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The essence of this post has been in the back of my thoughts for many days.  Yesterday I took a few more pictures of my yard project knowing that they somehow illustrate whatever it is my mind does not seem to want to look at head-on.  Part of me knows if I continue to delay writing this post my related thoughts will eventually simply disappear.  This part of me does not REALLY want to know what some other part of me both knows and wants to write about.

I have no idea what needs to be said here, so the best I can do is follow the pictures.  I feel as if I am standing in front of a gate myself right now that I have never opened before.  For some reason it is very hard for me to enter in my writing, in words right now….

This writing is in part about how survivors of severe infant and child abuse make the best of their lives using everything useful that we can find.  We are able to make our lives out of what, I suppose, most ordinary people would never notice as important or useful.  We were not given a choice.  Nobody smoothed our way, gave us the ‘cream’ or the ‘gravy’.  In our malevolent early world of hostile deprivation and harm we marched on – and when someone knocked us over – we got up and marched on some more.

With the exception of screws and a few 2′ x 4′ boards here and there, as you can see in these pictures every object going into my east yard goat-hoped for project has been deemed useless and discarded by someone.

As I have done since the moment I was born to my abusive mentally ill mother, I continue to make the best out of whatever I can – with every effort to make what was ugly – beautiful.

In these pictures I am creating a dual-purpose structure out of pallets to both shade the goats and to collect and divert rainwater out to the new little Jujube tree I purchased at our local Farmers’ Market last Saturday.

I was proud of myself the day I figured out how I could create the gutter arrangement using this piece of ‘regular people’s’ usual gutter pieces – with a 10′ hose (that was the cheapest ACE had at $2.49 a foot) to run to the Jujube tree.  (Now I am smarter and stopped to dig vacuum cleaner hoses and metal tubes out of the throw-a-way trash at our local thrift store to use for the next water reclamation project.)

FORTUNATELY I had to wait for the silicone to dry overnight in this little drain I created – and it was just as I was drifting into sleep the night after I put this together that the thought HIT ME:  “There’s no way once this whole pallet shade structure is put together that I can clean it or keep it clean.  Everything that swooshes down the gutter will clog up my tidy little hose plan!”  I needed a filter and I needed to attach this thing where I could clean it out (all this is placed underneath Russian Olive trees that shed LOTS of little leaves!)

Solution needed…..

Living as a survivor – not being REALLY able to plan things out smoothly — not being able to ‘mentally time travel’, as the neuroscientists call it, into the future.  I cannot PLAN the way I am supposed to be able to.

Yes, I am – along with many early abuse survivors – extremely ‘right brained’ – obvious at those many times when I find it so hard to even think in words.

I can FEEL the changes in the part of my brain – the higher cortex that in better and in MOST childhoods gets what it needs to grow and develop to operate properly – related to…..

AGAIN – please take a look at this important article about the changes in brain development due to infant-child abuse –

+Dr. Teicher’s ARTICLE ON TRAUMA ALTERED DEVELOPMENT

*Notes on Teicher

But – I do the best that I can – and now realizing I needed to change my thinking to get this project to come out as I wanted it to…..

Time for the TIES – taken off the bottom of T-shirts that I am tie-dying to make a baby blanket for my coming-into-the-world soon new grandson!

And, a few garden pictures

Thus ends today’s tour – although my words fail me in trying to talk about what it feels like to have been dished up a heaping plate of unbelievable overwhelming abuse and trauma for the first 18 years of my life — to survive that – to live with the changes those traumas did to my physiological development.

Not unlike how I was as a child, I have recently been having great difficulty making sense in ‘coherent words’ out of myself in the world.  My brain could not have possibly formed in ordinary ways given the conditions of my first 18 years of life.  I did the best I could – but my thinking has never followed what I imagine to be most people’s ‘ordinary patterns’.  Severe traumas are extraordinary events – and surviving them makes us extraordinary people.

It is often very hard for me not to compare myself to other people – in terms of ‘how successful is MY life?”  Not very it seems most of the time.  I REALLY have to work at affirming my own value and worth as a person.

Meanwhile, I make one ‘work related’ decision at a time – which for the most time occupies my thoughts so entirely that I don’t have any spare room in my mind for tearing myself down.  NEVER did a therapist – or any self-help book I have ever read — recognize that there are some of us who suffered abuse as infants and children in a mad and chaotic world that was so far past what most people can begin to imagine that……. well ……..

We know a different world.  We always have.  We always will.  But we are HERE and we ARE beautiful!  We made it out of our earliest years in hell – and whatever it takes to keep on making it we find – shifting, constantly shifting – adjusting – adapting – to whatever each day brings to us – so we will be here tomorrow, too.

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I do not want to write this post this morning, but if I refuse to write it the subject of my description of something I experienced yesterday will hang around to haunt and to irritate me for the rest of this day.

I write this post — because I can.  I strongly suspect that I also experience dissociation so commonly and thus so frequently also, in essence, BECAUSE I CAN.  It doesn’t take much of a stretch from that statement to this one:  I dissociate because I HAVE TO.

Being born to a psychotic Borderline Personality Disorder mother who believed the devil sent me to kill her during her breech-birth delivery of me — and who believed I was not human but the devil’s child for the rest of her quite-long life — meant that as my body-brain developed from the moment I was born my need to survive Mother was built right into me with every break I took for the next 18 years I lived under her insanely abusive reign of terror.

My mother was insane.  I can never speak about Mother’s who might be ‘just plain mean’.  My mother was mean all right.  But the biggest trouble came from the fact that she was a MAD WOMAN!

Nobody, of course, ever clued me into this fact.  I didn’t begin to figure this out — really — in all its horrible implications until I was over 50 years old.  I didn’t even begin to understand that I had been ABUSED until I was 30.

But now, at age 60, I am beginning to far more deeply understand that there must be a continuum with ‘loving mother’ being on one end, moving down through ‘adequate mother’ into ‘misguided but well-intentioned mother’  on down into the ‘oh this mother must be one of the very worst mothers ON EARTH’ kind of mother.  (I cringe in my essence at even using the word ‘mother’ at all to describe birthing humans such as mine was.)

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Because I have much more interesting things to do today outside in my yard that challenge me pleasantly I will keep this post as brief as I can.

Yesterday I spent the afternoon visiting a gentleman who seems to be the only person in this area I have lived in for the past 12 years that I feel very-mostly-safe with.  I can’t say I feel 100% safe with him because I have never experienced 100% safety in my lifetime and don’t see that I ever will.

But this man is up there at the very top of my as-safe-as-I-can-be in this lifetime rating.

Yet there I was, sitting across his picnic table with him under the shade of the very worn but still living Mulberry tree in his lovely yard in conversation about absolutely NOTHING that could have been interpreted as distressing.

I had noticed a tree near his back fence that my artistic and horticulturally-bent eye could see needed some trimming, pruning and shaping.  I could see that tree in a ‘future state’ where extraneous leaves, twigs and branches had been removed so that the tree could exist in a different 3-D shape.

As I talked with my friend I began to expose my inner self a bit as I described a recent email conversation with a dear friend – and artist-painter – who had viewed recent pictures of my garden I posted last week.

Her comment included praise, observation and recognition of the spectacular array of COLOR in those pictures I posted.  I responded to her comments by again viewing my own pictures — as I realized that as much as I MUST create color in my yard, and for as much as I have loved flowers since I was a very small child — it is not COLOR that I see first around me.  What I see are LINES and PATTERNS of turns and twists, overlaps, contrasts, displays of — SHAPES that exist in time cutting themselves into and through space.

My email friend is a painter.  She works primarily with color.  I could tell from her words that she must SEE the world differently than probably anyone else does who is not also a painter.

I am – though primitive and untutored – essentially a sculptor (sculptoress?).

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All fine and well as I used my spoken language ability to transmit to my very kind and wise beauty-loving friend yesterday the gist of these ideas.

And then, suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, I clearly recognized that I was NOT IN THE BODY of the person who was sitting at that table.  I was NOT the person spewing words like so many tidbits of dandelion fluff through the air to my friend’s ears and mind.

I was in the air, behind and to the left of the version of Linda that was conversing.  But I was NOT anywhere near being absorbed in the conversation ‘we’ were having.

I did not notice at the time this dissociation occurred that I was feeling threatened.  And yet on some level and in some way obviously I WAS NOT feeling safe.  I left my body and floated with my OTHER wandering mind being completely aware once I understood what was happening that I was in these two places doing two totally different things at the same time.

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Talk about multi-tasking!

My spoken words sounded like water babbling over stones in a remote wilderness enclave far from civilization.  Once I noticed all these complications happening, I stopped talking about this subject, and my dissociation seemed to cease.

Was it the action of self-disclosing such a personal yet innocuous piece of information about myself as ‘how I see the world in patterns’ that so upset my connection with myself, with my friend, with the activities that were going on during those moments in time and space?

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As a sideline I have been thinking this past week about one of the fantastic videos my daughter sent me recently of my 27-month-old grandson – I will call Mike – who is rapidly developing the ability to communicate with others in words.

The video begins as Mike is seslf-involved in play inside the little tent I sent up to him (they live over 1500 miles away).  Once he becomes aware that his mother is filming him he exists the tent and begins to wander away from his play.  He spotted a pile of his DVDs.  Suddenly what had been his continuous stream of unintelligible (to outsiders) ‘baby talk’ SHIFTED into words of such clarity I was stunned.

Mike did not pause for one millisecond between the ‘babble’ and “I want to watch a movie now.”

In my thoughts since viewing this video I have walked around this event in my mind many times as I ponder the mystery of how humans developed spoken language in the first place (about 140,000 years ago), and how every individual human develops language abilities as they develop their body-brain in their toddlerhood.

Mike’s ‘intelligible’ words seemed to simply appear SHINING in their intent and perfect clarity from behind some sort of veil.  It seemed to me as I again and again watched this video that Mike exists in his universe on one side of a kind of divider-curtain where the sounds that he makes are all equally meaningful to him.

What, then, is happening as his continuous streams of sound move in and out of their connection in THIS world (big people world) to meaning?

My grandson is forming his complete whole integrated self – and transitioning this self into the world because he is safely and securely attached to his parents — so THAT HE CAN fully be a whole person in the world.

I never had any of his experiences – hence – I will NEVER be able to be a whole self-person in the world.

“Babble babble babble babble I want to watch a move now” – this kind of integration and smooth development of self and of its transition into the world was not possible in the insane universe I grew up in.

The only version of my whole self I ever knew and hence, with very few rare (even at BEST, partial) exceptions still only know, is myself being completely, absolutely alone.

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I mention this in connection to something that happens to me MOST of the time now when I am SPEAKING language to others and listening to other people’s language.  What I HEAR is mostly BABBLE!

Given the horrendously abusive, terrifying, traumatic early beginnings of my life there is no possible way that I learned language – or built language into my brain – in anything like a normal way.  When I experience the stress-distress of social human contact it is very easy – evidently – for my brain to separate SOUND from MEANING when I hear words spoken.

Yesterday was the first time I became so crystal-clearly aware of what is actually going on when this dissociation happens when I am the one speaking to somebody else.

I could liken the sensation for descriptive purposes to the common experience of having one’s ‘mind wander’, especially as this can happen when attempting to listen to someone speaking.

But when it happens when one’s own self is speaking?  Weird.  I am describing the experience of one’s self wandering away from one’s self.  One part of me was talking.  Another part of me, the part that ‘came to’ with awareness of what was going on, was not listening to or hearing a single word that ‘other’ part of me was saying.

My mind was wandering all right — right out of my body.  Then my mind, which seemed to be directly connected NOT to the me in the body on the bench looking at first the tree-in-need-of-trimming and then back to my friend’s face, was OUTSIDE in the air viewing the entire scene as if I was watching a movie — that I was NOT actually paying attention to — until I clearly noticed what was going on.

Prior to that noticing the me-in-the-air had actually been totally occupied (‘associated with’) an entirely DIFFERENT set of circumstances.

This is the first time I have been able to experience my mind wandering – from my mind wandering — as if there exists a series of pieces of experiences for me that are as intangibly connected to one another as were my grandson’s babbling words to his clearly articulated words that made perfect sense ‘in the big people’s world’.

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I don’t expect what I have just written to make sense to anyone other than to severe early abuse survivors whose body-brain was created in a malevolent environment of abuse, insanity, chaos, trauma and extreme distress.

I won’t even begin to claim that what I am describing and documenting really makes sense to me!

But my awareness of what was going on inside of me yesterday does begin to inform me about why being around human beings is so uncomfortable for me and so exhausting!

It seems that the core essence of who I have always been never ‘came down into the world’ or into my body – but rather floats around inside some other kind of world – perhaps not unlike the world that my grandson is healthily being able to integrate himself into as he matures through these most critically important developmental stages of his lifetime.

My grandson has ALWAYS been loved and safe.  I was NEVER loved and safe.  In my thinking it is MADNESS to ever think that people who are raised within such opposing universes will end up with a body-brain or experience in and of this world that is more than superficially similar.

NOBODY – it seems to me – REALLY wants to accept or discuss this fact!

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After nearly a week of sleeping very poorly, thanks to heat and to this neighborhood’s many dogs barking all night whose irresponsible owners and the county dog catcher do nothing about, I am actually amazed that I slept well last night – all night!

But even more surprisingly to me I woke up remembering most of a lengthy dream I was having as I slept.  I seldom remember my dreams any more, a loss I began noticing about 12 years ago.  I know I dream.  But the content of nearly all of them seems now to be left in that other world beyond my waking reach.

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What this dream is actually about I do not know.  Perhaps it is some kind of wishful thinking of mine that I am certainly not aware of other than the appearance in this dream of an unbelievable but intriguing process.

I recognized the woman who seemed to be in charge of a kind of soul transfer process.  In real life she has been dedicated for years to facilitating the development, growth and weekly happenings of our local farmers’ market.  The relevance of the fact that it was this woman, I will call her ‘Kate’, that had this significant job in my dream is not lost on me.

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The dream took place outdoors in some place I have never seen before.  The sky was crystal clear blue, the land flat as far as I could tell with lush farms divided by thriving old-tree windbreaks.  There were perhaps one hundred people gathered along the sides of what looked like an airport runway.

I was not a part of the activities, so I wandered around watching people as I overheard snippets of their conversations.  Eventually I could tell something specific was about to happen.  The oldest people in the crowd began to shift their positions as if on cue to line up down one side of the runway.  I had no idea what was going on or what was about to happen.

Kate then appeared with a group of children all between about 6 and 9 years old.  She lined the children up on the opposite side of the runway across from the elders.  What happened next was only tacitly visible — without being told I knew exactly what was taking place.

Kate now approached to tell me that normally nobody that was not directly involved in this process was allowed to be present, but that in my case an exception was being made.

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The gist of this procedure was a soul exchange.  Without adding any value judgment of my own at this point I suspect that some ‘high level’ agreements had been made that I, of course, knew nothing about.  Decisions had been made.  A ‘higher purpose’ was being fulfilled.

All very foreign to me…..

One by one down the lines the souls of the children were being exchanged for the souls of the aged ones.  The old souls with their great wisdom, knowledge, competence and accumulated information from their long lifetime of being extraordinarily good people were being exchanged so that all they had learned could go forward contributing to the betterment of humanity in increasingly important and complex ways.  The young souls of the children took their place inside the aging and soon to be dead bodies of the elders.

The children had been raised since birth with great kindness and spirituality, and appeared to be at complete aware peace with their shifting state of being.  They had not been chosen by anyone else.  Rather each child’s own soul had made its own decision to follow its unique destiny.  They were moving a great step closer to leaving this material world to soon move on to their Creator as they shifted into a body nearly ready to die while the souls of the elders were following their spiritual guidance to remain a great deal longer on earth to assist the human race in critically important ways toward advancement.

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The memory of the dream hangs around me like shimmering gauze drapery as I begin my day outside working on my garden projects.  The dream was clear.  I am choosing to know that it doesn’t matter at all what I think about it.  I am simply recording what I remember about one of the strangest dreams I ever remember having.

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These past few days I can feel a lifeline connecting myself today with myself as a child.  Creativity.  It has always delighted me.  But this entire yard project is my work of art – way too large to hang on some gallery wall.  It is the gallery itself – and so much more.

Here are a few pictures – not quite up to date as the garden gate itself continues to evolve.  It has faint orange flowers painted below the curve of the top oval now.  I had nothing ‘right’ to work with today – so time will tell what the rains create out of my intent.

I was most fortunate to discover a can of linseed oil and some tubes of acrylic paint as I dug through boxes in my ‘craft room’ (as every room in my house actually is).  Of course water and oil do not mix – which made my painting prospects so much more delightful and curious.

The wood is scavenged for the gate and the entry way that it will hang from.  Very old, very dry, it soaked up the oil like this desert will soon soak up the rain.  The pigment in the acrylic paint makes splashes and splotches – most delightful.

I bought 2 boxes of 100 little silver washers each today and hopefully as many one inch black screws.  These will be added to the gate tomorrow – it seems most likely on the bottom.

But enough of these words.  Here are some pictures:

I recently found out the reason why people knock on wood as per superstition:  To invoke the protection and aid from the wood spirits in trees.  Oh, and that’s the little goat house for the miniature goats I hope to have come live at my place come fall.  There’s an old plexi-glass window in their door – no latch yet.  My door is plumb, the pallet to it’s left was not square – oh well – adds character and dare I say, a certain CHARM!!

I found those spindles at our local thrift store 3 years ago, painted them and put them in their little frame WAITING for whatever it was they belonged to to appear!  I also bought heavy hinges and a latch today, pricey!!  Will have to get creative for handles….  I use screws, no nails!  I HATE working with nails, and as dry as it gets here in the high desert, I figure the screws will work better with dry wood — anywhere my 2 100′ extension cords can reach — I can work!!

I have been pondering a bit – what is the difference between a door and a gate?  How they are made?  What they separate?  One indoors, one outside?

“The Secret Garden” is one of my all-time favorite movies, and tells a story that could not have been properly told at all if there had been no garden gate!!

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I know that every story that every severe child abuse survivor can tell of the past and of the present is unique.  I cannot speak of anything other than what I know as one of these survivors.  All I know is that today is one of those days I need quiet – not that my life is remotely busy or noisy as a rule.  Just that today I did go to town, kept my session out there in the world very brief, accomplished my few errands – and then I ran home ASAP to my quiet.

Somehow for some reason I cannot track I am sad inside today – not far from tears – a body memory I suppose that doesn’t seem to be triggered today by anything especially noteworthy or significant.  Just a blue day.

Partly I suspect I feel this because I did not get my daily dose of working hard on some outdoor project from the break of dawn until the day’s heat cooks me back indoors.  Because I went to town early hoping to buy a tree at the farmers’ market today – only the guy with the trees didn’t make it ’cause his truck broke down – I entirely missed the morning’s sweet cooler hours for work.  (see previous post on goat pen progress)

Breaking my familiar pattern seemed to break my day.  Something inside of me feel more broken, as well.  It is the hot hot dry dry and today very WINDY time of year here in the high desert.  This is an inhospitable time of year.  A harsh and forbidding time of year – unless one catches the day at exactly the right time.  Which today I chose to miss.

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Had I been able today to enjoy – or even to tolerate myself around people I could be visiting someone right now.  But, no, I am here and somewhat lonely although on days like this I have no hope that any available human contact is really going to fill me up in any way.  Empty.  Often the human contact part of who I am as a severe early abuse survivor just IS empty – and stays that way – ’cause (as a blog commenter mentioned this morning) there is no real hope that I can tolerate human contact for very long.

It’s too noisy.  It’s too confusing, too demanding, too exhausting.

Stones and adobe mud and plants struggling to endure and survive are very quiet.  Today – now – the wind is uneasy, fitful, waxing and waning unpredictably in strength.  Tired in the hot wind.  Tired around people.

Can one’s soul get tired, I wonder?  Or is our eternal soul strong always – just harder to connect with sometimes?  Certainly a SELF must get tired, a body gets tired.  I feel tired.  Yet I can be so impatient with this tiredness.

At those times I can either make peace with the reality of how I feel – and relax  – be kind and gentle and patient with myself.

Or, I can bemoan that I am ‘this way’ – although I know perfectly well how I got ‘this way’.

I do not believe there are any magic answers.  Because we are all so different I imagine we experience being survivors in different ways.  I am proud of myself that I do not seek ANY trauma drama to boost my adrenaline, go distract myself, to try to create solutions where there are none – not now.

The truth seems to be that I need much calm, much quiet.  If I knew someone who I could be with – and we could be peaceful and calm and quiet together….  Or is that an oxymoron?

I wouldn’t know.

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I seek shelter from the heat and from the wind.  How, where do I seek shelter from the other storms I feel?

In quiet, which is exactly where any rest I had away from Mother’s abuse happened during those 18 years.  Quiet.  In the center of a storm and when there is no storm at all.

Often, I cannot tell which is which.

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Previous post:

+PROGRESS OF THE GOAT PEN PROJECT – JUNE 9, 2012

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A desert garden in the pre-monsoon heat of June does little more than rest and wait for the rains – with a few exceptions!  The entire yard is on drip irrigation which keeps the roots of the plants alive until the flooding life giving waters return for their very short season – hopefully around 4 pm on the 4th of July – which is ‘the usual’!

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Humans make mistakes in relationships, but being human it is not always easy to identify exactly what the mistake was — or how to repair a rupture that we accidentally caused.

Rupture and repair is a fundamental element of attachments in relationships.  In fact, in essence it can be said that all our attachment patterns are about repairing ruptures between self and others and self and the environment.  (Please see post links below)

I have accidentally hurt a very dear friend of mine.  Against all odds and against all of other people’s feelings and ideas about my relationship with this person, about this person, about what I did that caused a serious rupture in my very meaningful (though often difficult) friendship-relationship with this person — I KNOW myself, and after 12 years I know my friend.

About four years ago I gave two things of high value to my family away to this person.  I didn’t mean to.  I brought these items of great beauty that I had made nearly a quarter of a century ago over to show them to my friend.  His eyes lit up like Las Vegas on a moonless night.  He obviously thought I was gifting them to him.  I did not have the heart to tell him otherwise and these items passed from my life into the life of my friend.

I told my daughter the day this happened.  She immediately asked me to get the items back.  I did not have the heart to.  I did not have the guts to, either, as I knew there would be a most intense solar flareup once I took this action.

I waited these four years, but with the soon-to-happen birth of my second grandson coming, I knew that these two items which DO belong to my family and DO belong especially to my grandsons, needed to be retrieved.

Oh MY!!!!

So NOT an easy thing to do, and yes, the disastrous rupture in the heart of my friend and in our relationship happened.  Lots of fanfare, I might add.  When my ‘dominant male’ friend is challenged by anyone any time over anything — well……

Over a week later I am walking my own pathway concerning what I wish to do to repair this rupture.  The two original items are in the hands of my daughter.  I am going to make my friend one of ‘these’ of his very own – not an easy task.

His big tough feathers will not be soothed with my statement of intent, either.  His big tough feathers will return to a cute harmless twinkling-eyed state only when I complete and place in his hand an ‘item’ of equal beauty to the ones I very awkwardly gave and took back.

Meanwhile, Mr. Man’s essential self is going to remain in a huffy huff – and I accept that.  I did not mean to make a mess of this transaction.  One could suspect, even suggest, that a grown man might have taken this entire situation a great deal more gently – with grace – yet his dignity absolutely requires that there be an unforgettable price paid for this rupture – until it has been repaired.

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If you take a look at the links I post below there are statements of attachment theory fact regarding interactions and transactions between infants and toddlers and their earliest caregivers.  When a caregiver causes a rupture – which is ALWAYS the case prior to an infant’s age of one year old, the caregiver must initiate the repair.  (note:  after age one is the stage, also, that the nervous system of an infant has developed enough to experience the physiological shame reaction in response to a caregiver-toddler relationship rupture – that is meant in healthy normal ways to safely socialize new humans – see last three links below)

Once the increased independence of the infant after age one begins to create ruptures – (i.e., touching forbidden things, etc.) – it is again still the caregiver’s job to SHOW the little one how repairs are accomplished.

Some of us who were neglected and maltreated/abused when little received none of this adequate training – NEVER!

But we can learn.  Personally, this entire issue is about TRUST.  Infant brains begin to have patterns of trust (or lack of trust) built into them by age two months.  This fundamental brain circuitry is directly tied into all of our lifelong attachment patterns.

My friend did not have an easy beginning.  Neither did I.  Yet as I work my way through my current relationship mishap I realize I am gaining practice in how to recognize what is often at the core of discontent in relationships:  Breach of trust.

I value trust.  I value this relationship.  I value my friend’s right to react to my mistake in his own way.  I have some very real work to accomplish to make this new item for him.  At least now on my side of the rupture I have some smiles of my own.  I am working toward seeing another one on the face of my friend.

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+RUPTURE IN RELATIONSHIPS ALWAYS NEEDS REPAIR – MY MOTHER’S REPAIR LETTER 

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+PUKING IN THE HIGH CHAIR: PATTERNS OF RUPTURE AND REPAIR BEFORE THE AGE OF ONE

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+BEEN ABUSED? PATTERNS OF RUPTURE WITH OR WITHOUT REPAIR

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+THE PROCESS OF RUPTURE AND REPAIR NEED REPOSE AND RESTORATION

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Research notes:

*Siegel – attachment – insecure – “rupture and repair”

More related research notes:

++ DR. SCHORE ON SHAME

+SEIGEL ON SHAME

*The Shame Spectrum

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