Jenny's Note

For an abuse survivor, not being in control can be scary. Feeling helpless can be so triggering, bringing with it hated memories of being a little child overpowered by an adult. Like most of you who deal with such memories I don't do "helpless" very well. I like to stay on top of things, keep some kind of control:  feel as if I'm the one in charge now. That doesn't mean I boss around the people in my life. What it means is that I feel a deep and driving need to be responsible for my own stuff. I don't want to be weakly dependent on others, I want to handle my issues myself.

All that to say that when I came across a couple lines on a notepad, written in a childish scrawl, I was quite taken aback. The handwriting looked suspiciously like my 7 year old alter's (Jenny's), but I couldn't remember her writing it. Since I usually am co-conscious I'm used to pretty much knowing what my various parts are up to. When something like this happens it's very disorienting.

When did Jenny write this, and why? I can't make sense of the note, for it says something about the individual who was my childhood best friend. That's the only person I know by that name. Why did Jenny write it though? Why don't I remember, even vaguely, the feel of the pen in her child's hand? I was so stumped by the note I even asked my son if he'd written it to mess with my head. He thought the whole thing pretty funny (he doesn't know about my DID), and I had no explanation as to why I would've thought he was behind it.

Because I'm trying to be more understanding and gentle with my parts, I have chosen to not ignore this note. It seems to me that Jenny was trying to express something. I've also been making more of an effort to be nurturing. The old me would have chucked it impatiently, not wanting to know where it came from or what was behind it. But I see as I continue on my journey of healing that it is doing me absolutely no good to continue with such a dismissive attitude. It's not helping me, it's not helping any of them. If Jenny needs to tell me something, I want to be ready to listen.

I may not figure out what's behind the writing of this note but I have learned that I do have it within me to slow down and not be so quick to consider it of no worth. That kind of dismissive attitude was a character trait of my abuser's which I've no desire to perpetuate on anyone.

 

A Much-needed Reminder

A recent comment on my last blog entry made me think. I've written about the burden of figuring out my DID, of nurturing my parts and feeling, in a sense, that I must somehow save them. I've lamented my ability to be of any use to them.

Marcy pointed out that perhaps it's not a map or directions I need, but to listen to my guide. Listening can be much harder than doing, at least for me. When one is busy there is the illusion of getting somewhere, of making a sort of progress. Listening does not produce sudden, visible results, making it more difficult to gauge one's progress. It's worth adding that it's not lost on me that listening from the heart requires a degree of humility.

I seem to be on a humility kick lately, I mean in terms of realizing how much of it I lack. Is it humbling to admit to my ineptness at interacting with my system? Of course it is. Humbling too to have no control over the fact that I've been left "holding the bag" as my abusers went their merry way, leaving me to try to pick up the shattered pieces of my once whole self.

This seems unfair (and is), but maybe I should look at it this way. I have much to gain by doing the inner work which only I can do; they had much to lose by not attending to their own issues. They were the losers, though on the surface it may seem just the opposite. They left me broken, to be sure, pierced through the heart. But it's not a wound which is beyond healing as long as I will keep my hands off of it and do only that for which I am responsible: consent to the ministrations of the One who knows me best.

I got it into my head as a child that I must take care of myself, forever. That's not true. I may have needed to believe that then, but as an adult I can put away such childish notions. It's not true that I'm alone in this; it's not true that I must slog along, alone, attempting to be everything to a system of alters I hardly know (and most of the time hardly desire to know.)

I don't really have to do anything on my own. Sometimes it's nice to be reminded of that.