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Posts Tagged ‘painful memories’

On my blog entry entitled Physical Manifestation of Dealing with a Very Difficult Memory, a reader posted the following comment:

My only thought is that you haven’t mentioned is that perhaps you are beginning to remember something new about this particular memory/experience or perhaps you are processing your feelings on a deeper level and it is triggering the ptsd…? You’ve probably already thought of that, but just in case. It often helps me if I can turn to intellectualization when the “feeling” parts get to be too much. ~ Mia

I think Mia is right about this.

As I have shared before, I recently recovered the memory of the first time that I was vaginally raped. I was only six years old, and I was “sold” to the highest bidder. Nobody told me what was coming. A stranger came into the room and hurt me in places that I did not know existed. My original child “went to sleep,” and I woke up the next morning as a host personality with no identity. People kept calling me “Annie,” but I knew that I was not her. I learned that my first name was Faye, so my host personality embraced that name, and I made everyone in my life start calling me Faye.

This is the memory that has been wreaking havoc on my life since April. I have been sick multiple times (even with severe sinusitis and bronchitis). I have been anxious to the point of terror and depressed to the point of suicidal urges. In a nutshell, 2009 has really sucked for me.

I believe this is all part of the process of integrating this part of myself. This was the trauma that moved me down the dissociation continuum from dissociative disorder – not otherwise specified (DD-NOS) to dissociative identity disorder (DID), so it is not surprising that this would be a powerful memory that is going to take me a lot of time to process.

I have done all of the intellectual things I know how to do, but the unmet needs continue to scream inside. So, now I plan to turn to more spiritual methods. I have a message in to my Reiki lady, who I have not seen in a couple of years. I hope she is still doing Reiki. I also need to set aside time for yoga and meditation. That part is harder because my child with attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) is not sleeping again (up until ~ 11:00 p.m.), and my yoga/meditation healing combo works best if I do it right before I go to bed at night. I know I can do yoga/meditation during the day while my son is at camp, but it is simply not as effective during the day.

I have accepted the fact that healing this part of myself is going to take time. This was the most wounded part of myself, so I am not going to be able to heal it overnight. I need to stay patient with myself and continue to love myself through this. I also need to remember that this gaping open wound is not always going to be gaping open. It is healing, little-by-little, from the bottom, so I am making more progress than I probably realize.

Photo credit: Lynda Bernhardt

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****** sexual abuse triggers **********
I have been writing this week to process my feelings over recovering the memory of my first vaginal rape. I have had such a difficult time dealing with this memory that I have been sick for six weeks. I have decided to sit in front of the computer and blog through all that I am feeling so I can heal and move on with my life. You can read about the event here, the physical manifestations here, and my anger about it here.

I am now going to give my wounded little girl a voice through free association writing:

It hurted. It hurted so badly. Make him stop. MAKE HIM STOP!

Why? Why are you doing this to me? It hurts so bad. It hurts. Please stop. Please, please, please, please stop.

Why? Why? Why? Why are you doing this to me?

I can’t leave! I can’t leave! I am stuck. He inside, and I can’t go!

I want to die. I want to die. Just let me die. Please let me die. Die, die die die die die die die. I want to die. I want to go away and never come back. Please let me die.

I hate him. I hate life. I hate me. I hate it. I hate it.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Please make it stop. Just make it stop. I can take it. I can’t bear it. It hurt too much. It hurt too much. Help someone help. Why no one help? Why no one care? Why no one care? No one love me?

Just want to die. Please let me die. Die Die die

Other than cleaning up typos, I have nothing more to add to this. This is all I can handle for now in this sitting.

Photo credit: Lynda Bernhardt

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****** anger and sexual abuse triggers *******

As I shared yesterday, my life has been pure h@#$ for six weeks, and it all centers around the memory of my first vaginal rape. To put it all into context, the vaginal rape is what caused me to go from having dissociative disorder – not otherwise specified (DD-NOS) to dissociative identity disorder (DID). Up until the rape, I could handle the abuse from my mother and her “friends” by splitting off into fragments. After the rape, my inner child no longer wanted to exist. She split off and went to sleep. I awoke the next morning not knowing who I was because “I” had been replaced by a host personality that had no identity yet.

I am so f@#$ing angry about the rape. Yes, I have recovered memories of other rapes, but none of them carry the punch of the first – the first time having this pain experienced inside of my body. Up until this point, I had experienced all sorts of tortures and traumas, but they existed outside of my body. I was only six years old. I didn’t even know what was happening.

One minute, I was a little girl who believed that abuse happened outside of my body. I could escape it through dissociation. I could flee to the ceiling and be “safe” while my body was harmed. However, this was different. An explosion of pain happened INSIDE OF MY BODY! There was nobody there to explain what was going to happen or what was going on. Nobody told me how another person could reach inside of your six-year-old body and damage it in places that I did not know existed.

HOW DARE SOMEONE AUCTION OFF MY BODY! I WAS NOT A COMMODITY TO BE BOUGHT AND SOLD. I WAS NOT A DRESS IN A STORE WINDOW TO BE TRIED ON AND DISGARDED AT WHIM.

I was a little girl with an intact body, and some f@#$ing pervert paid someone who had no right to my body to steal this from me. MY BODY WASN’T ANYONE ELSE’S TO SELL. MY BODY WASN’T ANYONE ELSE’S TO TAKE.

This was MY body to be shared when I was an adult and chose to share it. I never got the chance. By the time I was old enough to appreciate what it meant to “share myself” with another person,” it had all been taken – my hymen, my innocence, my dignity.

And nobody ever gave a s@#$ that I would live my life in the shadow of this one night. Nobody gave a s@#$ that I would spend my life hating sex, running from it, dreading it, unable to “give” myself to my husband and causing decades of rifts in our marriage because I DON’T WANT SEX. I don’t want it.
For ten minutes of one man’s “pleasure” and another’s man’s pocketbook, I lived a lifetime as a multiple. I haven’t been able to connect emotionally with my husband. I cannot “enjoy” sex because it is nothing but a reminder of being raped and sold like a whore. Ten minutes of “pleasure” and a check, and I have lived a lifetime of repercussions.

It all F@#$ING SUCKS!!!!! And there is not a D@#$ thing I can do about it. The die was cast 34 years ago. The “thrill” of the orgasm is long-since over, and the money has long-since been spent, but I continue to live with the aftermath of two amazingly selfish @$$holes whole simply didn’t give a $&#%. I hope they burn in hell. I hope they rot in hell, and I hope they suffer from the most painful and dreadful disease imaginable before they get there.

IT WAS MY BODY. I WASN’T THEIRS TO TAKE!!!!!!!!

Photo credit: Lynda Bernhardt

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I have not being doing well lately. It has been one h@#$ of a six-week period, and I need to write about it so I can pour the poison out of my soul and heal. I will probably write a week’s worth of blogs in one sitting, so rest assured that I will probably be feeling much better by the time you read this week’s worth of installments. However, in the moment, I am not doing well at all. It’s all part of the healing process, I guess.

All of the insanity of the last six weeks of my life centers around this memory. This was the first time that I was vaginally raped. My virginity was “sold” to the highest bidder when I was only six years old. I had already recovered and somewhat healed that piece of it. Experiencing the first rape was another story.

My life has been pure h@#$% from Memorial Day through Fourth of July. I don’t know why I “chose” this time to process this memory. Perhaps the rape happened on a holiday, or perhaps I was just ready to heal it. I don’t know.

What I do know is that I have been very sick. I came down with a cold over Memorial Day weekend that went into a sinus infection. As soon as that healed, I dealt with a week of overwhelming anxiety followed by a week of feeling so depressed that I wanted to die. From there, I went into another sinus infection that spread to bronchitis.

By the time that the very strong antibiotics and steroids should have cleared up to the illnesses, I started having trouble breathing. By this point, my family had gone to the beach for the Fourth of July weekend, and I thought that being at the beach would help. Instead, I experienced three straight nights of insomnia (taking two to five hours to fall asleep each night) and difficulty breathing to the point of feeling dizzy and lightheaded. I thought I was going to faint. I also kept coughing.

I went back to the doctor (third trip) and received a surprising diagnosis – There was nothing wrong with me physically. The infections had healed up, and I had no virus. The reason I was having trouble breathing was because I was hyperventilating. (I did not know you could hyperventilate without being aware of it.) I was gasping for air, which was the exact opposite thing that I needed to be doing.

The doctor told me to breathe into a paper bag (it really works!), take Xanax, and try to calm down. He also prescribed Tussionex, which never fails to calm me and help me sleep. The doctor was right – By following his advice, my breathing and overall health improved rapidly.

Photo credit: Lynda Bernhardt

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