Posted in art, art therapy, blogging, dissociative identity disorder, ego state, Girl blogger, journal, lifestyle, mental health, mental health awareness, mixed media, therapy, trauma, Wellbeing

Exploring my brain thru art.

I am working on a series of abstract paintings just now. It’s a very personal journey exploring memory and self through contemplative abstract intuitive painting.

I started it because my memory is something that I battle with and it seems to have shattered like a mirror. I needed an outlet to pour my emotions into. I need to express all the translucent layers of memory that only ever seem to give half a story.

I have called the series ” The Remembering “.

I’ve honestly poured my soul into these as I try to come to terms with some very hard stuff concerning my memory and trauma..

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Posted in art therapy, blogging, dissociative identity disorder, Girl blogger, health, journal, mental health awareness, therapy, trauma, Uncategorized, Wellbeing

Tormented.

*Please be aware there are graphic details of child sexual abuse in this post.*

I wrote this in my private journal, but I feel like maybe I should share it since I can’t be the only one going through this.

 

Tormented

whathappened

 

I wish I understood. I wish I just understood what’s going on for me.

My nightmares, cranking up in intensity again. Taunting me.

My alters wake up and are so distressed either by the dreams or else by something I have no knowledge of.

I can’t help if I don’t know what the fuck I’m dealing with!

It feels like something really bad happened in my childhood. Something sinister and pervading and awful.

My child parts draw terribly disturbing things. I am partly there while they draw… whilst I draw.

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I draw these things and I have no idea why other than I feel compelled to do so… yet the child parts don’t have free-reign to draw anything, there’s things they want to draw that I just won’t allow. Terrible things. Some things beyond terrible that I just can’t let be drawn.

You know, I kind of watch myself drawing from inside my head. I’m there, I’m drawing, I can see that. I know it’s me drawing…. Yet not me…. The drawings are children’s drawings and the writing and language is that of young children.

I have no plan of what I am about to draw or write. Only that I feel the impulse to do so. I know that there’s child parts needing to communicate and I kind of step aside and let them.

And they draw and draw, frantically in their scribbly scrawling way. They write of their fears, they draw stick figures, children with sad faces, houses in the woods, corridors with lots of closed doors.

And I don’t know why! But I feel their distress.

Sometimes I let them properly draw the bad images and then they are so horrible and explicit, me or another part will come along and paint over the drawings or just fully rip them out and bin them.

I am so deeply distressed and disturbed. There’s something so badly wrong with me but I don’t know what it is. I don’t know WHY I am like this. I don’t have memories to match the bad drawings and the child parts terror.

When I am more grounded in the present, I have NO memories of any abuse. I have no suspected culprits, no one that I can really say had strange behaviours.

So why am I like this? What is wrong with me?

I have no memories, no proof, no signs of anything being wrong – apart from emotional abuse I guess and emotional neglect.

What will the child parts will tell you?

They will speak of terrible sexual abuse. They will tell you of organised child abuse. Sex parties. They will tell you about children of ALL ages being used. They will tell you details about how they….. I can’t. I can’t even write it. Even in this utterly private journal that no one else reads.

They will tell you about, bad men. They will tell you about music being played – weird foreign sounding music with no words. They will tell you about children being buried. They will tell you about how 14 years old becomes too old.

They will tell you about being very drugged and everything feels strange and dreamy.

Yet, I don’t think this happened to me. I don’t know. I really don’t think this happened. How could it?

Who would do that? I honestly don’t think this happened to me.

There’s detail there, yet…. Nothing concrete. No identifiable place, no identifiable faces, not sense of time.

I hate myself. I hate myself so much that I want to rip my skin apart.

Why is this happening to me?

Is there any truth at all in this? What the fuck is happening to me?

I can’t let this happen. I can’t be this person. I can’t keep talking about something that has no evidence of ever happening?

Is there a kernel of truth in all these nightmares and drawings? Was there some abuse, but not to the degree I am experiencing?

Was there one incidence of it and my mind is just twisting it all up to get me to pay attention to it or something?

Or worse, am I a liar, a fantasist, an attention seeker, a really ill person?

I have no control over this. I know I keep raking over the same questions and I never get an answer.

The child parts rage on with their drawings and deepest disturbed memories and distress and the adult parts who have no memories of it try to dismiss it, deny it and forget about it. And the teens, they rage at me, and the child parts and at themselves. They call us liars, they want to hurt the body because it deserves to be hurt for spewing such disgusting lies. We are bad girls, all of us. We are disgusting, they shout out loud how bad and evil we are. That we are lying, nothing ever happened to us.

I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I feel pummeled by trauma stuff. I am exhausted. I am just down to the bare bones of coping with all of this.

It’s like my body is having a “memory party” all to itself but hasn’t invited my brain.

All I feel right now is rage at myself. I want to destroy myself. I am exhausted and heartbroken that I am going through this. Why me? Why is this happening? What happened? What really happened?

Is the story far more normal and far less dramatic than my nightmares suggest? Is all of that a cover up for run of the mill sexual abuse by a relative? Like, a few bad experiences but not on the level of organised sex parties.

I am not minimizing the damage of ANY abuse regardless of who or where it happened, but maybe my nightmares can’t be trusted. Maybe they’re a metaphor.

I am not under any illusion that most of my nightmares are not memories but are a garbled collection of half-truths and random shit. I know which parts of the nightmares are definitely not real memories.

Sometimes I have dreams that feel like memories or flashbacks… or the general feel of the dream is the real memory but the narrative isn’t accurate it’s just the story my brain made up to get me to take note of the theme?

I imagine it being like the story of the dream is just the vehicle being used to deliver the metaphor of abuse.

Like, the body memories in the dream feel like truth, those feel like a remembering of sorts. Or the fear and trapped-ness and disgust and inevitability I feel in those dreams feel like a real truth, a remembering… the shock of seeing a man naked, of having to touch him…. That feels like a truth and a remembering.

Sometimes I see a room or a house in my nightmares and somehow that feels familiar.

Sometimes I dream that I am a child, I am dead and I lie undiscovered in a drain pipe, covered in leaves and debris. Sometimes I am a child in the woods and I have blood on my nightgown from being raped and I have been left for dead.

Sometimes I am a child in my dream and I am crying deep soulful sobs because I’ve been hurt so badly, so viscerally.

Sometimes I dream of a million different deaths. Dead children everywhere. Murdered and their bodies concealed, never to be found.

This all feels so severe. What is wrong with me?

I don’t want any of this. I am just disgusted with myself. I want it to stop. I just don’t know how. And right now I feel heartbroken that this is happening to me, because it’s truly nightmarish and macabre and I feel powerless and confused and full of hate for myself, my brain… all of it.

What happened to me? WHAT HAPPENED?

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