Stepping into the fire

This time of year, I usually find myself in a much more 'free' space. There is room to breathe. I am calmer and more creative and a lot more present. And usually with all that extra energy and enthusiasm, I just step right away from any of the trauma that has taken over my system at other times of the year. When I'm in this positive space, why would I throw myself back into the abyss that I just worked so hard to crawl out of?  

Conceptually, I know there is a repeating pattern for me and that at a certain time of year things become more intense, so the goal would be to pull some of that out now and build my tolerance to the distress.  My therapist tries to sell it to me by reminding me that we can approach it slowly and that I have control over how close I step, and that I can always back out ... but I have been so resistant. To me, it feels like there is a door with a raging fire behind it. So you can approach that door as cautiously as you like, but you can't just open that door and let a little bit in. The second you get close, it's going to come out at full force.

And so we practice that. What's it going to take to step out of that resistance? To acknowledge my fear and then go there anyway? She's introduced parts-work and I've had a mixed reaction of wondering if she's suggesting I have some kind of DID that I'm unaware of, to agreeing that even if it's kind of weird, I like working with weird ideas and it seems like it could fit.

So what's it going to take to approach this door with the raging fire? Can I personify or access any part of me that would be able to take on the heat? And what would she say ... what story would she tell? 

Will you look at them all down by the horse stables? A whole mob of them, sitting around on tree stumps and stools, a steady flow of voices as they consume their cans of beer. There's nothing extraordinary about any of them. It's mostly a bunch of middle-aged men in their 30's, 40's, 50's. Completely ordinary men. I don't know what they actually talk about, probably boring things. They're my dad's friends, and he makes me call them all uncle as a sign of respect.  

I know what I'm there to do, but I usually just try to stay away. I wander off by myself and visit some of the horses in their individual stalls. I feel sorry that they're not out free in a paddock somewhere and I'm always surprised by how calm they seem. Aren't horses meant to sense fear? 

There are a couple of other kids around somewhere. My brothers, and occasionally there's another girl I see. I don't know much about her except her name. She's a skinny kid with dark hair. Just like me. But I'm not like them though. When we first get there they usually run around and play like it's all normal. I don't think they have any idea what's really going on. I think they're stupid. 

My dad has a friend, his name is Belg and they say it's because he's from Belgium ... but I think it's really because he's fat and eats too much sausage. I hate him. Belg has been to my dad's house before and he's often at the stables. 

There's a small storeroom with saddles and bins of horse feed. Concrete floor and hay. One of the times I went in there, there were kittens in a little box in the corner. I was playing with them when Belg came in. He stood in the doorway and there was nowhere to go. He called it making love, the things he did. And then he left me in that room and someone else came in. And then maybe someone else. I don't know how many on the same day. 

And then when I would walk out of that room they would all be there. Sitting around like nothing had happened. The sun would sometimes be shining. Just a normal day with a normal bunch of adults. Talking. Laughing. My dad would be sitting there and he would get money out and wave it at me. "Come get this," he'd snicker. Pocket money, he called it. For having sex with all those uncles.

The part that was in charge during the chunks of memories that I do have was a protective part. The affective feelings that she shows up with are anticipatory fear, and I imagine, anger. She is in charge literally, "I am the boss of me." She is always on guard and taking everything in ... all of the sensory details around her, and she's trying to read the people around her and calculate her next move. She sometimes does this on purpose, and tells herself that come Monday morning she will tell someone. She thinks she would rather die than have this happen again. She's oppositional, "Get the fuck away from me," and "Bring it on," are thoughts that she has in those moments.

She is determined and she is brave. Sometimes abusers will tell her she's a bad girl and she feels shame and disgust ... but she will stand her ground, no matter what. She is the one who can look the devil directly in his eyes and say, "You can't make me." She'd rather bite chunks out of her own inner cheek than show any reaction to pain. Do whatever you're going to do, but you can't make her cry.

I would imagine that when she goes offline, during all of the things I can't remember, that a 9 ... 10 ... 11 ... 12 year old girl would feel terror and helplessness. I think she would feel trapped and unable to escape the things happening to her body. I don't think she would want to be there at all.