This song is the drama of someone with multiple personalities.
At least, that is what it seems to me.
I do not cry, but this song made me cry… Ok, maybe I am getting better at crying.
This song is the drama of someone with multiple personalities.
At least, that is what it seems to me.
I do not cry, but this song made me cry… Ok, maybe I am getting better at crying.
About nine years ago already was my first flashback. It only consisted of two hands and arms of a boy wrestling with me to hold me down. This flashback was triggered by my husband being affectionate with me. I could not see anything other than two hands and forearms. My eyes were open, but I could not see my husband. I couldn’t see anything other than these two half arms pinning me down – or trying to. I was moaning while my husband held me but I was reliving childhood, fighting a boy. It took my husband a few times of asking “What’s going on?” while he was holding me before I could get a good grip on reality.
Our third child was only a baby at the time and we were living with my parents. Needless to say life was stressful. My initial reaction was to finally think I was actually abused at some point during childhood – but probably only one time and that’s why I had forgotten it. Four years later I had my next flash back involving a satanic ritual where some man was wearing an animal head with horns. Between my first and second flashback I absolutely POUNDED my brain for memories! And, yeah, I did get quite a few memories, but what I recalled back then did not paint the picture which is before me presently. The memories I retrieved were choppy and didn’t make sense. They didn’t fit together. In fact the truth was still being furiously protected. I was more willing to believe a new lie, just to protect myself from the truth.
One good thing about the various ideas I had about my past was that even though I may not have been completely accurate to begin with – the exploration helped me to become capable of handling the truth. Much of what I retrieved initially was actually correct, but some of it was not. Now that I can see more of the whole picture – I am ok with having been wrong at times.
It is knowing that I am not perfect and can interpret things incorrectly at times that helped me to keep all of this crap to myself for so darn long! From the very beginning my goal was to keep the commandments. One in particular I have done my best to keep is to not bare false witness. Knowing there was no substantial proof to bring forward allowing me to say, “See… See it now! My uncle did this!!” all I could do was keep it inside. I never went up to anybody accusing them of abuse. But, you know what, I never had to. Asking questions to try and figure out if any of this was worth pursuing was enough to break the family apart.
That was all I needed to move forward, at least within myself. As long as I have no proof or witnesses to support my lonely word I can not go to my family. This is just me, other people and families are in different positions. My family is not in danger by my keeping this to myself. But, the danger of divulging what I discovered is much much more severe. Maybe that is just the programming though. Either way most people in my family wouldn’t believe any of this and if anybody did it would cause so much strife. I have told who I needed to tell what I needed to tell.
It is hard to keep this to myself – to be so anonymous. So many times the intense compulsion to open up to my brothers or anybody else in my family nearly won out over sense.
So many times the burden of this trial made me cry out to just reprogram me – let me forget what I remember!! But, I have hope and faith that one day I will be able to open up to my family. At that point the burden, the cross may seem to be put down for a moment and transformed into a new burden.
The point is, patience has served very useful so far. If I had told people years ago they would have only heard my immediate interpretation of these memories which really was a very narrow scope. I understand now that there is SOOOO much more going on. The most important understanding of the past didn’t come until after I was accepting of the few shocking memories that came back. Looking back at the journey so far I would have stopped a long time ago had my husband not supported me in healing. If one or two people even mentioned disbelief before I was strong enough psychologically to defend what I know now is true it would have made me crumble and give up.
So keep praying, put one foot in front of the other every day – and before you know it there is a lot of healing behind you.
Every so often I come to a point where I start to question everything. I question these memories, or my Others and how separated are they or if they are real. I test whether or not the life I remember is the life i lived. I get to a point where I am like, Oh COME ON ALREADY!!! Are You Serious??? Really??? Every once in a while it gets to be too much, because honestly I am currently living the life that fits with the past I remembered. Usually this happens when I am faced with a major change of perspective on how I apply what I am learned so far to my life in a way that I can not hide from. It is then that I go back to what brought me here in the first place.
This path I am on started ten years ago with St. Padre Pio.
It has been Ten Years Already! Wow! Back then I was 75% sure that I had not experienced abuse. The first day asking for St. Pio’s intercession to heal this mental chaos, he gave me one small flashback. And that was it – the question’s I had throughout my life regarding whether or not anything abusive happened was in fact answered. But, isn’t that interesting too? I always questioned whether or not I was abused – as if even as a young person I knew what I could not consciously know.
This post is more of a continuation of two previous posts:
When I was probably 2 years old our family lived in an apartment. Hanging on the dining room wall was a painting that my great-grandparents bought when they were first married. It was a painting of Jesus in the garden of olives (I believe is called the garden of Gethsemane?)
As a very little girl I would look up at that painting. It was a very dark painting, set in a dark wooden frame. It was difficult to understand what the painting was about. One day, my dad must have been sober for a moment and took interest in his daughter pondering this painting. He stood next to me, and gave me the opportunity to ask him, “Who is that?”
He said it is Jesus. It is a painting of His agony in the garden of olives.
I didn’t know who Jesus was or what agony meant, but couldn’t help staring at this painting of a man kneeling and praying with heartfelt expression on his face. His apostles, sleeping in the distance.
 And going out, he went, according to his custom, to the mount of Olives. And his disciples also followed him.  And when he was come to the place, he said to them: Pray, lest ye enter into temptation.
 And he was withdrawn away from them a stone’ s cast; and kneeling down, he prayed,  Saying: Father, if thou wilt, remove this chalice from me: but yet not my will, but thine be done.  And there appeared to him an angel from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony, he prayed the longer.  And his sweat became as drops of blood, trickling down upon the ground.  And when he rose up from prayer, and was come to his disciples, he found them sleeping for sorrow.
 And he said to them: Why sleep you? arise, pray, lest you enter into temptation.  As he was yet speaking, behold a multitude; and he that was called Judas, one of the twelve, went before them, and drew near to Jesus, for to kiss him.  And Jesus said to him: Judas, dost thou betray the Son of man with a kiss?  And they that were about him, seeing what would follow, said to him: Lord, shall we strike with the sword?  And one of them struck the servant of the high priest, and cut off his right ear.
 But Jesus answering, said: Suffer ye thus far. And when he had touched his ear, he healed him. (Luke 22:39-51)
For some reason, that painting connected to my heart.
Growing up learning the traditional catechism, we were taught that during Jesus’ agony Satan was there. The devil showed Jesus all of our sins, all the horrible things that would still happen until the end of the world regardless if Jesus suffered on the cross or not. And the devil showed these things to Jesus – ALL of the sins of mankind – all of this within an hour.
It makes sense why Jesus was sweating blood from every pore of His body!
I try to place myself in that position…
Jesus, during this agony, saw…
innocent babies being tortured,
children being raped,
children being scandalized in countless ways,
His own church, His own priests abusing others
His own followers allowing Satan to infect, betray, and deceive
Jesus saw how “anti-apostles” who are satanic priests would deceive others into allowing them into a catholic church, turn the unleavened bread into the body and blood of Jesus, only to then turn around and use His body and His blood in black masses – and still, nobody believes this happens.
That is not all, no, He also saw the suffering He was about to endure.
Jesus saw and felt not only the victimization and perversion of innocence, but also the sins of those who committed these crimes. Contemplating this in regards to my own life feels impossible because I know how hard it has been to remember and allow Christ to heal me. Just one memory alone is too much, let alone my entire existence and lives of those who did in fact choose to abuse and torture me.
Jesus saw this all, before he died. Not only my life and the lives of those who did this to me – but every one – ALL sins til the end of the world!
No wonder he sweat blood.
So, whenever this all seems like it is too much I unite myself with Jesus Christ’s Agony in the Garden. Whenever this seems like it is too hard to believe when another memory comes up – I suffer through the memory anyway. Jesus endured my memories, and He didn’t deserve to suffer through them.
Jesus took some of the suffering upon Himself, so that I wouldn’t have to suffer as much.
When it all is too weird for words, I say to myself this:
“Even if this isn’t true, I am going to suffer this anyway because chances are that somebody somewhere in the world is in fact going through this. Chances are that somebody in the world is too weak to endure remembering their trauma, and I am remembering now for their sake.”
This is how I unite myself with Christ’s agony as best I can.
Then, I am usually reminded of all the examples that show me how this is all true and I did go through this.
Jesus, I trust in You!
Sometimes, it feels like we will never get through this. It feels like the suffering will never end. The hard days become more common that the okay days. But, I know that as long as I am able to cry out to God –
God will show His mercy and His love.
Rip me apart
and tear me out
help me figure
what it’s all about
Cry my tears
then tell me why
you make this life
so hard to get by
cut out my heart
to hold in your hand
you will understand
what it’s like to
be in my position
constantly in fear
of your opposition
touch my torn back
look at my eyes
explain to me this
terrible brain exersize
Put me through pain
then puncture me more
then ask me to explain
why you I don’t adore
tie me in chains
wring me ’til wrinkled
for you I don’t ask
more than one task
Love I do choose
You I don’t want to lose
There have always been memories from my early childhood. It’s not like I have every moment from birth committed to memory or anything, but several key memories that stuck probably from when I was less than two years old.
– Family history –
I do not like sharing this information, but that’s what I am going to do – and this is the point of having this little blog!
Mom – got pregnant with twin boys as a junior in high school. Her father was a WWII vet dying from alcoholism. Her mother grew up in a poor rural home with an abusive father. She became a cold and bitter woman. My mom’s twin sister married an abusive man – but that abuse seems well hidden. Through the grapevine I heard this aunt’s retina detached three times within a month and my mom has the tenacious gullibility to actually believe this is “spontaneous” when she was told this!!!!!
Dad – his father was also a WWII vet. Both sides of my family are very quiet about their upbringing, but every so often somebody will almost accidentally say something about their dad being too rough. Heck if I know what that means! That could mean anything! But, taking into consideration the PTSD both my mother’s father and father’s father probably had – well, still, that could mean anything!!! My dad’s mom was an absolutely perfect grandmother. She loved to play and sing and dance with all the small children. She was a nurse – the very definition of a modern woman. She did what needed to be done, and did it perfectly. She had no problem running anything at all! Or at least that is how I grew up viewing her. She is the woman I always strove to become. My dad was 19 when he married my mom. He also became an alcoholic. He became sober about 35 years ago when I was very young.
My parents had a rough start, but they shaped up and really are not anything like they were when they were younger. In fact, my dad finally graduated from college. He took a psychology class, and one night during dinner he mentioned that he had no idea that kids are so sensitive and affected so much during the early years. He even said all parents should take a basic psychology class. I could hear regret and sorrow in his voice. He acknowledged lacking so much skill in parenting. This was the best thing I could possibly hear!
One night, when I was maybe 2 and we still lived in an apartment, my parents were having a party. I lay in bed, awake, scared, and alone. So, I decided to take a chance and look for my parents. I peaked out my bedroom door and looked down the hallway. The apartment was always full of smoke and kind of dark. Everyone was talking and having a good time. I could see a tall blond woman in the living room talking to a guy. Since I couldn’t see my parents I went back to bed, and lay awake.
I started thinking about my brothers. Maybe I could find them and get some comfort. But, they never had much concern for me. So, I opened my mom and dad’s bedroom door. There in the bed was that same blond woman in bed with a man. I was trying to understand what I was looking at, but that was pointless. So, again I went back to bed.
Not long after, that same man came into my bedroom. He was making comments about what I saw, trying to joke with me about it. Frickin’ idiot – I had no clue what he was doing with that woman and it certainly did NOT turn me on!!!!! Oooh that makes me so mad!! Guys will joke about sex ad nausiam and it drives me nuts! Anyway, this fried idiot gets out a leather case that he unrolls. And sitting on the floor next to my bed, he is offering to save a little of the drugs in the needle for me.
The next thing I remember was my dad being in the room talking to this guy trying to figure out what really happened there.
Only God knows now.
Occasionally, my mom would mention the police finding my older brothers and bringing them home. She said they got out a lot, and also said the cops came to the apartment quite a bit. But, that’s all she said.
Oh, so tight-lipped!
Now to the early memory of my younger brother and my mom’s mom. I will call her grandma #2 for now. This memory was critical and invalidated.
My parents had grandma 2 babysit us for the day. I always left the adult duties to the adults, but after my baby brother had been completely ignored, not fed, and left to cry until he stopped and then still ignored – I finally succeeded in getting somebody’s attention. My grandma told me that little bro didn’t need to be picked up and was supposed to be left in the play pen and that in fact, I shouldn’t even be in the living room paying him any attention! My big brothers didn’t want to be bothered with the baby, but finally they took a huge chance and went themselves to go make a bottle for the baby! They almost succeeded when my grandma noticed what they were doing.
Finally, my grandma made a bottle. But, did she pick up my baby brother and feed him? No, she did not. She bent over the play pen and without looking at him or touching him, she held the bottle to his mouth.
I tell you, people feed pigs with more tenderness than that!
At this time there was a lot of conversation going on among the adults who were there while this was going on. When I was little the conversation didn’t make sense, but I still remember pieces of the conversation. They talked about programming and training the child, grandma said “his dad’s an alcoholic anyway.” Somebody in the group didn’t support the idea, but the rest of the people there did support it.
My grandma rented out the downstairs bedroom to a man for a long time. He was there at this time. His colleague I guess walked over to baby bro and was testing him. I wanted to be tested too! Anything for a little attention!
As far as I know we passed the tests.
Later on when my parents arrived, I tried my best to tell them that grandma 2 didn’t take care of the baby at all, but both my mom and dad didn’t believe me.
Second grandma 2 memory – the man who rented a room at my grandma’s house brought me to his office. I was very shy and would not talk at all. He introduced me to his colleague. This man asked my name but I would not talk.
He sat down at his desk with folded arms and said,
“Let’s call you Alice.”
Interesting pdf file on Emotional Neglect and PTSD:
Here I am, attempting to write what I can…
Memories, pictures, people,
It is all a story in my head
like pages ripped out of a book,
and hidden somewhere…
The adults in my life consistently expressed disbelief in the possibility that I could have remembered something from when I was two, or younger. Even I have a hard time believing that I could have a memory from so young, but I do.
I found the missing pages.
It is like finding the pieces of a treasure map when you thought you had the whole map, only to discover these missing pieces are absolutely vital to succeeding in finding the buried treasure.
I have discovered a lot over the last few months. I have recovered memories and other personalities. You know what? With the recent additions, I feel MORE myself than I remember feeling in an extremely long time. With every found piece, I find peace.
“I remember feeling that way!”
I can remember feeling!
As the group becomes more whole within, I honestly know more and more how every last personality or alter – is really me.
Each one of them is a part of me that developed under certain conditions out of necessity. They are me, and I am in them. I used to be afraid that each part of me was going to be some evil thing that could never change. We all just need a little help, that’s all. I still wouldn’t mind talking to a priest, though!
Something worth looking into more is attachment theory.
Another subject is childhood emotional neglect.
Emotional neglect may not sound like a big deal to some people, but it is helping me understand what I was going through emotionally as a preschooler/toddler. Emotional neglect greatly shaped who I am.
I have to share the memories, but will do that later.
When I began writing about coming to terms with having multiple personalities/dissociative identity disorder about a year ago or so the idea of accepting that there has been a BIG chunk of my life that I did not know anything about has been a struggle. The idea that so much could have been done in my life and yet, I haven’t known it – it’s hard to accept. I mean, I remembered hanging out with my friends like all the time. But when they would make comments suggesting that they were not with me like I thought – I dismissed them as being crazy. So – I had NO clue that any abuse was happening or that I had a bunch of other personalities handling the abuse.
For memories of abuse to be so well removed from my own memory means these memories are pretty horrible. The memories of what was done are so horrible – really it is not something anybody wants to fantasize about.
Sometimes, acceptance is so far down recovery road that just acknowledging we are victims of a certain genre of abuse can be overwhelming to the point of nausea and passing out. While I read passing out from recovering traumatic memories is extremely rare, there is one type of abuse that would make me extremely sick and pass out at the mere mention of it. It has taken more than a year to come to terms with the idea this was possible before I could talk to my husband without getting sick over it.
Other memories can be entirely confusing because – I’m a catholic girl, and would really like to be a good catholic woman and frankly – I personally would never do these things (relating to satanic ritual abuse) in a million years under any condition. The idea that any part of me could have been programmed or abused into following their orders has also been tough to accept.
God’s Divine and Infinite Mercy – as long as I am willing to say I am sorry, then I can be confident in His forgiveness! Praying the Divine Mercy chaplet really helped me look at the horrible memories that God was shining His light on. Also, I can not stress enough:
There is only one truth. 1 truth about my life and I ask God who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life to help me have the courage to know and accept this in my life.
Try to accept the worst. Open your mind, loosen the hardened heart. Protecting ourselves is only hurting us.
Yesterday was Sexagesima Sunday according to the traditional Catholic calendar. This means we are about sixty days before Easter. The priest connected the epistle and gospel in a wonderful way and inspired me to write today.
Epistle • 2 Corinthians 11:19-33; 12:1-9
Gospel • Luke 8:4-15
In the epistle, St Paul said “but for myself I will glory nothing but in my infirmities”. The epistle also mentions suffering. Then the Gospel talked about someone spreading seeds on the ground and how depending on the type of soil the seed lands on the seed may or may not bear fruit. The seed being the word of God and we are the soil. Click the link above to read the epistle and gospel.
Ground that is tough and infertile will not help a seed grow, but if we can see our weaknesses and problems with humility we can loosen that soil. People who have been neglected and abused during childhood learn that we must protect ourselves. Oftentimes when we do that we harden our own hearts to make ourselves as strong as possible. We were only children trying to hold it together. So we firmly hold on to all of the ideas and teachings that sustain us.
Hey, doing this kept me alive, so I don’t knock it as long as it’s keeping you going. However, I am older and stronger now. I don’t have to protect myself the same way now as I did then.
Yes, I hardened my heart and swallowed my tears (like the song, lol). And in order to loosen that heart and loosen the soil I must grab a garden fork and stab myself in the heart with it. It is painful, but in a way that is what it feels like to accept the worst. I had to die to myself and every idea and self perception. So, you dig down deep with the garden fork and turn things around. You loosen the soil, loosen your heart. Now the brokenness is even more real, it’s more painful now that I am conscious of it. But, the air suddenly is reaching my heart and I can breath! The water is penetrating me and, you know what – my heart is not so brittle and cracked from drought anymore! When you lift up your brokenness to God, it is then His grace can penetrate you and do the most healing. It is when I could be honest with myself – accepting the truth about my life – that God could really do some pretty darn amazing things to aid the healing process.
So, have courage. God is with you. God sees all and knows all. He knows all of your thoughts even better than you do. Be brave and face yourself.
Tears from the innocents
fall on me as the victims
of satan’s motherhood
struggle no more, in chains of no relent
Accepting no escape,
stung by the glee of hateful followers
at the perversion of innocence.
She became a subservient slave
of their painful power.
Repeated escapes only brought torturous rapes,
For even the neighbor took her back
to the devil’s den of cruelty.
Fight by flight failed in the end
she lost hope for help
lost hope for heaven
but does not want hell
She can not stand it, but can not defend
Or protect the innocents love
On which she depends.
I am back with a vengeance after spending the last two seasons pursuing programming, personalities, and memories. Read the rest of this entry
I am scared.
There it is. I am scared!
It took nearly ten years to realize the abuse I endured caused me to dissociate. Until my husband and I came to accept this we were homeschooling. However, teaching the kids at home forced me to deal with whatever it was that caused functioning in this life to be so darn difficult. Taking on more responsibility at home meant that I could not spend time escaping from my self. This was when I went to see a neuropsychiatrist who diagnosed me with A.D.D. The medication for ADD enabled my brain to make and keep more connections and ultimately helped me to become able to take a look at myself. Though the memories of sexual abuse had already begun surfacing years before this, the medication helped me take things to another step where I could think about those memories and allow more connections to be made. Previously, the memories were like a ladder missing most of the rungs. I had several ladders with only a few rungs. I was getting nowhere! The meds helped me put more rungs on the ladder so I could actually get somewhere!
Though the medication helped me get through homeschooling for the most part, there were times I was not able to fill the prescriptions. During the unmedicated or less medicated times homeschooling was extremely difficult – like walking backwards on a treadmill. Knowing our kids’ education important we decided to send them to a private school. However, we could not keep sending them to the school that the kids and my husband and I liked so much and wound up sending them to public school.
Every time I thought about sending my kids to public school the fear that somebody is going to do God know’s what to them plagued me. You see, the uncle who sold me to the devil and signed me up for the government’s modern form of slavery also worked for the fire department. When I was in kindergarten it was his job to walk through the school and make sure the building was safe. He would walk through every classroom. When I saw him, I couldn’t help but wave and say “hi!” Eventually everybody started waving and I could hear several classes shout out, “Hi uncle _________!” This happened every few weeks.
I have no memory of abuse occurring at the school, but my uncle is forever tied to school for me.
For two days in a row, for separate reasons, all the area schools were under lock-down. Yesterday there was a different threat than the one today and neither threats were against my kids’ schools, but the school has to take safety measures. Objectively I know my kids are safe. But I mean COME ON!!!
These are the times that make me so thankful to have developed a prayer-life long ago. It was hope that I clung to while sinking into suicidal thoughts as a young girl. It was knowing that God knows all my thoughts and feelings that allowed me to pray without anybody knowing. And, it was my guardian angel that protected me from greater injury when I was hit by a car at 6 years old – I only had a few scrapes and bruises. This is proof of God’s love. This is my proof that He does in fact intervene, even if it is not obvious in an outward visible way. These are experiences that no man can take from me. Just like God sending grace to help me keep going then, He will do the same now.
I just have to make use of His help. I still feel the pressure and fear, but I know that it ends.
Hopefully my kids do not have to be on lock-down ever again!!
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