Scattered pieces

The following was given to me by our work place therapist. It was written by one of his clients…

There is a woman sitting in a room. All the walls of the room are engulfed in flames, which are raging relentlessly. To get to the door and get out, she must go through the flames. But her mind won’t give in to the overwhelming fear of getting burnt. Around her the flames are getting closer and the smoke is becoming thick. She is becoming weaker with each breath. She now realises that if she doesn’t get out soon, she is going to die. She imagines getting out and watching the wounds heal, but bearing the scars for the rest of her life. She thinks for a long time that dying would be so much easier and even less painful.

Outside, there are people going about their daily tasks. They smell the smoke, but convince themselves that it is merely a cigarette burning somewhere.

The woman is now growing very weak and calls out for help as she starts to fear death. Some people are genuinely deaf, but others choose not to hear her cries.

One person out of a crowd of many chooses to go to the room, clearly hearing the cries for help. But when he gets to the door, it is locked from the inside. The man becomes frustrated as he realises that all he can do is try to convince the woman to come through the flames and out the door.

The choice again is with the woman; come through the flames, knowing that there is a person waiting outside who chose to care, and be scarred. Or die alone in her own little room engulfed in flames.

Survivor?

Standing alone in the wasteland behind the house.
Her clothes torn, dirty and hanging on her thin frame.
Blonde hair hanging loosely.
Limbs bloodied and bruised.
Standing perfectly still, a blank look on her face.
Shoulders slightly hunched.
Hands held in tight fists.
The waif waits…

She looks through the murky window.
Watching those within.
Following them with her eyes.
As they run to and fro.
A woman catches sight of her.
This dirty, silent waif.
She approaches the glass…
Secure in the confines of her room.

Staring at each other through the glass.
Curious as to what they see.
Through dirt and despair.
They spot similarities.
The woman inches closer.
The waif stays still.
The woman raises her hand to the glass.
The waif draws in a breath and opens her mouth to scream.

Her face contorts with effort.
Her body shakes.
Hands tighten.
Mouth wide.
The woman flinches back.
Recoiling from the distortion she sees.
But there is no sound…
The waif never makes a sound, no matter how loud she screams.

This is the writing to accompany a You Tube clip Sophie did a couple of years ago.  Today, we find comfort and expression in the words.  It doesn’t quite sound right without the music and pictures, but someone asked if they could use (what they described as) this poem in a presentation about DID.  I’d never thought of the words as a separate entity until that point, but this is what Sophie wrote…

Little girl lost…
How much more can she take…
Before she breaks?
Looks our from behind the mask…
That hides the shattered fragments of her past.

Wonders what she ever did…
To make them treat her like this.
She tried to be invisible…
Tried to make everything perfect…
And she kept all of the secrets…
But the games continued.

She never knew what game they wanted…
She just knew it was going to hurt.
So she’d shut her eyes tightly…
And pretend she was somewhere else…
But some part remained…
Who felt the pain.

But now we cautiously look…
For help…
For understanding.
But all we feel is the pain…
Only now the scars are for all to see…
We’re not sure how much more pain we can take…
Before we have to escape.

Despite all the pain…
There are parts which hold an innocence…
And sense of wonder.
So we are at a crossroad…
Do we escape the pain permanently…
Or refuse to let the pain and abusers win…
By giving that innocence a chance…
To grow into strength, peace…
And tranquility.

—————-
Now playing: Brooke Fraser – Scarlet
via FoxyTunes

Flying through space, dissociated from everything
Watching all my fellow travellers trying to touch ground
But there is no ground in this strange land, just clouds
These clouds provide no sanctuary
They encourage you to fly higher and higher
Soaring higher into the bright blue sky

The colours are bright here in this cloud filled world
Blues are bluer
Greens are greener
Blood is redder
Smells are more intense too
Cigarette smoke burns your nose and lungs
Musty worn seats fill your senses

Memories fill the clouds
Clouds of pain
Clouds of scorn
Clouds of tears
Clouds of events you want to forget
Each touches you as you float by
Trying to grasp onto the cloud, only makes it dissipate before you

The clouds, like you, are lost with nowhere to go

I am small, young and lost.
Oh so vulnerable and ready to break with one more cross word or look.

I am small, young and needing to strike out.
So frustrated with not being able to tell anyone what is wrong.

I am small, young and dirty.
I’ll never be able to get clean, the dirt is so deep inside of me that no scrubbing brush can reach it.

I am small, young and silent.
I can’t talk, I have no voice and no way to express what is happening.

I am small, young and sore.
Please hurt me again, it’s all I deserve.

I am small, young and worthless.
I am rubbish at your feet.

We went to a Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction course a few years ago after being recommended it by our therapist at the time (who also ran the course – hmmm conflict of interest BIG TIME).  So we went obediently along hoping that it would help us be more “present” and slow the dissociative process.  There was a small group of about 10 people and they were quite an eclectic group – school counselors, couple with Parkinson’s Disease, some with anxiety and some with abuse issues.  First off we don’t do well in group settings – have this tendency to clam up unless Sophie can be present and shyly chat with a few other introverts.  So our experience with the whole course was not all that good.  It ended with a day of silent meditation and reflection – otherwise known as triggering hell.

During this course, we were read this poem/short story called Autobiography in Five Short Chapters by Portia Nelson.  Initially we thought that it sort of explained our life – remember we’re hearing impaired and that this was in a group setting where there were influences of the others going “ohhhhh yes, that’s our life”.  Ok, so some of us thought it was therapy dribble that didn’t deserve the time taken to read it – but some of us thought it made sense.  We recently read it again and, possibly with a more cynical eye, wonder about the real message it is sending.  The first two chapters say “It isn’t my fault” and then move onto “It is my fault”.  I’m not sure about anyone else who’s been through abuse, but we ALWAYS blamed ourselves or each other for the abuse from the start.  The hard bit is trying to feel any anger (or anything) towards the abusers.  Surely we asked or deserved to be treated like that, why else would anyone do those things?

There’s an analysis of the poem at another site that talks about the metaphors etc.  But now we question it’s appropriateness for abuse survivors and wonder if it should have been read at the Mindfulness course at all – or maybe it was an indication of the worth/quality of the course???

I was going to try and alter the poem to look at it from an abusive point of view, but can’t.  We aren’t wordsmiths, and the poem just doesn’t suit our experiences.