There are only two people in this world, kin separated by birth and miles, but sharing the same vein, the same ability to write about the truth, the ugliness, the confusion of living life as a Multiple Autistic, having both Dissociative Identity Disorder and Autism combined in one unstable, surly, righteous, and somewhat functional package. Whenever I had the privilege to read their words, as indeed, both wrote from the heart and fluidly, it touched me like a pleasant live wire zapping me back to my inner, oft hidden writer. Such distance between me and thine. One lives across a continent and ocean, the other only resides in my memory as he passed away just a couple of years ago. He lives closer to me as his words and memory live in my heart and mind. Today, I was fortunate to find a post from my oceans away compadre. Her words moved me, found me underneath the debris of the day and in the back, past the relics being used in the daily therapeutic processes. I can't write fast enough. I want to explode onto paper all that I have thought and felt these many moons before I disappear, again, back deep inside.
I've been within and have seen and heard many things. One memory of physical torture, a near death experience, has captivated the audience of me these past many weeks. One incident in which I fell apart, in the most literal and psychological of senses. My father held the five year old me off the floor, in midair as he ranted and raved over a childish infraction. His laser focus, directing all his anger and frustration and shortcomings in life, were projected into his hand, attached to his arm which ensnarled my neck, and whooshed me up off the floor suspended in front of him. The spittle flew. His lips curled and snarled, nostrils flared, and his hand around me continued to tighten. I was caught in a human vice. Instinctively, my little hands grabbed and clawed at his wrist and forearm. No dice. No change. The vice continued.
It felt as if my life was ending. In only my mind's eye, my sides split open, right and left, and all the other parts of me that looked like miniature replicas of myself but at different ages, spilled out in an effort to save themselves from this mortal coil that was being squeezed into nonexistence. They splashed outwards hitting the cold basement floor. From that safe distance they watched my body turn lifeless from flail to frail to limp.
Dissociation is the formal word for when part of the psyche, a part of the mind, splits off, moves away, or leaves the body. Most of me, the parts of me that could, dissociated leaving the body in my father's hand.
To be fair, those five year old and younger parts of me were probably in more shock than awe. Having never experienced the wrath of my father in this specific, physically violent way or seen another choked so, I'm sure these expelled, dissociative parts were like the average person slowing the car to watch a train wreck, wondering what was taking place.
My life did forever change in that moment when my brain, starved of oxygen, blacked out and went limp. I learned fear. I take that back, I learned deadly fear. I became aware that my father could effectively and with little effort, end me, kill me, at any moment and on any given day. I learned to fear for my safety every single day that I was living with or in the same room with my father. The meaning of life suddenly shifted. Instead of an infinite life, a childhood filled with wondering when can I go out and play, or looking forward to school and recess, or impatiently waiting for my birthday and presents, or planning for the next Christmas, I was worried that I might suddenly die and not get to heaven because my prayers were not all said or I hadn't been following the ten commandments and been to confession lately. A Catholic child isn't given dispensation for not following the rules. Thy shall honor thy father and thy mother weighed upon me heavier than the absent thoughts of reporting or telling anyone about such incident. The abused Catholic child is a special, accursed being; you can't ever tell on your parents under penalty of Hell.
The relationship with my father took a sharp turn off a short cliff. Everything about it changed. Sure, he continued to sexually molest me every day or two but that had become as normal as pancakes every Monday; no big deal; just the regular routine, but I stopped trusting and loving him as I realized he had this newfound power to take away my life. One cannot love enmeshed with constant fear. In my heart, he wasn't my loving father anymore. He had become this hideous, hurtful monster that could appear at any second. I wanted no part of it anymore, that father-daughter relationship. I distanced myself from him as much as I was able. Emotionally, I turned away, shut him out. Physically, I worked diligently to try to never be alone with him as the ability to egregiously harm me like that again, would probably only take place alone, away from others.
I've been dealing with this one heinous memory these recent weeks. Each therapy session, a different aspect of the event was spoken about until all the pieces had had their say.
I know this once repressed memory has been completely dealt with as I can sit here and recount it without trembling, fear, or tears. I had to speak about it, over and over and over again, until the memory lost its "Hold" on me. I've learned that if something makes you shake, tremble, or cry, that it is something that needs to be spoken of to be released. I was a prisoner to this memory. I feared hands, men, sudden movements, being alone in a room with another, and lived with the fear that I could die at any moment, any day. It was constant fear of impending death. It sucked to live like that. It sucks harder that a parent would intentionally harm a child in such a way and create such a fear.
I'm done living with all that fear. I have released the toxic baggage that I have been carrying for 50 plus years. I took back my power the only effective way that I could; I Broke the Silence and reclaimed me.
Deny it. Pretend it didn't happen. Whatever. You choose your own prison. You hold the key. You are holding the key to your present and your future and your physical and mental health. All you have to do is Break the Silence, and scream your truth.
I will no longer remain silent about my abuse. I will no longer protect the people that intentionally harmed me. I will speak of the physical and sexual abuse whenever I choose. They no longer have power over me. It's my Life. I'll decide how I live it.
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