by Restin Wells
I learned so much about how to deal with my dissociation, that I got so I could do a lot of the inner dialogue on the run, and at a job. I had a hard time getting started in the morning, as I would be all apart again. I just had to get the anxiety settled and tried every angle to talk it down in the morning hours. I would want to go off someplace and lie down, close my eyes, and just try to work on this. But, of course that would not be possible. But, I dreaded telling the boss I was too sick to stay, and I could never tell the truth, and I certainly needed the money by staying.
It was a matter of juggling those priorities, for a long time. It was made easier by getting temp jobs, or part-time, doing easy work. It was low paying, but it gave me the flexibility. Working at the local flower and foliage industries was about right then. There were about two hundred commercial plant nurseries around my area, and I could get another job over a week-end. I had enjoyed success in an art career before my breakdown, but art business was never steady income, but more like windfall from time to time.
Besides having to pay Dr. T regularly, I got my own car, and a credit card. I was beginning to join the real world. I was beginning to treat my own self better, as life began to seem livable. As long as I grew at a pace I could tolerate, and kept aware and respectful of all within, I grew with surprising speed. After some time, I even began to feel almost equal with Dr. T.
The child self was a good bit more on my side, more able to listen and take advice. I worked harder on devaluing Dr. T to her. I was gearing myself up to seriously trying to make a break. Besides doing it for my own good, I'll confess I hoped I could hurt her back. I wanted to abandon her like she did me by her silence. I wanted to show her I wasn't the despicable wimp she must have thought I was. But I mostly wanted to have victory over my illness. Being able to escape her, and stay away, and live to tell about it, would be the only proof I had done the cure. I was feeling it coming up. I would be ready. I would make ready. My anger would see me through, if all else failed.
I suspected The Answer was in my hand that day after my interview with Dr. Pash.. the one where I went off to myself and found the child inside, and the rage that could protect me from the fear. I had come a long way in the months after those discoveries. I had admitted I had become dependent on Dr. T, and needed to keep her around to feel life was bearable. Once I admitted that truth, my energy began to flow, but met up against the fact she wasn't there for me in the intense forever way I needed her to be. So, I did what I could to let the younger, sick part be as near her as possible, while I reserved my adult right to question Dr. T's importance. I worked on that from both ends, both to allow her for the child and to change it. I had to bring Dr. T off the throne of Goddess if I would ever be free and strong myself.
As an adult, I knew her importance was only a problem inside my mind. It wasn't about Dr. Tilden the real person, or even the real doctor. It was my problem, my transference problem. I may even have been that way too much.. too hard on myself. I felt I had to try not to be a burden for Dr. T, but it was mostly from my own pride. It seems I went to Dr. T just to get my "assignment" then went home and did the "homework", which was 99% of it all. It seems that her part was just to be there, not to do anything. But there's no way to describe the feeling of crisis all the time, the feeling that every thought is life or death in importance. And I'm sure everyone is this kind of relationship feels this way just as much as I did, which is why I mention it. There's no way to exaggerate the fear, anguish, and grief as one relives the events of earliest childhood.
As I determined to bash my need for Dr. Tilden, that required that I try not to want what I desperately did want. I had to want to be free from her when I didn't want to be,,, had to de-value and criticize her when all I wanted was to worship her. The only way I could do it was to make up little scenes where she would do something mean or stupid, and I would tell her off or laugh at her. I got up a collection of those imaginary skits, that I would play like a video tape in my mind, for my child to see. I would even write them down. Then I would say to the child, "I can do better than that. I can take you somewhere and buy you an ice cream cone, even if you don't trust me or care a hoot about me." It didn't seem to work much. Sometimes I would have to take it back. But then it seemed to be working in the long run, and eventually began to sink in. This was so hard.
Back then, Hurricane David came through central Florida. Not a big 'cane, but awesome winds and rain driving straight sideways. I was at home that day, and as people often do who are in the midst of an inner turmoil, I felt inspired to go out in it and become a part of the fury. I ran in the wind and rain, let it shove me around a bit. Somehow, I felt in that The Force, the power of God in nature. And I just felt like crying out to God, clenching and waving my fist, and shouting up to Him: "You have to do something for me here, God! You said you would answer someone who humbles himself to call upon you! I can't do this by myself. I can't force myself to not want what I do want. You need to make me willing to be made willing! I am willing to be made willing! That is all I can do now, in all honesty. That is what you said in Your Bible that someone has to do. So you had better do something, or I will tell everyone in the universe, at the judgment time, that I did what you said people should do, and You didn't do it for me!"
So, I finally wore myself out, went back into the house, and dried off. I felt a bit foolish; was glad nobody was around to see it. I felt a little scared for threatening God. But I meant that too. I will also have to say that I didn't experience any miracle healing, any dramatic change, but would look back from months ahead and see how there were significant changes, much more than I directly did myself, sort of like putting a drop of yellow into blue paint, then watching it all transform into green as you stir it.
It was in that way, almost as a side issue, that I gradually became aware of something working in me, something that seemed more than me.. some kind of power, or force, that could make things change deeper inside than I even knew about. But I couldn't call it God, or myself, or even say it might take the place of Dr. T. That would be asking too much. Calling it God identified too closely to my former religious upbringing that didn't seem to have helped much. I read somewhere that some psychologists are calling this phenomenon the ISH, the Inner Self Helper. Some believe it is a part of the natural mind, and some believe it is the Holy Spirit, or the influence of God. But it was something new to me, whatever it was. It was something that inspired a deep awe and sense of profound gratitude. It was fairly predictable, too. I would look back and see how impossible it was to change a bad feeling by my own repeated, exhaustive reasoning with it, or even by hard will power. Then I would see how this Something seemed to do it for me-- but in the interim, so that the same bad feeling, when it rose again, wasn't so bad as before. It would be one small step after another, with this ISH, always some days after my communion with it.
Eventually the thought or memory that started up a fear, horror, or grief, or anger, faded and was replaced with a sense of strength and confidence over that issue. It would be a sense of permanence, and thoroughness. The particular disturbing thought was resolved so completely I would never have trouble over that issue again. And that did turn out to be so, as I look back upon it from almost two decades that I've been well.
So, I accepted what I could, about this ISH, or God, or whatever. But not more than I could. I had a deep fear of God, and deep resentment of traditional religions, that seemed totally unrelated to anything going on with me. I could get myself sick as a dog, mentally, by getting into a lot of thought about my former Christian religion, or any other faith, as well. As I've said, I was raised mostly in strict fundamentalist Christian homes, with varying degrees of sincerity involved. I now, personally, feel that my Helper is the same Christian God, but through an entirely new way. That is my personal view, but I continue to study into this mystery of the ISH along many avenues, trying to keep an open mind.
However, before I try to sound overly sanctimonious, I still had some more baggage to paw through, before I could ever imagine the faintest glimmer of a halo around my scaly head. I will go into some of those presently, as there are matters important to share, even as I was coming out of my Dark Night's journey. You may not think much of any so-called Christianity in me, after some things I have yet to expound..
I do wish to say another thing about religion. I believe it is a mistake to have the world believe that there is no more than us humans and our little resources. With that assumption, we will resort to feeding on each other emotionally, as we feel our inadequacy and smallness in the huge, seemingly indifferent, physical universe. I won't be soft about this. When we think of being dead forever, or being alone with no one to help, or never having anyone to talk to, or go with, or make love to, we are crushed with anguish. We seem to be made this way, and it is the root of our constant search for "Someone". It is also the bottom line of our constant quest for power, or ego, or our contempt of weakness. We fall too easily for a delusion of unhealthy love that somehow tides us over. When a major crisis comes along which requires us to be individually strong, we realize that someone else's strength won't hold us up.. For it only seems to be when a person loses his hero, his lover, or the delusions in his life, that he searches seriously for something that will supply real emotional fortitude. And so, it is completely natural to feel outraged when someone suggests you give up being dependent and start relying on yourself when you don't know what, if anything, is in yourself. And if you feel that "God", whatever that means, has never felt real, nor done anything to help your emptiness or suffering, it is no wonder you feel unimpressed.
Something has to happen, something has to work, for one to ever have some hope in God, or an ISH, or anything like a religious faith. I'm just trying to say how I found something that worked for me, through my inner journey, and how it eventually began to DO something. That inspired me to think more and more about what it is, where it comes from, and what other people have come to call it, or name it.
I kept going to appointments with Dr. Tilden, where basically she said nothing, and I said little. I would tell some brief dreams or fantasies, knowing she wouldn't respond, but not wanting to appear totally stupid for being in the room. But, underneath, I was working very hard at separating from her, hoping she would not terminate first, until I was ready. Then one day, I knew it was time. I would go to the session, tell her off, and walk out the door--forever. I knew I absolutely would not ever go back or ever see her again. And that is just what I did.
I told her loudly, with heat in my face, just what I thought of her indifference and coldness, and her inhuman, inhumane therapy. I fumed about it at least half an hour without letting up. Then I got up and went to the door. She looked up as I passed by, as if I might really mean it. I was angry enough that I marched straight out to the car, as all-together as a soldier in the marines. I stayed okay all day, and the next day. But I can't say it was easy in the weeks ahead. I knew I had to stay in the hatred and anger mode.
I was able to go to the part-time job, but had to leave in the car at breaks, go someplace isolated, and scream out my rage in a pillow, and cry like a baby , and get angry some more...like Primal Scream therapy, if you've ever heard of that. It was really, really hard for awhile. But I thought I was doing what I should. I knew I would make it. I had the resources.
It was about this time that I began a manic-depressive phase. I've discussed this earlier as a way I dealt with my symptoms, but now I went into it big-time. I would get so very bored and disgusted with having to be angry all the time. It was no fun going around with my head feeling like a balloon full of hot steam, pressing to be released. I got so tired of having to go to the car repeatedly. Then I found that I could get into my job at the nursery, work as fast as possible, and drown the feelings in the work. I would get to joking around and acting silly with the other workers, and get really hyper. I'd begin to feel pretty good, going a hundred miles an hour. Except, when bedtime came, I couldn't fall asleep. I would become so hyper I sometimes I felt I could go on forever without stopping to rest or sleep.
I realized I was defending against something, but also felt profound relief. I was so grateful for it, so glad it was possible for the mind to come up with this remedy. Yet, I couldn't help noticing the punishment my body was taking. A feature of the manic state is how it seemed diabolically sadistic to my own self. I could see how I could literally self destruct. If I started into a project at the nursery, like re-potting trees, I would work feverishly, trying to outdo everyone. I didn't feel the heat. I would be verging on heat exhaustion, but would just be observant of the fact without a shred of concern over it. Needless to say, the employers really liked me. At home, I found more work to do. I would feel something was important to do next, after finishing a chore, but would ask myself if it really, truly was so important. I noticed later that my mind had deceived me by making me think it was essential when it really wasn't. Above all, it didn't want a second of empty time, where a bad feeling might come up. That is the manic defense. I could start trimming my hair and find myself whacking at it before I realized it. Looking in the mirror was a shock. I never actually went into self-injury, such as with razors, but could easily see how someone can go there.
I realized my illness had actually changed a whole category of diagnosis. It became clear how mine worked in a predictable cycle. I would feel anger for so long that my world would become like a desert: dead and devoid of anything pretty or joyful. I couldn't even taste anything. I already knew that I could get some relief by allowing some good feelings about Dr. T. So, I would allow that and start energy flowing again, but soon came in the grief of losing her, and crying would follow. As soon as the crying were done, the manic thing would jump in just as automatic as thunder follows on the heels of lightning. Then that would go on for several days until I had to stop it to save my body, which I did by tapping into the sadness. There's no medicine as good as tears to stop a mania! Then, I would have to get angry, full of hate for Dr. T, to stop the tears. Then the anger would play itself out into dangerous depression. Then I would then turn on the love to feel the grief, and on the cycle went. I have touched on this some already, but I feel it is important and a bit complex. It's worth a second trip through this description of how some manic-depressive illness works.
The manic-depressive phase went on until I eventually "got over" Dr. Tilden. I'm not sure if this was the same bi-polar diagnosis given people who struggle with severe mood swings for years and is their main picture of symptoms. During this time, I went to a county clinic for a medicine check, and was given Lithium Carbonate. It did help greatly with this stage. I took it for two years, long after my actual symptoms simmered down. I think of it as similar to putting a splint on a broken bone until the other ministrations can heal it. I don't think Lithium cured me, but believe it leveled me off enough to get a grip on the runaway feelings. I can still get into a mild manic reaction if I feel grief over something. And I still know I can bring it down by bringing back a little of the sadness. A moment of weeping melts the manic defense like ice in a microwave. But I've also learned to keep the actual crying brief, when possible, so as not to trigger another manic episode. That is a juggling performance too. One needs the relief of a few tears, even some sobs, but also needs to hang in tough a lot of the time. And also is the need to be spontaneous, not always a juggling "performance", as if this should be choreographed. But for people who are "new" to the world of feelings, it seems one has to direct almost every feeling for awhile before naturally moving through it all. Grief, anger, and fear are never really easy, and maybe they never should be.
One thing I believe about manic-depressive symptoms, (mine anyway) is that even if it is devastating and is really hard on everybody, the conflicts driving it are closer to the surface, bouncing against each other. If one can only become conscious of the conflict driving it, there's a good chance to get over it. Hold the details of the conflict together within the same thought. Stop alternating blindly. When I was in the manic state, I forced myself to remember what I was thinking and feeling in my depressed state. I made it merge instead of alternate. I know it isn't easy. And some people aren't inclined to be introspective. But one can learn to make deals with oneself, to handle conflicting needs from life. Listen and follow. And medicine helps to bring the waves down enough to learn how to swim through them to see where you're going.
About then, after I had left therapy and was working my part-time jobs, I stumbled onto a major discovery. While I was at work one day, cutting Pothos vines, bored and depressed, time dragging, I searched my mind for any subject which could feel good instead of dead. I imagined the beauty of an ocean scene, then thought of the stars and their constellations. I then thought of the paintings I had not finished. I thought of how much I adore horses. I pictured the Black Stallion galloping over a hill, mane flowing. I thought of friends with whom I had ridden horses at the shows, and through the orange groves. I thought of Ben, who was an enigma to me. I thought of hugging him. I didn't want to think of that. He never did like to cuddle, but always went straight to the sexual part. I often fantasized making love to someone else more affectionate, while we were doing the sex part. But when I had the breakdown, with the overwhelming anxiety in it, I lost all sexual desire. Something about my illness prevented me from feeling sexual most of the time. Some of the medicines tried on me did that too. Ben once said he couldn't have sex with me because he didn't feel right having sex with a sick person. That kinda hurt, but I could understand it.
I was also beginning to have a revulsion, from the child inside, that it was horror to have intimacy with Ben. I didn't want to stir that up. My inner world was very precarious, even if I was a lot better. But mainly I just couldn't feel anything at all...about anything. Life didn't seem worth living. It was getting very hard to get up in the morning and go to this dumb job I cared nothing about. What was the money for anyway? Then I drifted into an imagination of having a kiss with Elvis Presley. I pictured him at his Hawaiian concert, gyrating, and his hair in his face. I always loved Elvis. Well, wonder of wonders, while I was imagining that, I didn't feel bored anymore. Didn't feel angry either. The pressure went out of my head. I felt pretty good, for the moment. Yet, I scowled to myself about it. "What good would that do? I can't get near anyone like that. In fact, I don't know anybody else, in my social circle in real life, that I'd soon get a chance to kiss".
Well, the next day at the job, I tried that fantasy again. I got the same relief again. I wondered why I never thought of that sooner. That afternoon, I worked with a group of gals at the nursery; and while we potted baby palms from a common soil bin, we would gab and joke about all kinds of stuff. Of course, it would often turn to something sexual. So, I picked up on that and kept it going. I felt relief, even happy, when we did that. It felt almost like soothing Lanacain on poison ivy, or a hit of speed, if you want to go that far. Eventually, our banter turned to the maintenance guy who passed by our way from time to time. We teased him, taunted him, and he would say something back that made us laugh. But I, always an action person, and just awakening to long exiled passions, began to have ideas of wanting to do more. I got so I really wanted to have sex with him.
This all was a pretty good diversion, I thought. I let myself go with the current, which did at least spark a little, and just went, unthinking, where something felt good for a change. I didn't relate this at all to the so-called ISH, or to God, or any of that which I recently talked about in these pages, with such reverence and wonder. Somehow I seemed to be on ground I never had been on before, following a path I didn't associate with anything I ever heard in a sermon, listened to from a scolding adult, or read in any book. This may sound strange. . incomprehensible...but I'm sure I'm not the first or only person to have gone down this path.
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Restin Wells