couldn’t do anything about it.
When the crisis nurse confirmed that there would be no assessment and there were no places, we were in tears. We were crying because we gave up on getting help. We know that no one can do this work for us, but we’d really like some help to get us through the rough patches…
Failure – as in, I feel like one
As a warning, this might not be one of my most rational entries – and there have been some pretty irrational ones over the past year…
Today we went to see Liz for our scheduled appointment. It was a monumental disaster. We had to talk about a report for ACC to ensure we continue to receive funding (yes, this funding seems to be a continual battle). We were in protection mode, pretty much shut down with Sophie only able to look at the keys she was playing with in her hands. We’re very aware that ACC want to see improvement – no matter how small. But, we haven’t improved much and if we put that in the report, we would probably end up being sent for a psychiatric assessment. We had this knowledge sitting in the back of our head and were trying to tailor our answers as a consequence. Then Liz casually dropped a bombshell…
“We can’t have you functioning too low or out of control or they’ll refer you to mental health services for the DBT programme.”
This is one of our nightmares… being sent to DBT in New Zealand.
I know people are helped by that programme every day. I know it helps with emotion regulation and mindfulness… I know it could potentially help me immensely. BUT over here, there is no streaming or grouping according to functioning, you are placed in the first opening they have. There aren’t any evening courses, so I’d end up having to take time off work. This means that I could end up in a group which is incredibly low functioning and triggering for me. I don’t cope well with groups, so I’d sit there like a stuffed dummy, avoiding the whole situation – I didn’t talk once during a Mindfulness course which lasted for six weeks. What’s worse is that it will odds are trigger M to come forward to protect us, so we’d end up appearing saner than the therapists and be ticked off as “cured” very quickly.
Yes, I know this hasn’t happened and was just an idle comment by Liz… but with the changes in ACC policy, it’s a very real possibility. I never thought I’d say it, but please let them decide that I need a psychiatric assessment. Anything but DBT.
The flip side of this conversation, is that we now think that we’re too much for Liz to cope with and this is her way of introducing the idea of us moving on to someone else. So the concept of testing her with our trust, went flying out the window. Again, I know that she hasn’t said that she’s going anywhere… It’s just our damaged perception of what happened.
Problem is, our damaged perception seems very real right now.
Stand by me
I was 24 when I last talked to the father. It was during my first year of being on-campus at university and I’d agreed to stay with him for a long weekend. He hadn’t been contributing to our care since the divorce when we were 16, but we still a sense of duty to him because… well, he is the father. To say that the weekend was a disaster, would be an understatement. He lived alone in a cold, small, two bedroom semi-detached house situated at the bottom of a hill. The house felt dirty, but I think that was our association of his dirtiness getting mixed up in the perception of the house. He had become a bitter, mean old man who took pleasure in putting others down and feeding his narcissistic desires. He was not pleasant to be near.
In a move similar to asking the mother to leave when she came to visit, I left the father’s house earlier than planned. I couldn’t cope with him. The day I left I knew that I would not be able to see him again as he was too toxic. I grieved on the drive home… grieved for the father I realised I would never have, and the one I was now leaving behind. While listening to the radio during the drive, a song came on that started the tears – Stand by me by Ben E. King. To me, the song is about being strong enough to face the darkness of your fears, as long as there is someone standing beside you. During that car trip, this was particularly meaningful… I knew I was about to tell the family about my decision to no longer have contact with the father. I also knew that I was probably going to have to confront the father as well.
At the time I was living alone – I didn’t even have Winnie (our cat). So, I knew that there would be no one standing beside me, instead it would be up to the dissociative system to come together in a meaningful way to protect us all. This was at a time when I had no working knowledge of my dissociation, but I remember the internal conversations which evolved as I was taking the long trip home… There was fear, screaming, celebrations and physical pain caused by tension… But then, in a shift that I’ve now come to identify as M taking over, there was a sudden calmness and knowledge of what needed to be done. This calmness allowed Sophie to listen to the song and begin our grieving. I don’t think we fully explored the grief, but the song allowed us to cry for things we wouldn’t have and to get to a place of accepting what was happening.
When we got home, we made the necessary phone calls to the family. I don’t remember much about that time, but I do remember slamming the phone down on the father with the parting words that he and I had “never been able to talk”. I have seen him since that time – grandfather’s funeral etc. We’ve tried to be civil to him, purely out of fear and not wanting to cause more trouble within the family. But I know that under that veneer of civility, Frank is waiting to tell the father just what damage he has done. I also know that such a discussion would be pointless, as he is incapable of seeing his own faults and it would only serve to frustrate us further.
There have been other versions of the song done, but it’s Ben E. King’s version that affects us the most…
Jo
I’ve just come from an appointment with Jo. Jo is a physically similar to us in many ways, which made it hard when we walked in today and found her with her arm in a sling, a foot brace on her right foot, bruises on her arms and a black eye. We were already a little fragile, but that sent us over the edge. It was impossible to stop transferring her injuries to how it was with us when we were with the husband. She assured us that she had been hurt in a fall caused by her wearing high heels which she was unfamiliar with… But inside the young ones were screaming that someone had pushed her. Even after further assurance, they still didn’t believe her – we used to make excuses and say that the bruises were for all sorts of reasons.
We couldn’t cope with her in all of the bandages, so blocked her from our vision. When we get particularly stressed about something visual, that object becomes blurred in our vision. So Jo became a dark blur in the upper left corner, of what became a narrower and narrower field of vision. We had to leave, we couldn’t stay. We were dissociating and switching all over the place. M was trying to bring a sense of calm to the system by blocking out and stamping down the memories again, but it was too late… the memories were triggered and running rampant.
We felt so guilty for making her injuries about us and our triggers. We were worried for her, but the overwhelming message came about us being hurt. Feeling so pathetic and weak for not showing someone the care that they needed.
We’re now sitting at work freaking… we usually wear our headphones and listen to music when we’re like this, but each time the cords touch our neck we’re triggered into thinking his hands are around our neck again. We can’t stop shaking and jumping at each sound or flash of light. Only four more hours before we can go home to the safety of the house…
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Now playing: Brooke Fraser – Lifeline
via FoxyTunes
Journaling
When we started this blog over a year ago, we never thought we’d maintain it for any length of time. We’d previously tried journaling in paper format and never been able to maintain it for longer than a week. We never knew what to say, and quite frankly the idea of writing down our thoughts was terrifying. This is possibly why we had so much trouble with doing a time-line with Liz on Monday. I know that we consider the written word incredibly important – our escape while growing up, was to curl up in the Sun somewhere and read for hours on end, escaping into an imagined world. Books and words were our safety, journaling and written based therapy exercises could be seen as a threat to that sense of safety. Online blogs aren’t tactile, and we associate online writing with work, so we can do this as it doesn’t have the same emotional ties that a book has.
In many ways, we treat this blog as our journal. The problem is that we know we have a small group of readers for our work here, so we can’t be as honest as we should and we get hung up with worrying about others perceptions of us. We’ve tried creating separate online journals, but each of these has failed over time. It is often when we need to write the most, that we shut down and don’t write anything. Instead of reaching out and trying to express/process the pain, we go back to our old coping mechanisms of cutting everything and everyone off. It’s only recently that I’ve been called on this – friends and Liz have accused me of shutting them out, I know I do it and can see it happening, but am powerless to stop it (at the moment).
Now that we have this site, we’re going to start another journal. Maybe this one will work, I don’t know. Today we went to the Zoo and it was interesting as Aimee wanted to write about the trip here. But she is 9 and nearly illiterate, I wouldn’t expose her/us like that here, but it is the sort of thing that we should add to a private blog. Looks like I’ll have to get M moving on creating the new private journal :)
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Now playing: Ludwig van Beethoven – Symphony No. 3 in E flat major (‘Eroica’), Op. 55: Marcia funebre, Adagio assai
via FoxyTunes
Raspberry and chips
Please note that this may trigger.
The husband of our cynical friend was buried today. It was an amazing service which showed how much he was loved by those around him. The eulogies were funny and heartfelt. Our friend held up well throughout the funeral, she cried and was supported by her youngest daughter… the love within the family was obvious and honest. One of the graphic designers at work did a montage of photos of his life, it was amazing to see how much he had changed, but not changed over the years – the laughter in his eyes was there all the way through.
We were close to not going to the funeral, we don’t find funerals easy things to attend. They tend to overwhelm us with too many messages… but we were fine today. Our friend also said she was looking for us when we went to give her a hug afterwards, so I’m glad we went. She deserves all the support she can get.
After the funeral there was a wake held at a working men’s club. We didn’t particularly want to go to this as we knew there would be lots of people, but everyone from work pressured us into going. We were fine driving there and parking… it was when we got to the door that the trouble began. This club is like many throughout New Zealand, they have a similar feel and design – a big open space with table for standing and drinking at while you watch the big screen TV, and another area for dining. The smell of alcohol greets you at the door. What also greeted me at the door was the first flashback.
The father managed a working men’s club as we were growing up. Our lives revolved around that club, sport and alcohol. We were abused at that club. We were forced to drink alcohol for the first time in that club. Some of us still live in that club within our head, they’re stuck there. Walking into the club today triggered them all…
M took control as best she could, but she has problems with alcohol – she uses it to drown out the noise in the head. As we walked to the bar all we could hear is the noise of the crowd becoming fainter and the internal screaming getting louder and louder.
“Raspberry and chips… raspberry and chips… raspberry and chips…”
This is all M could hear, so she orders a drink to drown out the sound. The screaming gets louder as she takes the first sip of beer. She always drinks beer as it makes us drunk quicker. The first beer doesn’t deaden the screaming, time for another…
Random flashes, snippets and sounds from the past come through… some good, some not so good, some horrific. Still the screaming…
“Raspberry and chips… raspberry and chips… raspberry and chips…”
M tries deep breathing, but that doesn’t calm the noise… Time for another drink. No one around us is aware of anything going on. M answers all the questions and shows an interest in everything as she continues to drink. I don’t know how much she drank, it’s always hard to tell as the dissociation seems to mask the effects of the alcohol… or maybe we’re just immune to the effects, I’m not sure.
We all know what “Raspberry and chips” means… it was a reward for being a good girl after the abuse. We hate raspberry soda and potato chips…
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Now playing: Crowded House – Better be home soon
via FoxyTunes
Struggling
I’m struggling… struggling to maintain the feeling of being alive and being an adult.
Tomorrow I go to the funeral of my cynical work friends husband. He died on Sunday after a year of battling cancer. I unsuccessfully researched the guilt associated with someone who is suicidal continuing to live, while someone who was in love and loved life dies a horrible death. There seems a great injustice in that scenario. When I mentioned it to Liz on Monday, she came very close to talking about religion again, but squeaked by with the “there must be a reason” line. I’m at a loss as to what that reason is.
We’ve been asking M to do a majority of the work and I think this might be part of the reason why we’re struggling. M is incredibly functional, focused and driven; but she comes with the baggage of addiction issues which can harm the rest of us. I’m not sure how to break through this barrier that we seem to have up. I’m not sure if it is the time of year causing the problem (Wedding Anniversary, ex-husbands birthday and Christmas are approaching). It could also be the work environment which is still negative and emotionally draining.
I suppose the big problem is that I was hoping the time off work would help to ease these issues, but it hasn’t. Maybe I was hoping for another quick fix… I’m realising that quick fixes don’t seem to exist within mental health.
Alone again
I’ve just dropped the mother off at the airport. She agreed to go home last night – so she doesn’t put me through more “torture” (her words).
I feel like the worst daughter ever. I know she doesn’t mean any harm and she was trying to help, but it wasn’t working. When we woke up this morning, I thought maybe I’d made a mistake and she should stay… But then on the way to the airport she was talking about the cold snap that has come up the country and how it would hurt all the lambs (yes, I can’t even type what really would have happened to them). I don’t watch the news at this time of the year because I know they will show the horrific shots of the lambs in trucks. In my world, no lambs get hurt… Most people would realise that you shouldn’t talk about cute animals being hurt to someone who is DID and suicidal, not so my mother. This is why I’m sure that she really doesn’t understand DID or me. She doesn’t intend to be cruel or nasty, she just doesn’t realise the implications of her words.
Because of her words, this is how Sophie was feeling last night… It’s bad when one of our most high functioning and optimistic one does a collage like this.
