by Restin Wells
Chapter Eleven
I began to make a written list of any ideas and words that seemed to reassure the child. That was to head off the fear faster. The fear was the prod that guided my thinking moment by moment. Such a painful fear I cannot describe, and I was desperate to find any bit of reasoning that would lessen it a little. It was almost like automatic writing as I wrote down anything that made any little difference in the fear. Later, I would discover that picturing something was even better for my child, who couldn't understand what I was saying most of the time. I would make up a skit where I would hold the child and comfort her, or give her a bottle of milk, or a teddy bear. Or I would bring up the scene of the happy lion family that reminded of my dad, that originally seemed to be cherished. Most of my dialogue, and imagining things, was concerned with separation anxiety, and a lot of it about Dr. T. All that mediation evolved into a journal I kept, that I later named "Encouragement Notes". They were urgent reasonings with the primal thinking of an "other" who met me as hardly a one year old.
About then, I began to read the psychoanalytic works of Melanie Klein, about how an infant goes through the stages of relating to mother. I couldn't read it all, as I was very ill then, but it helped greatly in knowing what I was doing, or supposed to do, with the child inside. It helped in knowing what her concerns were that were so much on a different level than I could ever figure out by guessing. I would recommend that anyone dealing with an inner child find a book they can work with on how a baby feels about oneness and separateness with mother. In fact, there is a book by that very name, "Oneness and Separateness", that helped tremendously, but I can't recall the author now. The infant thinking was so different from the way of my adult self. As I mentioned, the child never was verbal, nor graphic. I didn't remember event or actual things that happened with my relatives and caregivers. All I got was the raw emotion. So, it was a guessing game. It was like the game of "Hot or Cold", where someone hides an object for you to find. Then he calls "cold" when you move the wrong way, and "hot" when you move the right way. Only, my cue was not in words but with the zap of fear. If I thought the wrong thing, I felt a stab of fear.. if I thought the right way, I would be free of fear--for a minute or two.
Yet, and I'm glad to report, more ideas began to work. I could always resort to the rage stance to get a rest. There would be longer stretches of freedom from symptoms. I was relieved to find out that one instance of distress seemed to stand for many that would have occurred in the actual past of maturing. I didn't have to review every instance of hurt, neglect, and grief that ever happened. It was sufficient to do a few in token form, to settle the fester from many.
An analogy I often thought of then was that my illness happened similar to the trampling of a sapling tree. I pictured it got run over by something big that broke its trunk. The little tree was so mangled it was dieing. So, the genetic executive center of my mind decided that the first growth was a lost cause, and ordered a new shoot to be started off the ruined trunk. So, the new shoot receives all attention, while the "hopeless" one is left behind to die off. The new shoot thrived vigorously, and became the new main tree. But the burl left behind didn't die. Instead, it kept its kernel of existence and tried to carry on. But it got no help. It was only semi-permeable to the maturing trunk growing higher and higher above. What it did learn was insufficient, and became distorted. It remained an infant, with the primal ways of thinking about her little world and the humans dimly above. All she knew for sure is how much she still loved and needed her mother, who suddenly left and never came back. The humans who did the care that she used to do were traitorous. It's not good to have feelings if all they do is turn to hurt.
The gargoyle of a baby hunkered down in her exile, and hid from people, just to stay alive. The new self up above sneered down at her, and became disgusted at her sickliness. The new self despised the baby's problems, and obeyed a mysterious edict to forget her.. also the command to fend off love and emotion of all kinds.. to go find exciting things to do and hang in tough. An internal law was posted:. to never look back at what was, to never let the infant feelings arise again.. but mainly never even think of it. And it worked just great--for quite awhile. But, somehow, too much was left behind. Too much was missing, of the positive powers of love, of self respect that comes from the good use of anger, of complex relationship with others who did have emotions. One has to have emotions to build emotional strength. The new person was brittle. The part left to die contained too much that was essential to life. And then, there was a sense of "not being normal" that always hung around.
I became a hyperactive, obsessive person, to keep ahead of the situation lurking behind any backward glance. I pursued a new life as a busy, talented child, but only in narrowly specified ways, almost autistically. I wouldn't be interested in "dangerous" subjects such as family or social issues, or close friendships, or soft music, or anything sentimental or "mushy". Holidays were interruptions. Visits from distant relatives were dreaded, as they were always bringing up stuff that was forbidden. Religious and spiritual interests were risky at all times. And that was one of the matters that began to eat away at my defenses as a young adult. I went to church every week, just as most of the families I lived with had done. My matriarch grandmother, who was strong and Christian, had a deep influence on me. Even my husband, Ben, despite his inconsistencies, wanted to go to church. I became more attracted to God and the Gospel of Love. I always had a tender conscience. But my soul was a wooden knot. I began to know that there was something seriously lacking in me as I tried to be a loving Christian. My well-defended mind would be happiest while feverishly focused on my work and hobbies, avoiding people and their complicated ways.
The little self inside just wouldn't stay down, though. She started causing trouble, wanting to get out, invading the boundaries. I can almost imagine her observing how very well I was doing, expecting I might be able to help, after all. And that's what initiated the breakthrough into consciousness...and my breakdown. At that, the hyperactive defense stopped, as the energies flowed back into the sickness below. The manic style changed into lack of energy, into a condition of fog and spaciness in the outside world. Energies became severely divided. Depression replaced ambition, as the entire defense system went into meltdown.
And so, my hope is that perseverating a bit long on this analogy will help others to have a clearer picture of dissociation. The analogy may be a bit naive, the way I tell it, but I'm sure it has its neurogical correlaries, in more technical, neuro-chemical terms. There is much that needs research on the entire subject of the human mind and its fabulous operations. But one thing is for sure, the sudden emergence of my past, with its unresolved problems, brought my arrogant young adult self to a grinding standstill. Like a dolphin leaping forward along her merry way, who suddenly finds she's caught in a net, I pushed my nose hard against it, struggling to bore through. But it finally dragged me to a halt by its heavy backward pull. I then had to stop, and turn around, and face the enemy.
So, that's how I found myself all involved in the business of dissociative disorder, MPD, or whatever you call it. I was being led by the process I had discovered. It seemed to seek me for help, yet have a great fear of what I would do with it. But I had urgent concerns too, as an adult. Would that primal part make me do things that would jeopardize me? If I didn't care enough about Dr. T's life, if I were not a Christian, my need-love could tempt me to put a lot of pressure on her. Then, at her rebuff, my hurt-turned-to-rage could urge me to punish her. If I weren't so afraid of getting my feelings hurt, I might have done more to get her to do what I needed. On the other hand, my new reaction of anger surprised me with its sophistication. The sickness had a pettiness never even imagined in my adult, Christian self. I found myself struggling with the suspicion that Dr. T was getting sadistic pleasure over my sufferings. I suspected she got a power trip out of seeing me in panic over her. But knowing I was in the Transference relationship, I wondered where that idea came from in my real history.
What did my aunts and other caregivers do that this suspicion of sadism came up as a fully developed memory? That was a mystery, as my amnesia about early life was thorough. I couldn't recall any such subterfuge with them. I just couldn't be sure what was real. Then I would argue that Dr. T were just using a therapy technique. It was for sure that I was learning a lot, catching up fast, on how to deal with powerful feelings. I could cooperate with that. I would then ask Dr. T, but get no definite answer...you know..they answer a question with a question until it just makes you furious! Then I would reason that the bitch just didn't give a durn. Or maybe she just wasn't very bright, and just might quit on me any day because she doesn't have a clue about what's going on. Or maybe she's mad at somebody else and taking it out on me that day. Then I'd wonder if she were re-enacting my mother's death so I could work on it, where she wouldn't be able to give herself away by letting me in on the plan. I could never know for sure. I worried about it day and night. It was all a terrible conflict that went on and on.
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Restin Wells