Is my trauma traumatic enough?

In a commitment to do trauma-informed work I have been reading a book.

This book has been talking about DID. (Dissociative Identity Disorder)

I forget (have banished from my brain along with all the other diagnoses) that I got this diagnosis back in the day.

I could never reconcile being “functioning” with any of my diagnoses.

We need to no be ready for it.

We need it to hurt on the way through becuase we think that life is like that.

That things just happen.

When we’re not ready.

That we can’t be ready.

That we can’t say wait.

That we can’t say stop.

Things have less meaning when we’re ready. When we want them. When we welcome them.

The part that is angry that it has to ‘play the game’. That it has to do the dance with others.

I feel the hiding coming up.

The, well, I’ll just shrink back.

I notice the Performer sit up. Step forward. It sees the way it needs to carry me through the world.

Hold it together like we have it together. Not that we are feeling this deep, deep pain.

That we crave connection. That we want a hug.

That sense I have.

That I so often do not trust.

But then so often is right.

That chastices me when it turns out to be right.

I've carried so much shame for all the things I don't finish in my life.

I’ve finished so many things because I was so ashamed of not finishing them.

I’ve judged others for not finishing things.

Placing myself on a high horse. Up high. Safely away from from those not good enough to finish things.

But you know what?

Sometimes we write until things shift.

And to think I was worried that after a big emotional process, a deep healing of some wounding, and the nurturing to care for myself in the days that followed, that I then wouldn’t be able to write with emotion again.

Coming to believe that writing with emotion was only reserved for those deep, intense wounds.

And of course, as I got closer, things shut up: I was just scrolling socials for 5 min.

I hear the voice…

I see her. Standing at the window. Looking out. A deep longing in her heart.

Confusion.

Hope.

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t even know.

I don’t know this until years later.

I don’t really have this memory. This a memory that has been given to me on the journey to understand. To fill in the blanks.

If I run faster, be better, will you love me? Will you look at me like that?

To assert myself is to be broken.

We all have our own signs.

Mine is when I am not in flow. Being in flow doesn’t always mean I am happy. But it does mean am not stuck. Ever so slightly detached. Not quite there and able to experience what is going on.

Either way I feel shackled. Like a prisoner that has chains on my legs, and arms and the two are linked. And there is a guard yelling at me telling me to be happy they didn’t kill me. To be grateful. I’m fed and warm. I should be so lucky. But not of that matters without freedom.

But this is everything I wanted.

IFS prioritises us speaking for a part not from it.

Maybe this isn’t that. Maybe it is. But I think it’s possible to SOUND like I’m speaking from a part but be speaking for a part.

By making the choice to embody that part. Let it live. Let it say what it has to say then I can hear more from that part.

I will (no longer) force my parts to only speak in the way I determine is appropriate. Because that is just another part that has internalised a belief that there is a right way to do things. That to be valid and to be heard it must conform.

So with that…

This feels insanely frustrating to me.

This afternoon has been a bit more of a rollercoaster.

I want to blame the two gins I had last night.

I know alcohol has this effect on me.

And also I think there is more to this.

This feels like the next major exploration for me.

TBC

And now none of the words.

It was coming thick and fast - when I wanted to sleep. The brain was active. I also knew the second I got up to write it would go.

……

I can sleep now.

I’m trying to write.

Why does it not flow? Why do I keep getting stuck? Blank.

I know that I have this in me. I wouldn’t have got this far if I didn’t. But why can’t I access it now?

Whose concerned? Whose worried about what?

They can pull me out so well. Blank. Not even numb. Not even distracted. Just simply blank.

She has to look like she’s not sulking. She has to look like she’s not afraid. She has to comfort him without words. Sooth his hurts.

AND

She has to protect herself. Be absent enough to not be the centre of attention.

Be still enough to not draw attention. To fade into the backgroud.

Like it’s a do or die moment.

When really, it needs loving kindness.

To go at my pace. The pace I set. The pace that changes as needed.

Which is interesting because if I am not wanting to go back to who I was then then I am wanting to become some idealised version of me in the future.

There is no sense of now.