My therapist had never worked with a client who self mutilated. In hind sight that was truly a blessing. He had no idea about SIV (self inflicted violence), no preconceived treatment plans or biases. We learned about it together. In my attempts to educate him about it, I in turn had no choice but to learn my self. He was the perfect T for me. A pleasant older male who kept his distance and never tried to touch me. I value his professionalism and his ability to keep us on track. I loved his humor and his easy going manner. His giant collie dog frequented out sessions.
It was nice to be treated both by a human and a four legged. After the intake interview the sexual abuse was not mentioned again till I was ready to discuss it. Richard never probed or brought it up till I reintroduced the subject at the later date when I was ready to delve into it.
We talked initially about how I was treated by others, and how I felt like an alien.
He asked "are you human?"
"No" I replied.
" animal?" he asked gesturing to the sleeping dog at his feet.
"no" I whisper fighting tears. "i'm not good enough to be an animal" He waited patiently as I fought internal battles. "i am nothing, I am dust, I don't feel like I belong on this planet, I feel like I was dropped off and my race is gone. I am a crack child. (the true meaning of the word - a space between two objects) I belong no where. I exist between light and the dark. I am like a missing link."
He sighed deeply and I saw pain in his eyes. "Paja we have to get you reconnect with your people."
I fracture out again and again as different parts of me bubble in quick succession to the surface. WE ARE SCARED. WE ARE FRIGHTENED. WE ARE ALONE. SO ALONE. WHAT YOU SPEAK OF IS OVERWHELMING. YOU SPEAK OF HOPE.
THAT DOUBLE-EDGED WORD THAT ALWAYS ENDS UP HURTING YOU. WE ARE SCARED.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes to stop the visual stimulus and calm my children. I open my eyes and at last speak to him in a small child's voice, "how do we do that?"
In my head I hear Ste say hesitantly. "Trenta RA" [ my secret language for "follow Richard">.
We start down the path.
Richard suggests STRONGLY I get off graveyard shift and work a shift where there are people.
"I HATE people." I snarl angrily, the internal rage blazing. My protecting walls pulled up around me, barricading me in, closing me off from further discussion.
"I am a people" he says cautiously.
I allow Little Jacky to answer for me "Everyone is a foe till proven otherwise."
"Paja in order for this to work you have to trust me."
I am gone. Lost behind my walls in the darkness of my madness. Hope? trust? what the hell?? why can't he understand that: ALL I KNOW IS HATE - PAIN- ANGER- FEAR. that is all we speak. I have NEVER felt trust. that emotion/state of being is foreign to me. My distrust of everyone in the world has kept me alive. He is asking the impossible. My feelings long ago bottled up and hidden away...or worse killed all together by the abuse.
"can you trust me?" he asks. "or at least give me a chance to earn your trust.?" He addresses me as if I am a fox caught in a trap.
I ponder his words as I feel my foot being bit by the cold steel trap. What choices do I have?
Allow this man to help guide me and strive to live a better life...or...chew off my leg and scurry away and remain wounded and injured for ever. I go internal and face my selves. The children are cowering behind Ste, frightened and crying. I look at Ste and his ice blue eyes meet mine. We speak volumes without uttering a word.
we are tired of the pain. we are tired of fighting the madness, we are tired of living everyday, every second in a state of constant suisidalness. We nod in unison.
I speak to Richard. "yes...yes we will give you a chance."
December 8, 1980 little house on the prairie is interrupted. John Lennon shot. I know he is dead. He is dead cause I loved him and needed him. He falls victim to my mental madness. I vow to never love again, no one, nothing. to keep the world safe from my poison.
Oh the pain... my only "friends" found a way to hurt me. I walk away and Ste mans the ship.
I have three goals in life. 1. To have dark circles under my eyes. 2. Have grey hair. 3. Be dead by the time I am 23.
Graduate at 17 and start working graveyard on a locked geriatric-psych ward....no one will find me here among the demented. I feel strangely at home locked up with madness and the voices hollering "help help help" . I save my money and that November buy a travel trailer and move into on my parents property. Just days before my 18th birthday I am at last free of the sexual abuse.
I am a mess. A child in a grown body. No idea what I want in life or where to go. Hate to be near me. I set sail on the endless waves of depression and sleep my life away. No one knows I breath. No one sees me....me being a evil rage filled sub-humanbein, not worthy of being spit on.
The night shift psychosis is sweet and I enjoy the new madness in my mind. I move my trailer to a co-workers farm. We pool out measly min-wage checks and live better.
We are social outcasts and we hate people. I ride her horse to escape...endless hours cantering through the woods. I happily plan the day I will die. My 23rd b-day. At last my pain and suffering will be halted. I will be free. Free of the stink of my decaying brain. Free of this body that clings to life with no food and fresh blood tails dripping down it.
Co-worker I live with's daughter has a baby girl. Despite my attempts to not love her, I fall head over heals. I protect her vigilantly, no harm will become this child. She never lacks for touch of love from me. I watch her during the day while Mom works. I am sitting on the couch feeding her and with my right hand writing out my will. Gleefully thinking about the approaching day of death. Ste stirs in my head and turns my head to look at the baby. "PICK UP THE PHONE" he hisses in my ear.
I am too afraid.
I am too afraid. I make Jennifer do it. She bubbles to the surface and gleefully calls mental health. "I have a friend who burns herself."
He pauses and then said. "was your friend sexually abused?"
my heart pounds. I feel exposed. I panic. I hear Jennifer say "I don't think so".
I never allowed my self to think of what I went through as abuse. It was simply how life was for me. I feel validated. Maybe there is hope. Jennifer sets up an appointment and before I know it I find my self with a list of therapist.
I scan the list and see Richard N. I WILL NOT talk to a woman. She would be like my mother...there is no way. I choose Richard for the sole reason that he shares the same name as the Beatles drummer Ringo.
Our first appt. we tell him we plan to be dead by the time we are 23. He nods his head and asks when my b-day is. I tell him. We have a DEAD line, a time table, we have a lot of work to do.
We begin by Ste forcing me to tell Richard our dirty secret. We have had sex with all of our brothers. A brick falls from the walls that have surrounded me, isolated me and protected me for so long. No light comes in cause they are so tall and I am so deep inside. Doesn't matter the healing has begun.
I had already decided life was not for me when I was 3 and tried to kill my self. I don't know when the sexual abuse started, but by the time I was 5 I was fracturing out into sub-personalities. I knew two things as a child.
People hurt you and I was put on this planet to be hurt. I hated everyone. But my worse enemy was my body. ooohhh how I hated it. I hated it for being weak and wanting/needing to be touched. I starved it, I put it into danger, ran out in front of cars and tried to freeze it to death. Couldn't shake that monster that was around me... encased me. We hated each other.It was weak and ugly.
School was a new hell. The abuse continued tormented and harassed my classmates. "Oh PAD-JA" they would call slaughtering my name, slicing into my soul. I was the witch, the weirdo, the stinky shy ugly girl who talked to herself. Was there no where to escape to? I had only one friend, she moved. found another, he died, found another she moved...I give up trying.
Find the Beatles records in my parents closet...I have friends at last. Friends that can't hurt me. They sing me to sleep night after night.
I was never 8. That year is gone, purged from my rotting mind, what ever personality was there at that time died some horrific death.
I speak to no one. I am alone in my mind...I am so afraid. I am weak. I punish my self for being weak. The switch from the apple tree cuts into my flesh again and again.
My dark eyes reflect madness and hatred behind a veil of bangs. DON'T LOOK AT ME. I am invisible. I think I have cancer. Tumors rotting in me. Hope they kill me.
I want a mama. Someone to hold me and tell me they want/need me. There is no one to hold me. Mama is cold and distant. We are strangers. I am afraid of her. I tell her nothing. Dad works hard but he looses his temper and I see rage of frightening proportions. I am afraid he is going to kill us. I have that same rage brewing in me. I wonder if someday I will go super-nova and kill someone.
I start burning my selves in 1977. I plan to cover my self with scars and as they fade to ghost white - disapear. I think, if I make my self ugly enough no one will want to touch me again. Doesn't work.
THIS POST IS TRIGGERING FOR SEXUAL ABUSE AND SELF INJURY * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * TRIGGER * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * USE CAUTION IF YOU ARE NOT SAFE.
This story doesn't have a happy beginning, or middle, but damn it it has a happy ending. I know because I am living it every day.
For me my journey is wrapped up tightly with self injury so there is much talk of that in here. Be prepared and stay safe. Its not terribly graphic as when I first posted it Caprice wouldn't let me get away with crap LOL.
For anyone reading along who doesn't know, I have Dissocitive Identity Disorder DID aka multiple personalities, you will hear me mentioning them in the story.
We used to be able to post longer posts so I will need to chop this up into segments. First peice will be a test to make sure all the spacing issues are okay.View Thread
I'm not really a psychopath, I just play one on the internet.
This board has its ups and downs, there are a few die hard posters who linger to light lanterns for those who stumble through here. Loosing Caprice though was like a kidnapping. They could have avoided all the pain and suffering they caused if they would allowed us and her, the simple curtsy of saying goodbye and bring closure to the mod/poster relationship.
I hang around to post when my gut says "respond to that person, they need to hear your words"
I can't respond to every post, for a bunch of reasons. (That was not always the case in the past heehee) but I come here everyday multiple times looking and reading for those posts that ping my gut.
We could start discussions and do in depth talking on aspects of SA and its after effects. But again My time is limited. Maybe in Sept when my little one is in first grade I can post more like I used to.
Caprice can never be replaced, she is and will always be the sweet mother that loved us unconditionally and listened to us. She is the mother we all should have had.
and that makes it all the much harder to deal with her loss.
Have I ever told you all what she told the self harm community? She told us, that is she ever left webMD she would and I quote "after some time, come back" and check in.
I hold faith that someday, our friend will stop in and ease the pain caused by webmd.
In the mean time if you need to hear my voice, call me by name and I will post to you. (that goes for all of you too). My ears are always listening.
I still have quite a few of my books from childhood.
But you know what helped me best in my recover? Writing my own.
I tended to think of my childhood as a endless pit of abuse and my T's asked me to write a list of times i smiled, laughed etc.
It surprised me what I could remember. It kinda balanced out my adult abuse slanted view of my childhood. Adding in a blend of the good helped level the playing field. I found it most helpful.
I used those memories to write/illustrate childrens books. That helped to cement the good times that gave me the strength during those dark days. Knowing that countless others are reading them and laughing with them is comforting to me also.View Thread
I'm not really a psychopath, I just play one on the internet.
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