Strange Star

[Pietro]

Live in fantasy world, screwed up sense of time, memory problems, alienated, depersonalization, some derealization, "voices" (not like real ones) in my head that are often at war with one another, etc.

I often wonder whether I am truly dealing with "trauma" -- I think many, especially those who don't have explicit memories, go through this. But reading this list of symptoms makes it clear that something must have happened with me, since I have had, or still have, nearly all of these. I don't have "voices" that pop-up involuntarily, but there's no doubt that my mind is fragmented, in that I can talk to my "parts" and they will respond. (Although, I wonder what you would call something like an "inner critic"?)

As far as the screwed-up sense of time, I've found very, very few who understand this. I've even had therapists who were perplexed by this. I think all of us who have this should live on an island somewhere, free of clocks and schedules. I know that would do wonders for me. :)

 

[Pietro]

I said I write way too much because I am hyperconscoius that I tend to write 10x more than other people.

I've always been self-conscious about this as well. But this has never been a problem on this forum. You are in good company. :)

 

[ninja]

I said I write way too much because I am hyperconscoius that I tend to write 10x more than other people.

It's funny, because I find I beat myself up over the exact opposite problem: I feel as though my responses aren't thorough enough, or somehow 'aren't enough'. I, for one, very much look forward to reading your posts. I find them to be intelligent, thoughtful and quite insightful. I've learned a lot from them! Thank you. :)

I think all of us who have this should live on an island somewhere, free of clocks and schedules.

YES!

 

[Bedbug]

I think all of us who have this should live on an island somewhere, free of clocks and schedules.

I would still get upset by how quickly the sun moves. "How is it night/morning/springtime already?"

 

[Echo]

@Bedbug - or, in my case, the bugs and critters (yourself not included, of course!).

 

[Hope4Now]

I can't begin to tell you how much better my life would be if I could live without clocks and schedules. And expectations and responsibilities.

 

[Eleanor]

Amen, people. Amen. Changing from one thing to another - when the buzzer sounds. That's what doesn't work well in me.
And figuring out what comes before what....

 

[Hope4Now]

This bit about bells and buzzers and time leads me to post one of my favorite songs, "Sing" by Catie Curtis. One of the verses is, "They ring the bells/they ring the bells to move us along/Go find some soft grass to dream on." It's a song that feels terribly raw and bittersweet to me. It speaks directly to so many parts of myself--the protective mom part, and the very vulnerable little girl parts, and the ever hopeful part that sings out loud a lot (not very well, but very passionately when I know nobody can hear me).

I've been listening to it on a CD, but only recently listened to it on youtube in this live concert. It brought up so many more feelings for me. In this recording, she tells about how she and her partner carried their little girls away from danger and sang all the way down the trail. I so wish I had had someone to do this for me. I still do. I want someone to help me feel safe and loved. I'm working really hard to do this for myself, but I just seem to lack the ability to make it work. Somehow I never developed the strength inside me. Then, in this live sing, she actually plays a recording of her 3 year old daughter singing part of the song. This stunned me...I have been working a lot with my 3 and 4 year old parts of myself. They are both silent. Somehow hearing this little girl's voice made very real to me how young I was when I first remember feeling very alone and abandoned in the world.

Anyway, I thought I'd share it because it is such a very wonderful song that speaks to how all of us are working so hard on our life journeys.

 

[Bedbug]

"We are on this path together."

:hug:

 

[Pencil]

They are both silent.

I don't know how to quote on my phone.

.
My 4yo is also silent.

 

[Hope4Now]

@Pencil, that's interesting that yours are silent too.

In that memoir I quoted from, the author had a silent girl too. I think I discovered another one of my child parts yesterday. Perhaps the one that's behind my terrible physical pain...I'm not sure. I'm calling her the Invisible Girl. She's a presence, but silent and invisible.

 

[Hope4Now]

On Friday, when I was in the most disorganized emotional state, I called and left a message for my therapist finally. I was feeling really weird. I took a shower to try to ground myself. It was too hot, but I didn't even connect with that and came out looking like I had a sunburn. There was so much language going on in my brain that I guess it just obscured my sense experience. I didn't know what to do to quiet the cacophany, to try to return to some sense of balance. I got out of the shower, sat on the floor soaking wet, and wrote a bunch of it down. Yesterday, I typed it up from the soggy smudged paper, pretty much word for word. It's not really a poem...more of a journal entry. So I'm posting it in my diary.

The religious stuff seemed to come out of left field. I think there are some older parts of me talking there. Parts from middle school and high school. Parts I'm aware of but haven't liked to think about much. Yikes. My therapist and I could probably have a ball with this one, sorting out all the different parts of me that were talking on top of one another. It seems like when I spend time "being with" one part, a whole bunch of the other parts get active. It is totally overwhelming.

Here’s What It’s Like on Friday March 14, 2014 at 11:36 AM

I thought it would be better when the blizzard was over,
but then there was a bear or a skunk outside,
and the dog was loud and demanding my attention,
and I missed your call,
and I was scared,
and it wasn’t better.

I am young (and old too),
but I have to be here for my real little one who needs me (even at 12),
and I think I just boiled myself in the shower trying to get back to the present,
and it hurts from the shower,
and from the pain that I don’t know where it comes from or why I have it.

I couldn’t feel the snow that got into my boots with bare feet or down my neck when
I was shoveling out the car yesterday,
and that is scary because I am usually so cold,
and the plow finally came and I can escape,
but still it’s not better,
and my friend is coming today and she is traumatized,
and so are her twins,
and the big me is fine with that
and can be there,
but that one's faint now,
and I don’t know if this me can bear it—
can be there,
can respond
with the courage and compassion it takes to be present.

Suddenly in the shower I hear mom’s plaintive and accusing voice,
“Some people are givers in this world and some people are takers,”
and I knew who she was talking about
and that taking is a terrible thing
and that I should never be a taker because it hurts people
and makes them have nothing left to give to people who need it.
Why do I need it so much?

And now the nuns are saying that my soul is dirty, was born dirty,
and that I have to give my life to Jesus to make it clean so I am worthy,
but no matter how I try,
I still have to say, “Oh, Lord I am not worthy to receive you but just say the words and my soul shall be healed,”
and I am confused because there are no words,
and I don’t hear gods voice saying I am worthy,
so I am not worthy of receiving,
or of mercy,
or of anything at all.

I am a fraud,
and I was never meant to be born,
but I’m trying so hard to be good,
but I’m so tired,
and I just want someone to hold me in their arms
and tell me that I am okay—
even if I’m not good enough—
but there’ s nobody there,
and I keep looking keep running keep asking,
and I don’t have the right words,
and I’m afraid.

The first priest didn’t understand,
and told me I would go to hell if I broke the commandments,
and that I must honor my father and my mother,
but I can’t.

I need to get away,
but I am afraid now,
and even God doesn’t want me,
and the other priest and the teachers couldn’t hear me,
or wouldn’t hear me,
because I didn’t have the words,
or the courage to show them
the cuts
in my arms and thighs
and soul.

I don’t know how to ask—
I’m always wrong always misunderstood—
and I don’t know the words,
or even the questions,
and I want to disappear so nobody can find me,
but I want somebody to find me
and help me be safe
so I can try some more,
but I don’t want to be teased,
or humiliated like then
and again and again.

There’s no escape—
Hell doesn’t seem so bad now because I know it doesn’t exist—
but karma will just return me
again and again
to this infinite loop of suffering alone,
so I must keep trying.