Tag: depression

+DISSOCIATION FROM CHILD ABUSE NEVER LEAVES US

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Written October 16, 2006

I walked into a crowded yet rural gas station-café after spending 3 weeks the summer of 2006 with my friend in her cabin in the northern Minnesota woods.  I experienced instantaneous sensory and perceptual overload.  It was not a logical reaction.  I felt like I shattered, splintered and fragmented.  I was suddenly now in a different world.  I needed a different Linda to cope with it.

It was like the ongoing ME of the past weeks was ‘a state of mind’ that could not transition into this different one, and I suffered disintegration in response to the input of ‘so many possibilities’ that I confronted once I walked in the door of this public establishment.  I could not help but react in almost panic.

It was as if every potential and possible reaction that could possibly happen consumed as much of my attention as what was actually happening at the moment I entered the room, although nothing unusual was happening around me at all.  The unusual was within my own body.  I was just as aware of what could happen as I was of what was happening.  It was as if I could notice at the same time things that might demand my attention in the future even though they didn’t in the present.

It seemed that by my walking into the café I had changed ‘their world’, and I could sense far more of their reactions than these people were probably even aware of themselves.  I do not understand how I could be that aware of what the possibilities of interactions might be, even though I only directly interacted with the cashier near the door.  It was like everything got noisy, very loud, in terms of what I could sense.  I was immediately on overload and left as fast as possible.

THAT was a disorganizing experience, the kind that I believe results from a disorganized-disoriented insecure attachment disorder.  Just because we grow into adults does not make our insecure attachments disappear.  I don’t believe it’s ‘just about’ our intimate relationships.  It’s about our whole operation as a self in the world.  I never got to build a solid, safe and secure self that can move around throughout all the transitions of life in a coherent, dependable, ongoing way.

It was as if all these possibilities of complexity triggered a transitional state for me that I could not include within my mind.  I could not narrow what was coming in to me so that I could comfortably focus on the immediate reality of the ‘place’ I was in.  Transitional states of mind are normally brief, just long enough to take in new information, assess it for value and safety, and respond appropriately.  Ordinarily this happens (in innocuous situations) so fast one does not notice that these transitional spaces even exist, let alone know that one has been passed through.

I doubt others without a severe trauma background would be aware of the ‘essence of energy’ present in that small establishment I walked into – and out of.  It was almost like little ghost selves dissolved out of all those bodies and came rushing toward me and hovered around, too close for comfort, when I walked in that door.  I was certainly noticed, stranger I was in their world.

The ghosts felt to me to be curious, pushy, forward, some of them leering.  People do have life forces and energies about them, but in our culture we are not given permission to know this.  We are supposed to ignore all but the socially acceptable versions of exchange between people that we are all supposed to be trained to recognize.

Yet because my childhood was so strange, and so altered from the ‘ordinary’, I did not learn what these appropriate social exchange patterns are really all about.  And even when I try my hardest to figure them out, that never makes me the same as people whose selves formed under far more ordinary circumstances, and this constant trying is a whole lot of work

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Our culture presumes and assumes that people are contained within the boundaries of the skin of their bodies.  Yet we are always ‘sensing’ others’ information they ‘put out’, whether we want to or not.  Most do not have to pay attention to it in their usual, ongoing lives.  I suspect for those of us whose bodies were formed during extremely threatening and dangerous conditions, our sensing abilities operate in different ways and are extremely difficult to shut off.  Just because people do not ‘ordinarily’ admit that parts of others can actually ‘journey’ outside of their bodies, communicate things and be perceived does not mean it does not happen.

It can also be very difficult for early-traumatized people to efficiently sort out the information.  It is hard for us to truly know what is important and what is not.  We were formed to be hypervigilant about ALL information, so we get more of it, have a harder time knowing what it means, and a harder time knowing how to respond to it appropriately.

Because early traumas change the formation of the body, brain and nervous system, and because we later are supposed to slide right into an ordinary life after having experienced anything but an ordinary childhood, we are exposed yet again to forms of incompatibility between ourselves and our environment.  We are as powerless to change the bigger world we live in as adults as we were to change the far narrower one we lived in as growing children.

Some of us will always be outside of the worlds that others live in, left only to imagine what their more ‘ordinary’ perceptions of being in the world is really like.  Some of us will just never know what ‘ordinary’ is.  We can’t help that.  We were formed that way.  I was dissociated from the ordinary throughout the 18 years of my childhood.  I cannot expect those patterns to disappear now.

Some things about the way our brains, bodies and nervous systems we can work to change, but we must be realistic.  I will never be physiologically the same as I would have been if the terrible abuse had not happened to me — especially so early.  My hope is that those of us with these altered bodies will begin to dialog with one another to improve our understandings of what life is like for us — especially on the level of what we cannot change and must find ways to live with.

Just because we developed in an extra-ordinary world of trauma does not make us ‘wrong’.  We had to adapt in order to survive, and we did.  The consequences are very real.  We need to know how the world is to us, and how we are in the world.  From there we can begin to dialog better within ourselves, with one another as severe child abuse survivors, and with those who were built in, by and for a MUCH nicer world than we were.

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+PLEASE DON’T TELL ME TO LEAVE MY ABUSE IN THE PAST – IT’S NOT POSSIBLE!

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Someone recently made this so familiar comment to me:  …”in our life somehow things do happen but we need 2 let the past be the past in our life….”

When someone tells me something like this now, I know that they either have no clue what severe early child abuse is, they had at least one strong attachment that acted as a powerful resiliency factor in childhood even if they were abused, or they are trying to apply an inaccurate, worn out, unhelpful adage from the past to their own situation as they try to live a good life in spite of what they have been through.

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I continue to ‘fight back’ against the pressure and force that these kinds of comments create for me as they present impossible ‘as if’ fantasy solutions.  While I know these comments are meant to be ‘helpful’, they still bring out more and more of my fierce fight-for-life spirit because they do NOT fully address the situations of people like me and I am being asked to do the impossible.

The most important point I have learned in the past 5 years I have spent researching my own situation is that because the abuse I suffered started so early, was so pervasive, chronic and devastating, I do NOT have the choice to ‘let the past be the past’.  The adaptive changes that my developing brain, body, nervous system and immune system had to make in the hostile, dangerous and malevolent world of my childhood CHANGED me in permanent ways that cannot be altered.

I now know that I have very real, clear and definable disabilities within me as a result of my being so abused from the time I was born.  My disabilities are no less real or devastating than would be any other kind of serious disability.  Just because the scars of the abuse do not show on the outside, just because my body grew from that of an infant and child into an adult one, does not mean in any way that I do not have permanent, irreversible and serious consequences of that abuse within me — as I will until the day that I die.

Now I know that expecting myself to be able to ‘leave the past behind’ is at best a silly expectation, and at worst an erosive thought that corrodes my own hard-worked-for progress toward living the best life I can live IN SPITE of the damage done to me by the abuse I suffered.

We are not all alike in terms of the resiliency factors that were present for us as children.  Our experiences were not all alike in terms of the quality of attachments with caregivers within our early worlds.  Our genetics are not alike.  We cannot support one another the way we wish to if we ever believe that we simply KNOW what another person can accomplish.

I see the wordless image of a person waking in the middle of the night with their house on fire.  They grab a blanket from their bed and wrap it around themselves as they race out the door.  Just because they may have escaped the inferno within the house itself (our childhood) does not mean we are safe if our clothing and our blanket, even the skin of our body is still engulfed in flames even AFTER we get out alive.

In severe child abuse cases, we do not have the luxury of ever being able to ‘get away’ from the raging fire of destruction that our home of origin was.  We carry the burning flames right out the door with us.  Pretending that we got away unscathed, and pretending that we were not seriously damaged as a consequence of our abuse, will never give us the ability to realistically evaluate and assess what happened to us.

Pretending we are completely whole and safe once we leave our abusive childhood situations will never help us heal from the continuing woundedness within ourselves.  We need to learn as much as we can about the ‘exact nature’ of the damage so that we can be supremely realistic about what we can, as adults, expect of ourselves.  Having the specific FACTS will allow us to gain more and more conscious awareness and thus more and more POWER for good over ourselves and our lives.

Healing is not about being in a competition.  It is NOT about seeing who can forget their past traumas and ‘get on with living in the present’ the fastest.  It is not about shaming ourselves and one another because we can’t accomplish this impossible goal.  The reality is that the foundational attachment processes of being able to live as a self in the world have been damaged.  We need to know what that means, and we need to REALISTICALLY know what we can do about healing these attachment wounds as they manifest themselves in all kinds of later problems in our lives.

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As I described in yesterday’s post, my mother insanely demanded the impossible of me and then abused me for 18 years because I could not comply with her demands.  I could not let her invade and devour the essence of who I was.  Nature’s rules do not allow for this to happen.  When someone tells me to leave my abuse in my past and get on with living, they are asking me to accomplish an EQUALLY impossible task.

One can never leave their child abuse in the past if it was severe enough to change they way their entire being (and body) developed during those early critical growth windows of developmental opportunity.  Both these ‘demands’ are thus similar to me — whether it was my mother demanding that I allow her to invade and devour my soul — or whether it is a well-meaning person today who tells me to leave my childhood in the past.  Both of these demands could only be accomplished by the death of my body.  Otherwise, they are impossible.

We need to rethink and think clearly what we mean when we tell ourselves and others  to ‘get over it’.  Obviously I cannot live without a body — and that body is the same one that all my traumatic abuse is built into.  It is far more useful and possible for me to find out what that MEANS and what I can learn about living well in spite of the facts.

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As long as we pretend that we can leave our abusive childhoods behind us ‘in the past’, we will at the same time be allowing all the unconscious, unrecognized, unknown difficulties that our childhoods created in our bodies and minds to run rampant – uncontrolled, unchecked, not dealt with, and UNRESOLVED – to wreck havoc with our lives, our health, our futures, our relationships, and our offspring.

Denial is NOT what we need to solve our problems!  Denial allows trauma to rule our lives and spread out around us through our actions like the contaminating, destructive, contagious virus that it is.  We have no chance of living well with our woundedness or of finding a cure for trauma unless we open our hearts, minds and eyes to the TRUTH about the damage that abuse, neglect and malicious actions causes anyone — ESPECIALLY to infants and young children.

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A much more helpful response to make to a person who is suffering from long term, lifelong changes due to having survived severe abuse from childhood — or trauma of any kind at any time — is simply to communicate that we are aware of the trauma, that we care, and that we are willing to offer ongoing encouraging (appropriate) support.  I believe it’s that simple, and that’s what building safe and secure attachment patterns at any stage of our life is all about!

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+IN MY MOTHER’S WORDS: WHY SHE HAD TO ABUSE ME

alchemynow1 Comment

I just surprising discovered in my mother’s 1957 diary her own written account of her version of reality related to one of the most long term and vicious child abuse memories of my young childhood.

I am stunned by her words, by the fact that she EVER allowed herself to write them, that this diary has survived these 52 years, that I have them in my possession, and that I found them last night.

I have done my best to describe my present day reaction to these writings, though I feel I have very nearly failed completely in my efforts to understand their true value or meaning.

I wish I knew more.  I wish I understood better, could see more clearly, and comprehend more objectively how twisted my mother was and how much I suffered as a result of her insidious, malicious mental illness.

It is a bizarre and strangely bizarre experience to actually have the words of a perpetrator in the hands of the victim.  However inadequate my efforts may be, all I can offer today is my presentation of

my mother’s version of what happened to me about the bubble gum

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+OPENING OUR OWN HEARTS AND MINDS TO THE REALITIES OF CHILD ABUSE

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There are too many new letters being transcribed to include them all on the temporary page.  I am spending time right now working on the 1960 letters and am currently working on April and May of that year – with more to follow as they are filed within the months of 1960.

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I especially would like to recommend to readers the important comments made today on this blog by Paul M. McLaughlin.

Please visit the two comment pages he posted to:  Stop the Storm’s Contact Information Page and to the post HOW DID THE ABUSE CHANGE US?  Valuable links to his website, to the record of his work to prevent child abuse, and to his personal story are contained in his comments.

I am honored that Paul has shared the heroic story of his life as a survivor of 20 years of terrible childhood abuse with me and with my readers.  Thank you, Paul!

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I have benefited over the years from the efforts of many therapists that I was able to access on my pathway of healing.  Some of the words that I heard them tell me have returned when I have needed to remember them.  I would like to say a heartfelt “THANK YOU” to all the professionals working in a wide variety of fields to help not only prevent child abuse, but to help those of us who survived it, to heal.

After my work on the ‘writings’ yesterday I had great difficulty in sleeping last night.  It is now 9:30 at night and I am only now feeling ‘strong enough’ to approach any writing for today.

The words of two separate therapists from my past echoed in my mind today.  One of them said to me, over and over again, “Linda, always do what YOU need to do to take care of yourself.”  When I look back at the sessions I had with this woman, I remember that I had to take a tape recorder with me to record every session.  Without these recordings I could never remember one single thing we talked about together.

I didn’t understand dissociation at that time.  Nor did this therapist ‘waste’ any time explaining it to me.  We simply together found a way around the problem as it related to our sessions.  I would play the tapes over again several times between sessions, and doing so helped me to ‘grow into’ the topics we discussed.  But the single most important gift I received from this woman are the words I just mentioned.  “Always do what YOU need to do to take care of yourself.”

Those simple words contain within them a universe of healing potential.  They will never be words I will outgrow, or afford to ignore.  Today has been a day when I had to take special good care of myself.  Survivors need to learn how to do this for ourselves, always.

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The other set of words a therapist of my past told me that came into my mind today are about the process of healing itself.  She told me that this process is like a finely crocheted, beautiful doily.  What makes them attractive is the balance between tight and wide open spaces within the pattern.  She told me that when we sometimes work very hard on an ‘issue’ we are making the tight, close together, denser part of the pattern of our healing.  But we need the loose times, as well.  There are times we have to leave all of it completely alone, take a break, do whatever we need to do to give ourselves a rest from the ‘work’ itself.

I thought about these words today and am so grateful for the opportunities I have been given in the past to access quality therapy.  Each time of contact I have had with each ‘specialist’ gave me what I needed at that point in time.  Today I carry so much within me of what these people gave me – as well as the work I did for myself each step of the journey along the way.

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Reading Paul McLaughlin’s words echoed with the sadness inside of me about how hurtful ANY abuse is, but particularly the abuse of infants and young children.  I believe that we have a social taboo against truly allowing ourselves to look severe abuse of the tiniest of people straight in the eye.  No species endures if their most helpless offspring are not cared for and cherished.

While the taboos against harming infants and children exist for a wide purpose, I want to encourage all of us to build up our tolerance – like building and strengthening muscles – so that we can allow ourselves to know in our minds and in our feelings what the reality of early terrible abuse of young ones really is – that it exists, that it happens, that it has severe and lifelong consequences.

I am not suggesting that we pursue a morbid approach – just an educational one for ourselves as members of a culture that continues to need to ‘raise consciousness’ about child abuse and neglect.  Paul’s writings contribute to this denial-smashing.  True, Paul was born in 1948 and I was born in 1950, both of us in a time when public awareness and consciousness about child abuse was still in the stone ages.

But what touched me most today when I visited his website is that there were no doubt many, many, many people surrounding this boy and his twin sister who SHOULD have used common sense to intervene to protect these children.  I’m not going to be the one here to point the finger, but read his story and look at it yourself.  If we were all actors and actresses in a stage play of his childhood, what would each of us have been able to do differently from what the people actually did who were there?

Where and how in today’s world, where we each live our lives, can we apply new insights and new information so that if history ever repeats itself within the sphere of our individual influence we can do something BETTER to help a child – to help many children – that so desperately need someone to notice, pay attention, and care enough to help them?

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As always, thank you for reading – your comments are welcome and appreciated!

+LOOKING FOR MY STORY IN THE CHAOS OF MADNESS

alchemynow2 Comments

This is the link to one of the ‘article’ pieces I have found among my mother’s papers.  It was with August 1960 letters, but had no date on the paper it was written on.

My mother was certain that she was going to ‘someday’ write a book on homesteading, She specifically planned that her letters to my grandmother, written during this time were saved, and returned back to her.  Yet very, very few of the letters had any date placed on them at all.

I can estimate letter dates by the envelope postmarks, but many letters are NOT in envelopes and without dates it makes it extremely hard to know where to place the letters along the ‘timeline’ of my childhood years that I am trying to create!

My grandmother, an educated and astute woman, obviously knew of my mother’s plan because she was a participant in it.  Yet she did not make sure on her end, once she had received a letter, that she wrote at least the date the letter came into her hands if there was no clear postmark on the envelope – which happened often!

The inability to ‘tell a coherent life story’ in adulthood – or even during an abusive childhood – is a prime hallmark symptom of an insecure attachment-disordered pattern formed by ‘inadequate’ early infant and childhood interactions with caregivers.

My mother had such an insecure attachment pattern, which she GOT in her childhood from her interactions with her mother (and others).   It looks to me as I work with the writings — that went back and forth between these women for years — as if this total lack of organization or coherent ordering of all these carefully written and preserved letters about the story of homesteading, are themselves in a state that is a clear indication of the MESS that the insecure attachment patterns created in my mother’s life as well as in my own childhood.

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It is almost as if these letters, journal pages, pieces of articles my mother wrote, my grandmother’s response letters to my mother’s letters – all of them, in the tattered, confused, disorganized, often undated, never been sorted, hauled around in this box or that over thousands of miles and many, many moves, stored in assorted storage lockers for decades – are themselves all remnants of once-lived lives that were lived in a very similar fashion.  Yet they also reflect a certain value shared in common – they endured and they survived.  They are still here, as I am.

It seems to be my life’s work right now to find the stories in the stories.  I have amazing advantages that my mother and my grandmother never had in their lifetimes.  I have the very real gift of a computer, the gift of the internet, and the gift of this free blog space so generously provided by WordPress.com.   My sister gave me this computer for my writing.  My brother gave me this printer.  My children pay for my internet.  I am grateful to all of them.

My mother and grandmother cared enough about one another to write all these letters.  They cared enough to hold onto them, to keep them, to preserve them.  In the same strange way that I can never ‘blame’ my mother for her abuse of me because I understand how sick she was, I cannot ‘blame’ her for never, in her entire lifetime, being able to accomplish with them what she had hoped to do.  She could never write her own book.  She could never publish.  She could never tell her own coherent life story for the same reason she could not adequately mother her own children.

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These papers are in their own form of chaos, and within their words they tell stories of the chaos that was my childhood.  It would take an almost super human effort to actually create the coherent story now.  I would be very surprised if I can do it in my lifetime.  My process does not feel like ‘blogging’ to me.  It feel like ‘plogging’ as I spend hundreds and hundreds of tedious hours trying to find and create order out of this madness.

For every step I take I hope that if I can’t actually finish bringing this whole story together, maybe at least the work I am doing now will be picked up by another generation so it can be ‘finished’ in the future.  We are a family of writers.  Perhaps that is our curse.  Yet I feel as if all my ancestors’ words are being placed in safe keeping as I enter them into this clean white screen of my computer.  I feel honored to be able to share them with you., including this article piece that my mother wrote 49 years ago.

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+MY LITTLE POEM ABOUT MY CHILD-SELF MOTHER

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I believe my mother grew up as a young girl in an emotionally confusing, harsh and barren world where her doll babies were her solace.

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+APPROACHING MY MOTHER’S 1953 DIARY

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These are both completed now:

*MY INTRODUCTION TO MY MOTHER’S 1953 DIARY

**1953 – MY MOTHER’S DIARY – PART ONE

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I could not complete the transcription of my mother’s 1953 diary without stopping half way through the year.  I had to give myself permission to create a context of safety for myself as I continue to read her words.  The platform that I created for myself as I wrote my introduction to her 1953 diary feels secure enough for me to continue the transcription of her writings.  The transcription is not complete yet, but I will let you know as soon as they are published online as they will be contained within the following pages:

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*MY INTRODUCTION TO MY MOTHER’S 1953 DIARY

**1953 – MY MOTHER’S DIARY – PART ONE

**1953 – MY MOTHER’S DIARY – PART TWO

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+MARCHING ON TO VICTORY OVER TRAUMA

alchemynow4 Comments

I wish I could remember my dreams!  Using the super powers of retrospect, I am learning how to understand and accept that the loss of awareness about my dreams today must be some further manifestation of the aging process.

About two months ago I woke in the middle of the night and sat up in bed with a revelation.  I knew when I woke up that I had been in the midst of a series of dreams that seemed to be moving in fast-forward motion.  At the instant I woke up I heard these words in my mind:  “Of course you don’t remember your dreams any more, Linda!  Look at the dreams you just woke up from.  They are so complicated and contain so much information that it would be impossible for anyone to actually remember them.”

Did I somehow receive a massive addition of a computer’s version of memory processing abilities ‘back there’ a few years ago at the time that I no longer remembered my dreams?  The ‘not knowing’ my dreams started about 10 years ago.  I distinctly remember the last GOOD dream I had.  I was living in Sioux Falls, South Dakota just prior to moving down here to the desert in southeastern Arizona.  I wrote the dream down, though I don’t know at the moment where that piece of paper is.  I remember it, though, and someday I will write it to include in my story.

Oh, that IS what I was going to write about yesterday before my ‘cyber house’ came crashing down around my fingertips.  I was going to write about the origin of the flying dreams I had as a child, and I was going to insert links to other pages on this post.  That is, until I discovered the links were dead and went absolutely no place!  Hence, the house cleaning.

What I will say from my present position of grand mother-dom (even though I have no actual grandchildren), is that for those of you ‘youngsters’ who get to still experience vivid and clear dreams when you wake up, realize that those dreams and the ability to clearly remember them is a gift.  I know that now because my gift has either disappeared or transformed itself into something else that works for me in some other way.

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What I think happened is that at that time in Sioux Falls ten years ago when I could sense that the dreams were changing, if not leaving me, I was physically preparing for the onset of menopause, or parimenopause, though I did not realize it at the time.  By the time I made it through that major female transition period, my dreaming states that had been such a vital part of my life since childhood had disappeared, and I never had a chance to even consciously bid them goodbye.

It seems as if I was ‘supposed’ to be ready for this new phase of my life, and in fact I guess I am ready or I wouldn’t be here experiencing this life in my ‘older self’ at this moment.  I can whine all I want to about how much I miss my dreaming abilities — the experiences of dreaming them, the experiences of remembering them — but it will not change the fact that I now seem to be processing an increasingly massive amount of information  in my dreams in my present life.

Sometimes when I wake now I just know that ‘something, some how’ seems to have ‘downloaded’ this information into my brain.  Because of what I now know about how the right and left brain work out information processing while we sleep, I suspect that this isn’t REALLY new information I am gaining at all.  I rather suspect that I am being able now to release from my right brain vast amounts of information that has been stored there, waiting, since the beginning of my life.

As this information is integrated with the knowledge of my left brain while I sleep, I just wake in the morning with no single detail of the dreams I have had the night before.  It might be like switching from analog to digital processing.  But what I do know is that I am being in-formed in my sleep.

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This morning I woke up knowing that part of what I am accomplishing through this cyber-house cleaning I am undertaking at the moment, is a quarantine of my mother.  When I first started my blogging process, I created the other two blogs, Take Care of Mothers and Workspace for Stop the Storm, at the same time as I created this one.  I only vaguely knew that as time went on my ‘blog house’ would have to expand.  This morning I have a clearer sense of how this is actually working.

When I thought, Take Care of Mothers, I was looking at it from a sort of warm, fuzzy place — like I might should I think about buying one of our commercialized sentiment cards to recognize our culture’s version of Mother’s Day for someone.  When I woke up this morning I KNEW in a different way that some huge circle related to the wholeness of the act of caregiving itself had completed itself within me.

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I should not be surprised that one end of the ‘caregiving circle’, or hoop of life has connected itself to the other end today — like plugging two ends of an extension cord into itself.  Now I sense from within myself what it means to have the one end of caregiving (seen perhaps from the point of view of being a woman) of bringing a new life into the world and caring for it as it grows into life, to the other end of seeing the necessity for ending something, and thus for the necessity of caring into death.

When looking back at our childhoods, most of my siblings would agree with me that given our particular circumstances, the only way to have resolved our troubles with my mother would have been to kill her.  Ideally, she needed to be removed from our lives and placed into quarantine.  As we begin to truly understand how early childhood trauma changes an infant and young child’s developing brain-mind-self, we will begin to clearly see that the ‘dis-ease’ of unresolved trauma effects that they carry within themselves will be passed onto these people’s offspring in some way.

In my case, my mother’s trauma was passed on to me in the form of terrible abuse.  Now as I work to separate my mother’s writings from my own I am in fact FINALLY experiencing some version of quarantine for my mother as I remove her to the Take Care of Mothers blog space.  I am ‘taking care’ of her, not by shooting her like one might shoot a rabid animal or a broken horse, not like one might if they could actually imprison her for 14,500 years, but by beginning an actual physical process of my own where I find ways to extricate her mind OUT OF my own mind.

This kind of caregiving is necessary only for me.  She is dead and my actions have nothing to do with her.  But in this process of examining what it means to allow myself a full range of action, even in my thoughts, about what taking care of mothers can ACTUALLY mean, I see that there are mothers who have always needed the most extreme kind of caregiving — so that they could be protected from harming innocent others, if not also themselves.

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The extreme forms of isolation my mother was able to affect for me during the 18 years I spent being abused by her meant that she had an almost super human ability to control the development of my mind, including my thoughts and my thinking process itself.  This process that I am working on as I ‘banish’ my mother to the kingdom of my other blog is helping me to further clarify the distinction I make between ‘memory retrieval’ and ‘disclosure’.

As I work to explore and connect all the fragmented pieces of my own history as it relates to the whole person I want to be (more of) today, I realize that as I return for my own memories I am forced to re-member myself with my mother in the picture (in the memory).  Obviously she was there.  She was the one that traumatized me in the first place.

That is where the power of disclosure enters into my process of healing my dissociations.  This is what I was evidently ‘working on’ during my dreaming state last night.  As I work with my own fragmented memories of myself in my life as they affected the formation of who I grew up being, through disclosure I can separate my mother from myself in those memories.  I can place HER in a different place and ME in another, safe one.

I find it interesting that within my own mind I have created the third blog of Workspace for Stop the Storm in the MIDDLE between the blog where my mother has been banished to and the one where I am knowing-through-telling my own story.  This workspace is a buffer zone between us.  Perhaps because I am trying to heal particularly from the abuse against me perpetrated by a Borderline Personality Disorder mother, creating this definite boundary zone between us is of utmost importance in my process.

Only in the most physically literal way was the umbilical cord connecting my mother to me ever severed.  On every other level — except for what I believe to be the spiritual one where she could not touch my essential self — that connection between the two of us remained intact.  Not only was that true for the 18 years I was continually exposed to her maliciousness, but it has also been true as she has infiltrated my mind to this day.

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I am going to divide and conquer, all right.  She ruled my life during all of my formative years, yet she could never completely rule me.  This is a war of wills as I continue to empower myself to rule my own body-brain-mind and soul.  She trampled where she had no business being.  She trampled on me, she trampled me.  But she did not conquer me and I aim to prove it.

“March on, oh wounded ones, march on!”

I am in fact reclaiming the soil of my own selfdom!  When I am done cleaning my own house, my mother will not be in it.

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As always, thank you for reading.  Your comments are welcome and appreciated!  Linda

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+HOW DO I KNOW MY MOTHER WAS NUTS?

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060709

+DO I KNOW MY MOTHER WAS CRAZY?

Some part of me wants to write about this topic while another part of me wants to say, “Don’t ask me.  I don’t have a CLUE!”

Even thinking about this question causes me to feel disturbed inside.  Knowing what I knew from birth was forbidden to me by my mother.  As I begin to gain new understandings about myself I am also gaining a glimmer of new understanding about how life was for my siblings as they were raised by my mother.  It’s as if the more I learn about how they experienced life in our family the more I can understand both what was similar about our experiences and what was far different.

Sometimes these new understandings go through me like shock waves when I ‘get them’.  As the shock waves go through me they change me on so many levels that I still do not understand.  The first time I had this experience was when I learned that my siblings always knew that something was wrong with my mother and that she was nuts.  From my side of the equation, I could not understand how they knew this.

This discrepancy might seem odd to anyone else who might look from the outside and see that such a mean, hateful, unpredictable, controlling violent mother was OF COURSE nuts.  But I NEVER had this thought growing up.  Not one single time.  I didn’t because I couldn’t.

It’s a strange feeling knowing that my siblings had this massive piece of important information within their own heads while I did not.  I feel cheated, just by this one fact alone.  But if it isn’t enough just to know that to me everything that went on between my mother and I was the ‘truth’ and ‘inevitable’ and therefore correct, there’s another piece that’s even harder to know than it is to verbally admit.

I REALLY still don’t KNOW IT.  That is, to me, what the personal work of going through my mother’s letters is all about for me right now.  I find that on some deep level it is even hard for me to give myself permission to even read her letters, let alone to transcribe them and, heaven forbid, actually PUBLISH them, even online!  The words that scream themselves out inside my head as I do this work with her writings are her words, “HOW DARE YOU!”

Who do I think I am?

Well, that is the trillion dollar question, isn’t it mother.  Who is Linda?

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Working with my mother’s actual words brings me about as close physically to her presence as I can get at this point in time.  They remain as external presentations both of her having been in a body at some point in time so that she could hold a pen in her hand and stream those words across pieces of paper, and about the process of her thinking as it is reflected within her words.  Because I existed in her world as a target rather than as a person, the basic fight that goes on inside of me right now is about ‘turning the tables’ so that she now becomes my target instead of it being the way it ALWAYS was, and in many ways STILL is that even within my own mind I am still the target of her.

It’s my turn now.  On many levels that scares the pajabbers out of me.  I write about this today because I intend to move forward, not backward.  I intend to empower myself to be ever more increasingly aware of what I feel on the inside of me as I read her words.  I am going to give myself permission to insert my [Linda notes:  ] within the context of her letters as I transcribe them.

Who?  Linda?  Linda have permission to DARE assume she has any rights at all?  A right to my own opinion?  Any right to know what I know?  I feel like I have to defend myself TO my mother while I transcribe these letters.  Might that be because I never had the ability to defend myself AGAINST my mother when I needed it most?

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I have no doubt that my mother believed that she owned me like she would own a possession. She most certainly owned me as a target for any abuse of any kind that she might choose at any time to attack me with.  Right now I have hundreds of her letters and other writings here in my home.  Does that mean I now ‘possess’ and own them the way she once owned me?

Does that mean that I own some part of who she once was?  She’s dead.  She can’t even roll over in her grave because she was turned to ashes and spread over the homestead.  She isn’t here.

Or is she?  I believe that because of the kind of abuse she was able to perpetrate against me, because of the way she had nearly constant access to me, the way she controlled every aspect of my being in the world when she wanted to (even my freedom to use the bathroom, depriving me of food, of sleep, waking me from sound sleep and beating me randomly when she felt like it, depriving me of my freedom of movement by making me sit on a stool all night, stand in corners, lie in bed, even lock me in the car or in a shed when I was older, preventing me from playing, from playing or talking to my siblings, from seeing my grandmother even when I was very young, by intervening to prevent my father from ‘noticing’ I was alive, on and on and on) that she particularly formed herself so far within who I am that her thoughts have, on deep and profound levels of my being, become my thoughts.

If in some strange yet generous way the circumstances of life not only imprisoned me in the first place but also designed that I have these letters in my possession because they contain a key to my release from the prison my mother created for me, a prison I am still in if I cannot find my own way to my own thoughts so that I CAN KNOW WHAT I KNOW because what I know is mine.  It is not my mother’s.  It is not my mother!  I am not my mother.  I am not who my mother thought I was, and it’s time for me to find a way to give myself permission to know this – from within myself in the same way that my siblings were able to know it themselves from the time they were old enough to think – MY MOTHER WAS NUTS.

I can mouth the words.  I can speak them.  I can run them through my mind.  But I do not YET know the truth of them.  My mother was crazy.

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Be sure not to miss Blog Carnival’s newest monthly edition on healing traumas and abuse, including this great article on raising a highly sensitive child!

+NEWEST MOTHER WRITINGS (060609 not filed)

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Here are some more of my mother’s letters that I finished transcribing today 060609.

These 1957 letters, written between my parents as my father was already in Alaska and mother and children waited in Los Angeles for Army orders (he worked for the Army Corp of Engineers as a civilian) that would allow us to join him there.  They present aspects of my mother’s thinking patterns PRIOR to homesteading.

These two 1960 letters were written after homesteading had begun, though we lived mostly in the Eagle River ‘log house’ while my mother carried on her nursery school.

The 1961 letters reflect the stress and turbulence of that troubled year, the year that a 5th child was added to our family.  (Please also note the previous posting of mother’s 1961 diary.)

This is a single 1962 short note from the Mother’s Day card my mother sent her mother, written on the baby’s 1st birthday..

These 1963 letters begin with our family living in the ‘log house’, moving the trailer down from the mountain to be painted, scrubbed and sold to pay for back rent, a move back to the homestead, ending with my mother driving down the Al-Can (Alaskan) Highway alone without my father in August.  Again, turbulent, chaotic, distressful times….

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Well, here’s the ‘special treat’ I discovered among the papers I am sorting my way through.  First I found one sheet of ‘random’ paper with the first half of this poem on it – transcribed it – and went on with the other letters.  Eventually I found a second piece of paper that had the end of this poem on it, and can now begin my grandmother’s pages.

Evidently this recipe for marital bliss either wasn’t or couldn’t be followed.  I find it interesting that the ‘shades of liberated women’ that both my maternal grandmother and great grandmother were, found itself into this poem regarding pay for one’s work at home for the family.  My mother’s parents divorced around 1930 (about unheard of at this time and created an embarrassing sense of shame within my mother) just after the stock market crash.  Grandfather Charles had been a successful stock broker who lost all in the fall of 1929.  After the divorce, my mother’s mother went to work and used her master’s degree in psychology, 1918, to support herself and her children.

My sister, Cindy 1953, will be sending me copies of my mother’s mother’s brief beginnings of her own autobiography that were recently discovered.  I look forward to also adding them to the grandparent pages that are dedicated to our understanding of how patterns transmit themselves through parenting practices down the generations..