Transcript: Episode 216
216. Cold Rain
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[Short piano piece is played, lasting about 20 seconds]
[Sound of quiet rain in the background throughout this episode]
It's cold and rainy this October morning. In Kansas City it's snowing. If we were still there, we would be snowed in until April. But we're not. We're four hours South, just across the border in Oklahoma. And so instead of having the satisfaction of snow, or a snow day, or being able to rest in the beauty of the white blanket, or trudge through the crunchy cold in the warmer afternoons, we are stuck here in what's miserable, just cold and wet. And so I guess we can't win. Not wanting to be stuck in the snow, but not wanting to be without it.
But as I was driving in the rain this morning, it seemed symbolic to me. Because in Kansas when it snows they know how to clear the roads and people are experienced in driving on them. People know when to go to work and when to stay home. They know when to cancel school or when to let the buses run. But here, everyone just waits anxiously until something happens that tells them what to do about it. Fewer people drive safely. And even the weather itself can't decide if it's frozen or not.
And I feel like that's a classic end to 2020 because we've been frozen, but not all year. And for a year I've struggled to find words to express it. And I've not felt safe on the podcast talking about it. And so we've tried to explore it by talking around it. And it's not been right.
There were people listening that were not safe and it scared us. It made the podcast unsafe in a way that it hadn't been before. And so we couldn't let some people talk that did before. We couldn't differentiate between people like we could before. And where once we could speak out into the silence and relax enough and being confident as ourselves, we now had friends listening who knew us, or some of us, and it made it harder to share. And there were so many changes externally in our world. With our therapist changing, being without therapy for so long, and then having the children—the outside children—home all of the time because of the pandemic meant that we could no longer spend all day working on therapy. Nor did we have the time or space to do so. And so we stopped.
And when you put the brakes on things, it's really hard to keep talking about it because it's already on pause. And all of these things left us feeling like we were drowning a bit, in danger even without a safe place to express what was going on and without any hope of finding the way, the time, or space, or an other to be able to sort it out.
And as the pandemic kept going on and on, and politics got worse and worse and more and more divisive, the world felt less safe. And we grew increasingly isolated and would have disappeared altogether if it were not for friends who reached out to us and held on for dear life. I don't know if they know they saved our life.
But it's been a hard year and I admit that had made me angry. Because once again, the rug was pulled out from underneath. And once again, there was no one there when we needed them. And once again, safe was not what we thought. And once again, words were used against us.
But what made this time different is that the truths we have learned and the progress we have made, we get to keep and we get to take it with us. And so however difficult things may have been, and however much harder I might have made them, we kept trying.
And the things that we learned this year were important, as in critical, as in life changing. This is the year that we learned about the brain and how it works, and understood for the first time that we're not doing something wrong, that we aren't wrong. But that our brain has responded to what happened to us. And it's true that people have told us that before. But before I thought it was just a pity statement. I thought they were just trying to reassure us. But I didn't believe them when they said it. But now understanding the brain, I understand things differently. And understanding that lifts some shame from me and helped me to accept my own diagnosis in a new way. It helps me understand myself.
But at the same time having the podcast, and being out about the diagnosis, and being more in public and trying to function better, was also harder. Not because it was bad or because our interactions every day are about DID. They’re not. We only talk about it on the podcast. We don't go around every day in real life talking about DID. Not even with friends anymore. Not very often.
But accepting a diagnosis means letting it be real. And letting it be real means being more vulnerable. And being more vulnerable means more authentically connecting with other people, which is healing, but also terrifying. It made us wary of people and their motivations. Connecting with my own diagnosis and believing that it's real made me also see why the diagnosis is there, and how hard those things are, and why I'm afraid of people.
And having an experience of a rupture that felt like it destroyed everything made it hard to hold on to the truth that it's not my fault and that I don't ruin everything. Because what it feels like is that it's my fault and that I ruin everything. And those are hard thoughts to push back, and hard thoughts to push away. And the truth is, when she tries, they land on me. And I don't want them anymore. But because that's what's mine, it makes it hard to see clearly what's on the outside and how to trust people when people cause such pain. And how to believe in people and offer them grace when they've hurt me so deeply. And how to see clearly my own pain and there's, and how to navigate that. I don't know.
It's like looking through the window in the rain. Where I can see the shapes and the colors changing on the trees. And if I wipe the water away and smooth away the fog, I can even tell what's a tree and what's a flower, and where the grass is and where the sky is. But looking through the window pane, covered in water dripping down and pouring down, it distorts the shapes and the colors, and makes it hard to tell what's what. And that's how I feel all the time. So that I can see that's a tree, but I can't quite see where it ends and where it begins. So that it feels like I couldn't actually get there if I tried to walk because sometimes it's there and sometimes it's not. And it's not the same as on a sunny day outside.
So maybe the rain is like my own tears. And maybe my heart is cold as winter. But it's been a year full of days where I didn't know how to thaw again. Where my skin is so cold I couldn't feel even if you touched my hand. But also a year when no one's touched me at all. And the only thing warm that I have felt are the eggs fresh from the chickens, still warm under their feathers. Like putting on a glove to feel something solid. And I feel like that's what happens to me. That's what dissociation is, putting on a glove to feel something solid. And sometimes it feels like in therapy they're trying to make you take the gloves off. And saying that's the only way you can touch anything.
But for me, it's the other way around. I needed to feel safe. I needed to be able to see. I've got to sort what is what. And I've tried hard all year to be them. And I can't because they are not me. I've gotten better learning the rules.
My friend says I can't disappear or run away from her. Because then she's left alone, the way I already feel. And I know what that's like, and how scary it is. And so I try. But I'm drowning in the rain. And it's a cold, cold rain. Where even the snow would be welcome.
Yesterday, we had to do two podcasts interviews back to back, which is always exhausting. Because they take so much energy and focus to do. And it didn't feel I'm the one with the intelligence to do it right. Because I'm not that person. That person is not me. And yet to appear functional, I've got to act like I am. I've got to behave like I can be. And I don't feel well. And I can't focus. And I can't pull up the part of my brain that has the information I need. And so it was humiliating. But they're important conversations. And if I don't do the interviews, then the rest of you don't get to hear these people speak. So I've got to fight through the storm of it to stay connected. The way our satellite tries to give us internet, even in the rain. But I don't know the things to say or the questions to ask or how to do it the right way or well. And so I felt stupid. Even though I know I'm not. I'm not being demeaning to myself or talking badly about myself; I’m saying my feelings. I did not feel functional. I did not feel intelligent. I did not feel like I had something to offer. And I didn't want to waste their time. And the struggle is so real that I would have rather canceled it or rescheduled it or let someone else do it. But here I am. And some days it just has to be done.
So part of it's just my pride, isn't it? And I had to humble myself and just do my best because it's about what they've got to share, not how clever I am. The first one was one of the masters in the field, a guru of all things dissociation. One of the experts. One of the authors of one of the biggest books. And in academia and research, that makes him important. And I was scared and intimidated because it was not a day I could express myself well. But I did it. And he was gracious to do it. And he was not cruel to me because of my struggles. And what I didn't understand was the same man who is the author of the book is a friend I already had. And a consultation group we go to—online, of course—but introduced through another see friend, and so already connected. And so it wasn't as hard as I thought, even though it didn't go as well as it could have. And I was not shamed in it just because my best was a different kind of good on that day.
And the second interview was someone else, such important work, and presenting such important research, and changing laws, and creating prevention so that what happened to us doesn't happen to other people. And again, I wanted to cancel it or reschedule it or put it off because it's too hard. And I didn't feel good enough to be worthy of that. But it's too important not to share. And so I did it anyway, still pushing through. And again, it turns out I already knew him and I didn't know it. He sat next to me at dinner in San Francisco the night before ISSTD got cancelled. But I had missed his name because my cochlear implants and I couldn't hear well in the cellar where the dinner was held.
So what a funny thing is that? To have come through the pandemic more isolated, and yet also somehow more connected. Because the year wasn't all bad. And so maybe I'm not all bad.
And then this morning, I had an email from my friend who's the author of the book. And I'll talk about that later, that's not why I'm saying his name right now because I don't want to distract from what I learned. But then an email from him with some follow up thoughts that he had that actually clarified something for me that I've been asking for three years. That answers the questions about functional multiplicity and questions about the structural dissociation theory, where so much of it is so good and make sense, but also something doesn't quite fit. And what is that? And it feels like to me, the biggest breakthrough of the year. And it feels like to me, as a part who's a person and doesn't want to be a part, and doesn't have parts even though there are other parts here. But I'm just a person. And now I've got words for it. And I can't wait to tell you about it. Because now I understand and it makes more sense. And I almost have words to express myself. And I can keep my capital S Self, which I mean as a presentation, not as an integration. And I want to be clear about this. Because I'm not talking about the same thing as Internal Family Systems, or core self, or a put together self. That's not what I mean. So I'm still working on the words to express myself in a way everyone can understand, both survivors and clinicians.
And I don't know yet what that looks like about letting the others back out. Or when that can happen, or if I'm here until the pandemic is over. Where we live in Oklahoma, all the lands around us fly Trump flags. They don't wear masks in the stores or anywhere. Some of the restaurants, if you drive through, they have masks. But even the staff and the grocery stores or the gas stations don't wear them anymore. And the people certainly don't. We’re some of the few. But we've stayed in quarantine this whole time, since San Francisco, since February. Because of our daughter, not because of politics. And because we care about people. And even if we could get sick and be okay, we wouldn't want to make anyone else sick and them not be okay. It's as simple as that. But because so many are not wearing masks, now it's going up here and getting worse and the hospitals are already full. And it's only the last week of October. Our family’s just gotten our flu shots, and the cold and flu season is just starting. And there's no room at the hospital and not enough staff to care for people.
And I don't think the people here understand what the crisis is. And it's hard not to take it personally for my daughter. But because that's what they've done here, our family’s back in lockdown. The doctors called yesterday. So we cannot even go to the grocery store anymore. The children can't even visit the grandparents on Sundays anymore, which had been our only connection outside of quarantine because we were nesting together. They were staying in quarantine and we were staying in quarantine so that the two families could see each other. And now we can't even do that again. We can't leave our house or our land at all. And today is the first day of winter falling from the sky. But you do what you have to do to keep the children safe, to keep them alive.
And so we're in lockdown on the inside and the outside. And I don't think it's changing anytime soon. Because it's not safe. The walls are up and the doors are closed and the lights are out. Because it's not safe.
Just like the children had a season of being able to visit parks as long as no one was there and the season of visiting grandparents on Sunday, and the freedom and the relaxation and the joy that came from that the relief that came from that, even during the pandemic. The same thing happened in therapy for us, There was a season where we had almost enough support, and enough time and enough space to open up and let things out and let things flow, and take a long deep breath of fresh air. But the season has passed, and the winter has come, and the rain is cold. And I've had to put them back away again. To keep them safe. To keep us safe.
I can leave the curtains open so they can see the sunlight on the days it comes out behind the clouds. And the children can play outside on our own land where we are, just for the pandemic, here in the country. And I'm trying hard in the same way on the inside to hold on to the connections that were good for us, new connections that we've made. Those who are safe even though it looks different than it did in the past.
But I don't know how to do it well. And I don't always know what it means. And that's why we're on the inside looking through the rain on the window pane and it all stays blurry. And I know that it's wet and cold, and it's not the same as before. So I know that it's real because I touched it once. But today, the trees seem far away and a bit blurry, and I can't tell you how long it will be before we could touch it again with our own skin.
[Sounds of rain, a door opening and closing, and footsteps]
[Break]
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