Transcript: Episode 155
155. Standing What You Find
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[Short piano piece is played, lasting about 20 seconds]
If I were to imagine a frame, or a structure, almost like a skeleton but not in a scary way, but I mean like an inside of a house being built, like when I built my house, which I can sometimes remember, before it had walls, or was painted, or had proper floors, when it was still just beams of wood. That’s maybe when I liked it best. And, it's kind of what life feels like now, if I had a way to explain it.
Like a canvas not yet painted, but the outline already sketched in, so you can almost see what’s there. That’s what it feels like. Or, my husband, who knows the series of the chords in a song, even before all the notes are written. He can know where it’s going, and how it will feel, before he’s finished the lyrics of what exactly it will say. That’s what it feels like.
Or, a garden that’s finally been cleared and weeded, and is almost ready for planting, but still has a pile of bulbs or seeds, not yet sorted, so that you know what’s going to grow, but it’s not been planted yet. That’s what it feels like.
Or even when I look at the outside kids, who are turning from little baby children into humans, as they grow up, becoming people, so that I can catch glimpses of their adult faces. And, their little cheeks now, and see moments of what they will be good at, and where they will still struggle, even though they’re not yet grown, and it’s not yet happened. That’s what it feels like.
There’s something new happening that’s not the same as finding someone inside…you hadn’t met before. And, it’s not the same as making someone new. I’m not even sure how either of those things happen, but I know this is different than either of those things. This isn’t a finding of a new painting done in some time that I can’t remember, which always seems impossible, because there’s never any time at all. And, it’s not like sitting down to sketch out something new, it’s more like stepping back so that you can see clearly, and making sense of the lines and colors, but you couldn’t figure out before, because you were looking too closely, or you didn’t have your glasses, or were too far away to see.
It’s like when the children play with Play-Doh, and they’ve made a lot of pieces of something, and they start putting them together, and their creation starts to take shape. There’s not a losing of anything, but somehow it’s more than a coming together, while at the same time it’s all together unfinished.
I go to therapy twice a week now, sometimes for several hours. It’s been a hard couple of weeks. The first time the new therapist asked me about the therapist, I just sat and cried, and I couldn’t stop. And, I realized, and was able to recognize that while I really did have big feelings, that maybe it was also a trigger, these feelings of loss, like something had been taken away from me. That helped me understand why it hurts so much, not just because I miss the therapist, which was true, but also why I tried to push that hurt away, both in pretending that I didn’t feel that, and also in avoiding talking about how hard it was.
I was able to figure out some pieces, like I know that we’ve changed therapists before, and I know that my parents have died, and I know that I miss my family when we’re away for work. But, there are other pieces too. And, seeing them in flashes happens in two ways. Sometimes it comes far away, like looking out a dark window, and seeing a flashlight across the way, so that you can see it’s there, but it’s too far away to know what you’re seeing exactly. Other times it’s too close, like something that startles you right in the room, as if it were real, because it was.
So, sometimes, the getting better part has to do with daring to get closer, so that you can really see and look and know what’s there. Like being brave enough to investigate, and strong enough to stand what you find. That’s the other part, is the being strong enough to stand what you find, staying present, staying in the room, staying there when it comes up close, staying in your skin when it startles you, feeling the feelings that wash over you, and remembering that now time is still safe, because that was memory time, but also that you’re okay, even when it’s hard, or really scary, because it feels like now time.
Learning to practice this -- staying present and seeing clearly and standing what you see -- that’s like building the frame of a house. It’s like putting in the pieces of a puzzle around the edges, even before filling in the middle, but it takes practice - building the muscles to stand and hold your ground, holding our ground, holding my ground, knowing that it’s ground.
It’s like standing on the beach, and each exposure to the hard things, while staying present, are like the waves coming at you, lapping at your feet. There are moments where it’s small, and you think it won’t even get my feet wet, and there are other moments where it feels like the waves are as big as I am, or twice that, and that I might drown. Those waves come at me like the wall of terror, and instead of ground, my feet are on wet sand, and I slip and struggle to hold my balance. And, I get frustrated, not just afraid, but frustrated, because I want to regulate, and I can see and hear and feel the rhythm of the waves. So, I even know when it overwhelms me, that it will also pass. It will ease off. It will get better in a moment, in a day, in the next connection, with a therapist, or a friend, or a notebook.
But, it doesn't feel like that. What it feels like is the ground slipping out from beneath my feet. What it feels like is silk covering my feet up again so that I can’t get away. What it feels like are cold winds, and the stinging of the water, and the saltiness of the sea, and the tide pulling me in, so strong and so hard, that I don’t know if I can get back out again, because even if I know how to swim, I’m not strong enough to cross the ocean by myself.
Other times, it’s not as hard or as scary, and I see little ones playing in the water, building castles, having fun, and even being happy. And, in those moments, I should be grateful, and I should let things be, but I know the waves are coming to suck the castles back to sea. And, I see the storm clouds raging, moving towards us, and I know there are hard things coming.
For a long time, I didn’t understand about DID, and I thought it was only me, and even once I understood a little and the therapist was helping me learn, I thought still… I didn’t realize then that I still thought it was just me with them there, the way it’s me at the park with the outside children, except that the others inside I didn’t know, or want to know. Back then, the therapist told me I didn’t just need to know their names or what they did, but I needed to get to know who they are, and why they’re here. That’s when I started reading the notebooks sometimes, and then sometimes I thought even as I got to know them, that maybe if I could just fix things, like a bandaid on a knee, that they would have what they need, and it would all go away.
I didn’t want to be unwell the way my mother was unwell, which was before I knew. That was just an easier way to say that she hurt me, and I think part of what helped me then, in standing my ground and standing what I saw, was having a friend who was responsive and kind, but without being intrusive or too much. She wasn’t part of the storm, but did help protect me from it, but also helped me stand my ground, and face it, and she checks on me every day, which I didn’t understand at first, because no one’s ever done that.
Sometimes it was painful, not because she did anything wrong, but because she was keeping me awake and present, in my own life, which wasn’t always comfortable or what I wanted. But, I think it was what I needed. So, when I listened about being overt or covert, I think that’s part of what happened, is that once I had a friend who knew everything, but did not shame me, then maybe I could be me without being ashamed.
I think this is what the therapist did too - being present and teaching me about now time is safe. The new therapist says that’s called safety and stabilization. The therapist never said those words. I don’t know if that’s what she was doing or not, or if she was just being herself. But, she didn’t respond, because back then I was too scared to move, and so she just sat with me, and we stayed there until I could move, except then we moved all the way to Kansas City, and then I made my friend who does respond. I didn’t know I needed responding too. I didn’t know I needed checking on or checking in. I didn’t know that that was part of connection.
It was easy for me to slip away, to be lulled to sleep by the sound of the waves. I didn’t know that my house needed walls and a floor. I didn’t know that I could paint in color, or that I could turn my ears on and hear music. I had been okay alone. Being alone protected me, I guess, and trying to be with people made me tired, or anxious, and I couldn’t always do it right. And, so, friends didn’t stay anyway.
But, when I had the therapist teach me about now time being safe, and a friend who taught me that she’s still there -- what I learned was that I’m still here too.
I don’t know what we’re building exactly, or painting, or writing, or what we’ll look like when it’s all finished, but what I’m starting to feel is that there’s a solid foundation and maybe a taste of me, and who we will be, not just as we start to work together differently than before, but also as we learn to face the storm, and see what there is to see. And, what else I know now is that not all of it’s bad.
There are days where the sun is bright, and the water is calm, and the air is peaceful, and now more often than not, I’m able to remember that sunshine, even on the days that are hard. I can hear the sounds of the birds, and I can remember what green looks like, and how blue the sky is, and the feeling of the sun on my skin, and how cool the sand is on my feet. And, I can run down to the beach, and look at the ocean, and see all there is to see, but I also know I can run back to shore again, where it’s safe, where I have friends, where I have my family now, and even the new lady, which is what it seems we call the new therapist.
She talks more, and does things a little differently, not because the therapist was wrong before, but because we’re ready. Because even though we’re learning to trust someone new, we still walked in there, and said, “Here are the pieces, and we’re ready to work.” And, I’m proud of me for that, all of me.
And, for the first time, the therapist has mailed back some pages of the notebooks, and we took them to the new lady, and talked about them. We’ve never talked about the notebook before, not yet, not with a therapist, but it’s time.
She still protects us, the therapist does, and she only sent a few pages. And, the first ones were not too scary, but they also showed me how far I’ve come, because back then, two years ago -- I thought it was three, but it was only two -- two years ago -- I didn’t know what was wrong, or why it was wrong, or what was going on. And, now I actually know a lot. So, I think, maybe, I have come a long way, and maybe we are making progress, even if I’m still learning to be well, and have a long way to go.
But, it’s kind of like building a new house, and I think we have a good foundation with all of that safety and stabilization that the new therapist was saying the therapist did. And, we maybe even, with the notebooks, have a frame up, and know what shape it’s taking, and learning to stand what we see, and to hold what there is to know -- is like putting on the roof, and closing in the walls, because this is our story, and we have a right to tell it, because this was our life, and they were not our secrets, and every bit of it is important. Every piece of me is important, and we always have a choice, even in how we paint the walls, or what the music sounds like, or what colors we use, or what words come out.
And, the thing I like about this is that’s what keeps the storm from happening to us. But, instead, it’s something we’re creating, because we have the power to do so, and to do it while keeping ourselves safe, and even connected.
What I’ve thought for these last few months was that we were swinging on the monkey bars, between the therapist and the new lady. And, I was scared to let go, and scared to swing to the next bar, because it felt so far away. But, what I realized is, waiting for therapy at all was the monkey bars. And, what the therapist did was just help us get to the other side.
And, we don’t have to stay there and swing, because it’s time to climb down and just run and play, because now time is safe. And, that means everything is okay.
[Break]
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