Transcript: Episode 4
Emma’s Perspective
[Short piano piece is played, lasting about 20 seconds]
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(Piano music playing)
I don’t know if I can do this (long pause). It feels too hard (long pause). All of it feels too hard. I woke up and I’ve missed three days-half of this day (long pause). Theres a note on my desk that says to just push this button and just talk about what its like having D.I.D. I know my husband talked about the podcast idea but, I don’t really know anything to share, and I don’t know what to say and its already pretty embarrassing. Like I don’t mean any disrespect I just mean this is really hard. I don’t really know how to deal with it or what to say. I don’t talk about it to anyone, I don’t have any friends that know-my husband knows but I try not to talk to him about it. He’s never been unkind, and he seems pretty supportive, and he’s actually helped me understand a lot about it by just simply sort of, explaining how he’s no different I just have walls between my parts he says. But he’s got all the same parts, everybody does, that’s what he says. I just don’t remember mine. I don’t know if that’s really right or if that’s how it works but that’s my starting place, I guess.
I write in my journals; I have those I guess I could talk about those. They’re just regular notebooks like spiral notebooks, um the same as my kids use for school. I can buy them without anyone asking questions because people just think I buy them for my kids, right? But I go through two or three a week. I write in them and give them to my therapist. I like her, but I’m really scared. And it’s hard for me to go, but I always feel better after I’ve gone but I don’t actually remember anything. I know I’ve been there, and I feel better, but I don’t really remember even going sometimes. I think I’ve only actually seen her twice and not for very long, and we’ve been going to see for her for almost a year every week on Mondays.
(Pages shuffling in the background)
So, I have these notebooks, and I write in them. Sometimes other people write in them, I guess. Some of it I can look at, some of it I can’t (pages shuffling). Some people draw in them, sometimes there’s little kid drawings, sometimes there’s scribbles, sometimes there’s things I can’t even look at (pages shuffling). Here’s a whole section that’s clipped off like with um, I don’t know the word for it, not paper clips but bigger than that like binder clips I guess or something I’m not sure what they’re called. But the pages are clipped together which I guess, I mean its not a written rule, but I assume that means someone doesn’t want anyone to see so I just skip a whole chunk of the notebook (pages shuffling).
Sometimes it’s just me trying to grasp what’s going on, where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing, where they’ve been, what they’ve been doing. The others. Inside. But I don’t like when they say they’re inside of me because I don’t think anyone is inside of them-or me-see, I can’t, see I can’t even talk about it, its so hard it doesn’t make sense. Theres not good words in English for how to even describe it. It makes my head hurt. Theres no one inside me, that doesn’t make any sense. But I know there are others THERE but I’m not inside them, like, oh! I don’t know.
Sometimes it’s boring what I write so maybe it’s a waste of her time. She says she reads all of it. And there are times I’ve wanted to talk about something, and brought something up, and she knew what I was talking about so maybe I can believe her. But it seems like a lot to do, I don’t pay her to read it. She doesn’t charge any extra TIME to read it. I’ve had some really bad therapists before, so I know I’m lucky we’ve found her. I don’t even remember how we found her. But like this page? This page is just boring I don’t know how it helps with anything but sometimes its all I can do just to stay present. It just says,
“I was sitting at the table with piles of papers around me. And one of the children came running in, shaking me. I don’t know what I was doing, I don’t know why I couldn’t come out of my fog. I felt bad and rushed out. The school bus was there and wouldn’t let the children off until I went out to meet them, I guess they had been waiting on me. I was embarrassed but thanked my daughter she woke me up.”
Like, I know I wasn’t sleeping at the table, that doesn’t make sense but that’s what I wrote about because that’s what it feels like, like waking up in strange places and waking up in weird situations or waking up and not knowing where you are or what you’re doing there. Or even sometimes, I know I’m there, like in the kitchen or trying to do something with the children and (pause) it’s like I’m watching it happen, but I don’t know what I’m doing. Or I’m there, but I can’t remember what I was doing or what I was trying to do even though time didn’t go away. I don’t know how to explain it but, sometimes time just goes away. I don’t know.
(Papers shuffling)
All these pages have different handwriting. The ones that I can look at I’m supposed to be learning who is who and learning about them. But it’s like my brain doesn’t retain the information somehow. Like, I should know this handwriting goes with this person, but I can keep it in me like I can’t remember and when I try to read it, everything just gets blurry, and I can’t and then I don’t remember what I read. I think there’s something wrong with me. It feels so crazy sometimes or like I’m stupid or something except like who’s not intelligent enough to read the words on the page if you know how to read? I know how to read, I just (exasperated sigh and pages shuffling) I just can’t.
(Papers shuffling)
Sometimes (pages shuffling and long pause), sometimes its just about other things. Or trying to figure out what is right. Like this, is from last week or the week before, I’m not even sure, but it says, “I want to put up the Christmas tree, but I guess its still too soon. Also, only the decorations are pulled out, the Christmas tree is in a box in the garage, and I can’t go in there to get it out and my husband has been sick.” Like, why can’t I go in the garage, I don’t even understand? It’s not a big deal I just need to go in and get the box, but it was like two weeks I couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t do it (sighs). I don’t know why. Like I’m not depressed exactly, I mean I’m frustrated, and I’m exhausted but I just-it wasn’t about motivation I don’t know how to explain it. It was just too much, I couldn’t do it, I don’t know why.
(P apers shuffling)
Sometimes I try to write about my dreams but that’s hard, my dreams are so weird. Like I think there’s something seriously wrong with me. Um. This page (pages shuffling) from last week or the weekend maybe the weekend before, I don’t know, it says,
“I was standing in front of an open door, well it kind of opened itself- that part was creepy-but I did not feel afraid. I was anxious but not scared. Behind me was a long hallway with rooms off on each side, it was dark there and I knew I did not want to go that way. Ahead of me was a flight of wooden stairs and I could see a little bit of light from a window like it was a skylight, but at night, not bright. It was not a fancy one, just flat plans on a slanted roof.
I’ve had this dream before, but this time I climbed the stairs and went up. I don’t know why this time was different. I could feel the sound the stairs made but could not hear it. I could feel with my fingers the wood slatted walls as I went up. I could smell the air, it was unpleasant, it stung a bit like dust and stale urine. I don’t know how to describe it, cats uncared for maybe? I don’t like the smell of cats and it reminded me of this, but cats are so sweet I don’t know why I can’t handle the smell. But there were no cats in the dream.
From the window, I could see fields. There were cows, and horses, and a faraway house. The house had a swing set. There were trees, like woods in the country to the right. The land dipped down like a small valley before going back up to the other land with the cows to the left. I was taking all this in before turning back to the room and (pages shuffling) see what I could see when someone from behind came and startled me so badly I screamed. But it was just my daughter waking me up from my dreams and crawling into my bed for the morning. I was so disoriented, and it took me a while to wake up.”
So, see (exasperated sigh)? I can’t even finish my dreams. Maybe that’s because of parenting though, I don’t know.
(Papers shuffling)
Sometimes I don’t even know what to write in my journals, so I just write quotes. I really like the book, um, there’s a book I like. I’ve had it for a long time, its very marked up and all the pages are written on and highlighted, its one of those books. But maybe my favorite book of all time, maybe, my Bible I guess you would say, its scripture to me, it’s like sacred, it’s a text, like (mmm) I don’t know how to explain it but its called Women Who Run With The Wolves, by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. And so, here’s a quote from that book.
While the sides of a woman’s nature represents separate entities with different functions and discriminant knowledge, they must, have a knowing or a translation of one another to function as a whole. If a woman hides one part or favors another part too much, she lives a lopsided life which does not give her access to her entire power. This is not good.
And then it says later in that same chapter, this is from chapter 4. It says,
“The loss of a woman’s psychological, emotional, and spiritual powers comes from separating these parts from one another and pretending the others don’t exist. Starved creatures often lose their memory of what they were about.”
So, I feel like, those were powerful quotes, they reflect to me some of what I’ve talked about in therapy or in my journals or what I’m trying to think about on my own even if I’m not good at remembering what happens in therapy. But often even those just feel like, just beyond my grasp. I start to see what it means then it just slips through my fingers like time just slips through my fingers like sand. I don’t know how else to describe it.
(Papers shuffling)
Oh, this was a new thing that happened. Just at the end of last week.
“For the first time I heard two voices, distinct and clear, not just noise in my head. And then like someone turning on the lights, I saw them standing there across from me watching the children. One was taller with glasses and a ponytail, and one was older with shorter hair. They were not there before, and I knew they were the others. They were talking about the children, and shame, and connection. The wounded boy came running to me crying, but the older stepped forward and intervened before he got to me. The one with glasses and a ponytail coached her through it and it was amazing. I just stood there watching.”
So that’s what I wrote because it’s what happened, but I don’t know what it means or if it counts. Does that count as therapy? Is it worth writing?
(Page’s shuffling)
Sometimes I can write therapist for my therapist too. I wrote,
“Is that a hallucination? I don’t know what happened and I don’t know if seeing them for the first time means I am getting better or if I am getting sicker.”
I just feel crazy all the time I don’t know if I’m getting better, and if I’m getting better, I don’t even know how to measure that. Like, how can you tell? Who decides what better is? What does that even mean? What does it look like? What do I have to do to make it happen?
(Indistinct mumbling and pages shuffling)
Here’s a quote I wrote from an Adrienne Rich poem, she’s a writer. It says,
Since I was a child
trying on a thousand faces
I have wanted one thing: to know
simply as I know my name
at any given moment, where I stand
Here’s another one she wrote
But we have different voices even in sleep
the past echoing through our bloodstreams
and this is she
with whom I tried to speak, whose hurt, expressive head
turning aside from pain, is dragged down deeper
where it cannot hear me
and soon I shall know I was talking to my own soul
(Papers shuffling)
Here’s one, this doesn’t happen very often. Here’s one where like somebody wrote me back.
“I don’t know if we worked today or not how do I tell?”
Sometimes I can tell we got up early to work because we have the watch that shows what our sleep patterns were, so I know if I was awake in the night or what time we went to sleep or what time I got up. Or if like I was wondering around the house in the night, I know it because the steps are counted. So, I try to track it and pay attention but sometimes, I don’t know. And that night, the watch was charging so I didn’t have the watch on. I slept to a different time and little things like that throw me off easily because I don’t know what’s happened to my day or what I need to do or not do or how to do it. So, I wrote that down just to ask my therapist in session, but then somebody wrote me back in a completely different handwriting and I don’t remember writing it and its not my husbands writing. When I said, “how do I tell?”, they wrote back, it just says,
“Ask me. We did, I worked. I’m finished until Tuesday, but we have to give a talk and you need to look at the notes about the podcast.”
But I didn’t know about the podcast yet, so I don’t know what notes they were talking about or what to do when somebody wrote me back. I don’t know, it was disturbing. And then more about a dream. Right now, I keep having a dream about a house. This says,
“I dreamed I was in a house, it was dark, but I was not afraid. It was dark like dusk not like night. I knew the family was not home, but it was filthy there. There was a foyer where I was standing and a living room (papers shuffling) where the ones I saw the other day were standing. One was talking to the other like giving them a tour. The kitchen was in the back and horrifying, and by the foyer there were stairs that went up and stairs that went down. I saw a small child at the end of the downstairs hall, but she ran to hide as soon as she saw me see her. I did not want to scare her, so I did not go down the stairs. When I turned to look at the other stairs, a boy with a black eye was sitting at the top of the stairs. He smiled and waved but before I could talk to him, I heard the other adult there say something to the other one. I moved to see what they were looking.”
But that’s when she woke me up and I can’t remember what I saw.
(Page’s shuffling)
I don’t even know. Just trying to put pieces together, I guess. I don’t know if this matters to anyone (more pages shuffling). And there’s lots of different kinds of drawings, some are just children’s drawings. Some are really good. Sometimes there’s paintings, I can’t paint, I can’t sketch and draw like some of these drawings (more pages shuffling) I don’t know if I can even draw as well as the kid’s drawings that are in here. Sometimes its marker, sometimes its crayon, sometimes its scribbling. There are a bunch of pens, we have pens that are different color pens and some of them always write with the same pen and some of them like to use different ones (more pages shuffling) I don’t know if it means anything. Some of its scary. Here’s that whole page talking about N.T.I.S. and explaining about Now Time Is Safe. So, I learned that because I saw it on my hand for 3 weeks, I had Sharpie on my hand, every time I almost got rid of it, it came back again. I guess one of the others writing on there, but I don’t know why or how to make them stop. But then I learned from the notebook it was something that was helping somebody. But like how does that work? My experience is that I keep trying to wipe this marker off my hand and it won’t go away. So (papers shuffling) it can just be so confusing but I’m trying. And then today here’s what I wrote.
(Papers shuffling)
I can share this. Its like what we were talking about, those other dreams last week. Because I have really bad dreams, they’re terrible. Sometimes I’m not even asleep when they happen, and I don’t know how to explain it. Here’s what I wrote this morning, well it was nighttime after midnight like two in the morning, okay,
“Um, I had a horrible dream. I woke up in the floor curled up too scared to move. It took me an hour almost just to get across the room to the notebook. My hands are shaking, I can’t breathe, my heart is pounding out of my chest. I had a strong feeling to tell you about my dream. Not just the venting or because I want to or its interesting, but its more an urge, like a need, like its someone else’s need. I don’t know how to explain it. But also at the same time, I’m afraid. It makes me feel small and scared. Also, the dreams themselves are not appropriate, my dreams are always nightmares, violent, they’re grotesque, they’re horrific. I wont watch T.V. and still it happens. I feel so bad, even guilty, for the terrible person I am to have such dreams and I don’t dare write them down.
Sometimes it’s like one bad movie, one long story from start to finish, a nightmare I can’t wake up from as it plays out worse and worse and just escalates. It doesn’t stop until I wake up screaming and have to throw up and lay there shaking and afraid. It takes me a long time to recover from those. Other times, my dreams are like tangled webs of different colors. Like watching a hundred movies on a hundred screens all at once, except someone keeps changing the channel so I can’t make sense of any of it. These are less scary but more overwhelming, I’m startled to wake. Stressed, and anxious, and confused when I finally do (pages shuffling).
Sometimes there are only flashes. This happens even when I am awake out of context and terrifying, like someone throwing pictures up in my faces or sounds. Sometimes it happens with sounds, or even smells. It’s a cruel torture these flashes, and they startle me and frighten me. Sometimes they are just random, sometimes lots happen in a row like a flipbook or the same on over and over. Sometimes its one slowly that fades in and the more I look, the more hypnotic it becomes. Sometimes there are many of them, quickly, startling me, leaving me dizzy and knocking me off balance.
Always they are unwanted, and violating, disturbing, graphic, and frightening, sickening, and even after they are gone or I wake up, their shadow lingers over me, haunting me. This is almost worse than even losing time. Losing time is disorienting, not knowing where I am is scary. Not knowing or being to guess what I was doing or saying is embarrassing. Not being able to find anything is frustrating. Not knowing about my husband and children while I am gone is worrying. But the dreams and flashes are terrifying. All of it makes me feel crazy, but the dreams and flashes make me feel bad. The voices and chatter are confusing but has always been there and you say you know those others and trust them, and they are safe and good, but the nightmares and flashes are not good.”
(Papers shuffling)
I don’t know. That’s where I am today. I don’t know if that helps or if journaling it out loud like this makes a difference. I don’t know, but that’s all I can do. That’s all I can try. Thanks. I do appreciate the people in the groups or online. Who have been so supportive, and helpful, and contacted me or listened to me as I try to sort things out or been patient with the others- I guess who know so much more than me? I guess, I can only process so much. But finding others who understand or are willing to help really helps and I appreciate that, thanks guys.
(Outro)
Thanks for listening. Your support really helps us feel less alone while we sort through all this and learn together, maybe it will help you in some way too. Connect with us on Facebook, in some of the survivor groups, or on our website, www.SystemSpeak.Org
Thank you.