StrangeTrip

My Story ~ Strange Trip

"What a long, strange trip it's been."

~ Robert Hunter, of Grateful Dead fame

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"Dissociation--Running Blind"

Over the years, my son has had to carry the brunt of what would trigger me into a dissociative episode. As a toddler and preschooler, my tiny son had the uncanny ability to cut me to the core with his words. This was especially true before I had the awareness that I had PTSD (Post-traumatic Stress Disorder). He was very verbal at a very young age. This proved to be both a blessing and a curse.

I remember two episodes that occurred before I started trauma processing. I was still dissociating and repressing painful memories back then. These episodes are jumbled together and sketchy. I believe the painful words I am trying to recall were uttered when Daniel was between the ages of two and three.

One day, he cut me down with something like, "I love you, Mommy. But, I don't like you very much." Another day, out of the blue, he turned to me with his big, brown shining eyes and said, "You're not a very good mother, Mommy."

Both times were thoroughly devastating for me. I felt so low in self-esteem--so bad about my "dirty, evil" self--that I could not deflect such comments. I certainly did not find it amusing that such comments were coming "out of the mouths of babes."

One of these times, I was sitting on the family room couch and my little boy was standing in front of me. Before I knew what I was doing, my hands had flown to Daniel's tiny neck and encircled his throat. Mercifully, I did not squeeze. My child did not cry. He just kept looking up at me; now with a slightly confused expression on his face.

My salvation was the fact that I had learned to take Mommy "time-outs" by this time. After what seemed like eternity (time had stopped for me) but was probably only a few seconds, I dropped my hands down at my sides. The hands at the ends of my arms now felt like lead. My whole body was lead. I managed to squeak out, "Mommy needs a time-out in the bedroom," and I slumped away.

I went upstairs and threw myself down on my bed. I began to rock myself. I truly was the worst mother in the world. Even my preschooler knew it. Now, I had just proven it by coming so close to choking him.

I never spoke of the unfathomable actions that my two hands had committed. I never told anyone. I was sure, if anyone found out, they would come and take my baby away from his unfit mother.

On the other occasion, I was in my office working on something at my desk. My son and husband were just heading out the door. David was going to work and dropping Daniel off at preschool. As they left, I did not let on about how devastated I was about the cruel words that had just been spoken. I don't think my husband could have guessed at the effects of what had just gone on between mother and son.

After the pair left the house, however, Mommy began to unravel. I became like a child myself. I don't think I was ever completely dissociated in my actions, but what I did next is recalled like I was moving through a dream. I found a piece of paper and something to write with. I think it was orange. I suppose it was one of Daniel's crayons. I scrawled out a note in a hand that I am sure I would not recognize as my own today. I think the note said something about my "bad, dirty girl" status and the fact that even our tiny son had figured it out. Therefore, I had to run, hide, get away.

I drove and drove, with tears coursing down my cheeks. I ended up on a twisting gravel road up in the mountains. I contemplated driving the car off one of the steep cliffs. I couldn't bring myself to do that, however, and I turned around, heading back in the direction of home. But, I was driving too fast, with too much sobbing. My car started to washboard and skid out on the gravel. It crashed into an embankment and wouldn't start up again.

I felt calmer, momentarily. I was surprisingly relieved that I hadn't been hurt. I thought I remembered passing a driveway not too far back. I got out of the car and started walking back up the road in that direction. A typical summer afternoon thunderstorm got my dissociation going again. Lightning started striking all around me. It was uncomfortably close and terrified me. I dropped down off the road. What happened next is almost a complete blur. I know I was soaked to the skin with rain before too long. I vaguely remember the sound of water making squishing noises in my sneakers.

At one point, I believe my panic was so confused that I was sure my father was after me. I think there was a while when I was convinced he was chasing me, trying to kill me. The timing of my mountain crash coincided with when I first started working with recently-recalled sexual abuse memories from my childhood. I was sure--now that I had told--I would have to die.

Somewhere along the way I passed some huge boulders in the mountain forest. I believe I had some fleeting common sense notions about hunkering down under one of them to stay out of the rain until the storm passed. I think it was the thought of a mountain lion crouching there, waiting to pounce on me that must have renewed my panic, however. I ran on. I really don't remember anything that happened or where I went during the next few hours.

By the time the sun was setting, it was obvious that I was hopelessly lost. I think this realization and the impending nightfall snapped me back to reality. I became more awake and aware of myself, my surroundings and pertinent matters that needed to be considered. I noticed that I was now dry. That was a plus, as I also noticed that the temperature was dropping. I saw that I had picked up a big walking stick somewhere along the way in the woods (probably to fend off mountain lions). The stick would be handy, too, I reasoned. I held on to the stick and began to walk more purposely. I started to consider how I would make it through the night in the remote mountains of this national forest in which I found myself.

I walked partially up a nearby mountainside with my walking stick. I found a place where I could keep my back to a tree, against a rock, wedged into the hillside. It was a spot that did not lend itself to a mountain lion ambush yet afforded me with a position with only one side of my body that I would have to protect with my big stick.

I was exhausted and dehydrated by this time and managed to rest a while. But, the night was long and cold without shelter or sleep. I was wearing a stretchy shirt made with Lycra. I spent the night yanking the shirt up over my head to form a little tent and keep somewhat warm.

The first light of morning was a welcome sight breaking over the mountain tops. As soon as I could see in front of me without falling, I was on the move. I had no clue where I was or how far I had come. I was optimistic, however, and figured I could make it home well within 24 hours of my husband discovering that I was missing. I figured that this would save him from filing a missing persons report.

I was wrong about this; a search and rescue party had already been out looking for me. But, although it took me several hours to find my way out and back to the road, the rescue party never did find me.

While the search and rescue people were, apparently, searching to try to rescue me, I was desperately trying to find the road. As the sun rose higher in the sky, I was becoming increasingly dehydrated. I didn't dare drink from the mountain stream I found for fear of beaver fever. I did, however, pick some raspberries to eat and drank a little muddy water that had collected during the storm in the indentation of a boulder. I didn't need my stick to fend off any predators, but I did find it handy for scrambling up steep cliffs. The landscape baffled me. None of it looked familiar from the day before.

The sun was getting high in the sky and it was starting to get hot. I worried that it would be noon soon; I was running out of time. I pressed on. I stopped once to rest in a meadow and munch on the greens of some wild onions I found growing there. I didn't have to take time out to urinate. I was too dehydrated to pee.

I remember so well, the way that I finally discovered the road. I came up over what seemed like the twentieth rise and felt sure that the road had to be on my right. As I began to head in that direction, however, I happened to glance over my left shoulder. I spied a strip of brown out of the corner of my eye. There was the road--that way! How much longer would I have been wandering lost if I hadn't taken that last glance in the opposite direction?

But, the road did not mean immediate rescue. There were very few homes in the area. I wasn't sure where I had left my car, but I didn't' see it anywhere along the way. Passing cars were few and far between. The first car I spotted was going by fast. I tried to wave it down, but the woman inside just gave me a friendly wave back. Maybe she thought I was simply out for a hike. At that, I chucked my walking stick. I wanted to appear more stranded to passers by.

I wondered, though. Wasn't I a sight? Didn't I look lost and in trouble? I looked down at my arms and legs. They were covered in scratches from all the bush whacking I had done. I hoped the next car would be more observant as I trudged down the road in the direction I surmised would sooner lead me to a house.

The next car did stop for me. It was packed with Hispanic people. I begged them for a ride. I could lie down across their legs in the back seat. Hell, I would have been willing to be strapped to the hood! When the driver didn't respond right away, I asked if I could use the cell phone I noticed in the car. They said they had no signal and no room in the car. But, they insisted, they had just passed a house, not far back at all.

I found the house after about another half hour. I didn't care if anyone was home or not, I went straight for the hose I spotted off the driveway, without getting permission. My thirst was powerful and I gulped greedily from the hose nozzle. Dogs sensed my presence from inside the house and began to bark. The animals were the only ones at home.

I went completely around the house, checking doors and windows. No human was home and nothing was open. The insistent barking made me lose my nerve for any climbing in through windows I might have done. If the dogs hadn't been there, I would have figured out a way to get in and use the telephone, leaving the owners an explanatory note.

Instead, I went back to the hose for a little more water and hit the road again. I thought I had heard another car go by and decided my luck with passing cars had to change. It turned out that the passing vehicle was a searching police car. They hadn't seen me as they drove by, as I was around the back of the house.

Not far up ahead, I spotted what I thought was a steep, long driveway to another house. Even with the help of the water I drank, I wasn't sure I could make it up one more hill. Just as I was contemplating this feat, I heard another car on the road. I ran back as fast as my aching feet would carry me and shouted, waving them down as desperately and frantically as I could. It was the police car. I was saved!

The officers had Gatorade to re-hydrate me and radioed ahead that I had been found. I was grateful we could call ahead. I wanted to make sure my husband was informed immediately. I was so worried about his worry and the agony I must have caused him.

"Self-Injury Awareness"

I am writing this on March 1, 2006. Today is Self-Injury Awareness Day. I guess it's time to come clean about my own experiences with self-harm. I have only indulged in this particular form of harming myself a handful of times. It's been the same every time. Always on the alert for any visible sign that might prove to others that I'm crazy, I've kept it well-hidden. I've always been afraid that someone's going to find out that I'm just as whacko as my father and lock me away. Therefore, I have never cut. I have only scratched, and I've always done it somewhere that would not be very noticeable.

During the most intense phases of my recovery work--when I was doing trauma processing with a therapist twice a week--I needed to have a safe place to get away and stay. I was sleeping at an extended stay suite at the time. I had my reasons for doing this.

My son, who has always been a very intense child, has sensory integration dysfunction. This leads to a lot of discomfort with strong reactions such as loud crying, screeching and yelling. During this period, this type of behavior from my son would launch me into full-blown flashbacks where I was witnessing the horror of my beloved, little twin sister being tortured and there was nothing I could do about it. At this time, my son's screams became the pleading, begging and whimpering of my sister. I just had to have a place of escape, where I could get grounded and keep safe.

During my time in the suite, I got a lot of therapy homework and exercises done, as well as a much reading, research and writing for my book. It was a productive time. It was also an excruciatingly lonely time for me.

One day, I felt particularly lonely and unloved. It happened to be my birthday. I was going to go to the house for a visit later on in the evening of my birthday anyway, so I decided to drive down a bit early. I remembered that my husband and my son had a play to go to or some such event. But, I reasoned, I could visit and play with my son and while they're gone, I could hang out, use the Internet access, and celebrate when they returned.

I let myself into the house and announced, "Hey, I'm here!" No response. The house was very quiet, but I knew somebody was home. I peered into the kitchen. There were my husband and my son sitting at the kitchen table. David appeared to be giving our son another lecture. They both looked up at me, but neither offered a greeting or got up to meet me. I could almost hear my heart drop, "Clunk!"

I glanced around the kitchen. There were no flowers, wrapped presents, balloons, or cute, little hand-made things from my young son. Nothing. I pretended I needed to go to the bathroom. I looked further around the house. I feigned thirst. I got a drink from the fridge and looked in there. Nope. No cake either. There were no signs to indicate that they had any birthday celebrating planned. What?! Had they forgotten? Did they remember that it was my birthday? I felt lower than low. I felt completely unloved, alone and unlovable.

I went and hid in the bathroom (I did this a lot in my heavy dissociation days). I stayed there until the guys left for their event. Maybe they would grab some flowers and a little cake at the grocery store while they were out. No! I decided that would be too little, too late. I began to scream at myself while I hit myself in the head with the heal of my hand. "Stupid! I am stupid. Nobody loves me!" I decided I didn't want my son to see me go psycho. I also felt sure he was better off without me.

I ran for the car and sped away. Luckily, this time, I did not run away; I didn't have to (my husband was paying for the hotel, my safe place). I went straight back to my little, lonely suite. I did not bother to turn on any lights. I went into the bedroom and flung myself onto the floor in a dark, safe corner. There I stayed for a long time, curled up in the fetal position and rocking myself.

I didn't want to feel anything. I wanted to disappear. But, the negative self-talk that went on in my head was ruthless. The dark, the rocking, the safe corner, nothing could keep it at bay. It kept repeating mean things like, "Nobody loves you. You're not worth loving. You don't deserve to be happy."

After an unknown amount of time passed, I began to scratch. I found a place on my neck, under my hair and just below the hairline. I scratched rhythmically as I continued to rock myself. I scratched and scratched until I felt the warm, wet blood on my fingertips. "There, see?" I told myself. "I do bleed. I am alive. I matter, at least this much." This seemed to be the only way for me to snap myself out of it and make the ruthless chatter subside.

After a while, I got up out of my corner to go to the bathroom. I turned on the light and saw the dried blood crusted under my fingernails. I immediately felt ashamed and shitty about myself. But, it was still better than how I had felt before I drew the blood from my neck.

This was my last SI incident. It was over two years ago. This is my first detailed communication about it. I tried to tell someone about the SI once when I was hospitalized for my PTSD, but the person didn't take the time to listen. I looked at the note in my chart. It said, "Breaks her fingernails." I wanted to scream at this imbecile, "No! I use my fingernails to scratch my skin until I bleed!" I felt unheard and invalidated. I never attempted to broach the subject again.

Fortunately, the trauma processing I've done over the last couple of years seems to have targeted some of the old feelings of being worthless and invisible. I think that has carried over to my SI because I've had no temptation at all to do it. I hope that temptation never comes back.