Drawing: One way to recover from Dissociative Identity Disorder

© 2014 Loreta Mantini

It is an interesting turn of events, actually ironic, that as a child and well into my teenage years, visual art was a passion of mine. I went to an arts high school where over half of my courses were in Fine Art, applied to BFA and Art programs at the post-secondary level and until my early twenties envisioned a career in the fine arts. Sculpture, print making and photography were especially fascinating to me. Even when I switched career paths away from fine art, photography exhibits, art galleries, artisan crafts and art books were still a source of great solace for me. Where is the irony?  Well, now that I need to be involved in expessive art, I can’t! I mean, it is extremely difficult.

For months, I have been trying to reach one of my Alters; a young child, maybe 4 years of age, who is immobilized as she sits on the bed, and in turn immobilizes me.  She is not only helpless and sad but she is completely speechless. Of course, she is the one who actually lived through the repeated rape and still holds the memory and pain associated with the trauma.

For years, I have known art is important to recovery but I have only been able to pursue art sporadically. Occasionally I visited an art gallery or collected art books. For brief periods of time, I studied photography, wondered about pottery. Most successful was my quilting as it lasted a few years and I even created a few pieces. Quilting is as close as I could get to expressive art, and I do love it.

Now that I have come to understand my Alter who I call, “the little one”, I decided to try again. Lynne, my trauma therapist persisted in telling me that drawing will tap memories and feelings that “the little one” could not articulate.; she would not have had the words to express what happened, and the secrecy around it would not have allowed “the little one” to speak up; that I could discover more about how to help her through drawing. I resisted for months; terrified to even pull out some paper or create anything with craft material.  Someone will see it- I argued in my mind – I will get in trouble.

After 3 months I finally purchased a thick sketch book and 2 months after that, I was able to put pencil crayon to paper and this is what happened:

This was a huge break through for me. After I worked down the feelings of terror associated with coloring, I backed away because all I could think of was to draw was a thick black hole that I wanted to stab and rip to pieces. Thanks to Lynne’s encouragement and ability to instill a safe place for me, I made myself sit down with pencil crayons and my sketch book. However, I wouldn’t have been able to draw without my mother sitting with me and drawing first (see top of post for her picture). I watched her for a long time, enjoying her whimsical, sweet drawing and listening to her reminders that I was safe. When she was almost finished, I drew a green line, back and forth, in the top left corner. I was commitment to “the little one”; she could express what ever she wanted.

It was amazing in that I felt I was sharing something good with “the little one”, that I was helping her. This was empowering for me as I experienced a sense of control- of making something good happen for my Alter and in turn for me.

It was awful in that, I saw horrible things in the drawing. It represented aspects of the rape. Without even trying and certainly not planning it as I don’t remember, I created a symbolic picture representing the rape. When I look at my drawing I see sexual body parts; a vagina, the top of a penis repeatedly trying to force through. I see blood, groups of lines pushing and pulling, tension driving through the small hole at the top. I felt the pain at the bottom of my spine and a burning jab across my pelvic bone. I was alarmed by this and did not try again for several weeks, but with my mother’s encouragement and modelling, I did try again.

The second drawing proved to me that the theme was no coincidence. Again, I let go; let my pencil crayon go where it wanted- whatever “the little one” wanted to express. Again, the shapes and colors became sexualized; this time zoomed in and focused on the vagina as if it were an anatomy drawing showing layers of skin, blood, and interfering objects over and over again. I was still very uncomfortable with this but not shocked this time. Clearly this is the way “the little one” needs to tell me what she experienced. I have only a few memories that are like still images, but she knows the full story and can likely tell it through multiple images. Definitely insightful for me!

The anxiety has reduced, however, there is a part of me that just doesn’t want to know. This is not helpful, I know. For this reason, I am working on coaching myself to color some more. I haven’t been able to yet, but it is still a goal and of course, something I do have to do. I also have not acknowledged out loud what she is trying to show/tell me (except a little bit to Lynne) and that is likely part of my denial as well.

I do want to help “the little one” as she can help me understand a few more things about my traumatic experiences. I feel it is the right thing to do for her and synthesizing my experience through the coloring will help me move towards more integration.

It occurs to me now as I write this, that I can write “the little one” a letter. I can encourage her and see if I can flush out and understand my fear. I will get on that now!

NOTE- I’ve started writing a post summarizing the theory behind each issue I struggle with, as well as another post with tips on what to do. I will start providing these additional two links at the bottom of each post.

Would love your feedback!

Theory: Art Therapy: Why does it work?

How to: How to help trauma and dissociation: Create Art

PTSD Triggers: Causes unknown, but still helpful

I’m trying to keep seated. I’m trying to keep myself from fleeing into the world of my alter. I sit up straight and my eyes follow the three-story atria to the turning blades of the ceiling fan. The church is bright, wonderfully bright and airy. I glance at the pews of people lined up on my right side. Its almost time for the mass to start. Why did I come today- why didn’t I listen to my hesitancy. I should be at home relaxing, reading or watching a good movie. I should be lying on the sofa with my feet up and head propped up on a cushion, full of isolated peace. Shouldn’t I?  Instead I sit here half inhabited with some kind of pulsating hammer, a steady pounding nearby, which seems to be drawing nearer. I can feel the dark sensation around me, the beginnings of that nowhere feeling and I know its going to be a tough day.

I try looking around, one more time, to calm and locate myself, then I will be fine.  White light fills the church; vivid, blue toned; it shimmers the white walls, candles, and multiple bunches of white carnations dotted with dandelion yellow tulips. The long, white, narrow banners, simply sewen with a peace dove flying over white and gold posts, hang behind the altar and on either side, stretch from the floor of the sanctuary to the very top of the crucifix, a good thirty feet above.

It is so beautiful. Throughout my teenage years, I enjoyed artwork with fabrics and garden photography. But this is a different place and time- there isn’t much room for beauty here. So much has been risked and lost; so much hurt and regret. I could have done anything for a career, but for reasons I am only now beginning to understand, I turned away from the world of art. How could I deny the many opportunities offered at the same university for much more practical, professional studies, that would allow me to earn a good living and demonstrate success for my immigrant parents?

One more look around to enjoy the colours; just one. I turn my head, notice the swathes of white gauze fabric draped along the aisle, pinned with a trio of daffodils at each pew.  I am pushed back by a wave of sorrowful feeling, a tidal wave hitting me, forcing my body to collapse; to shutdown, as if I have been flattened, face down, by crushing gravity to where I am most comfortable, the suck and swell of sleep, that weightless beautiful state.

Sing to the mountains, sing to the sea. Raise your voices, lift your hearts. 

How could I not enjoy the beauty around me? Decided, as if I’d surfaced from the water, I look up, straighten my shoulders, breathe.  I will stand with everyone and be part of this celebration.

I sit back down. The skin on my arm sucks my attention like a drain. Mites crawl under my skin, pinching, poking, pacing back and forth, mutiplying as they go. They infiltrate my feet, then my face. They scurry and settle rather than just strike.  These strands of pain announce themselves, but I can’t understand what they are telling me.  I look for something, someone that may have triggered this reaction. There is nothing.

I scratch my forearm, then the other. I try to stay mindful, keep talking myself back into singing. I reiterate that I am safe and comfortable. Clearly, my body does not agree and is struggling to tell me something.  But what? Why now? Where is the trigger? Again, nothing.

My queries usher in a deep, sick feeling in my stomach as if bulks of heavy butter are churning. Pay atention to the body sensations, I tell myself. Reassure the sadness.  It’s okay, I whisper. This sequence of sensations makes me frustrated; in the past I would have avoided it at all costs; flee, shop, eat, have sex, drive far and real far- anything! Today, however, I will try to understand and if I can’t, I will at least try to listen, acknowledge the message and stay calm. I trust that by supporting my body through this sorrow and agitation, I can benefit from the body memories that can disclose my past, day by day, like a chrysalis. I have dreaded these body memories but I now know they are necessary and even though I cannot understand the message, I can act confident, ready to listen and accept; know that all is safe now.

 

 

Herb Tour: Combating Fugue State

Thursday morning, balked by fatigue and disorientation, I sat on my bed after eating breakfast and hadn’t moved on, any further with my day. I looked out the window but my own blurred gaze interrupted the view. I sat, frozen, thoughts dulled, peering through the mesh screen at the clouds mirroring my stillness. I wanted more to eat, more caffeine. The roots of my mind felt withered and loose.

A heavy rain storm had been predicted; a cool, mostly sunny morning presented itself instead.  Nothing moved, not a thing, the mounds of soil with its long green blades of onion, the distant buds, as tiny as a spec in the sky, were still. I felt myself slip back, the calm of this morning pulled out of me, like water, replaced by a young child’s pounding chest pain and suffocated breath. Sensations shaped true to the past but having no place here today; unless I allow it. What to do?

My mother’s voice echoed through my gaze.

“Here is the clean towel. Where is your other one? Let’s go. Why don’t you go for a walk in the mall? Go around the backyard? You have to fight; punch out those demons, tell them to get lost. Tell them: outta here, away with all of you!”

I glanced at her, sat up straight, nodded and nodded again. “Yes, I need to do something, but what? I can’t concentrate. I have no energy.”

“Let’s take a walk around the yard and tour the herbs. It will do you good to check in with each plant. Smell it. Look at how its doing.  Name it and pick some for dinner.”

Still not present, my hands push off the bed, my feet step forward, my body follows her. It is true; what Patrick Lane said in his poetic verse: “The bones remember what the flesh forgets”.

First stop: Parsely (Italian Parsely).

We enter the greenhouse and find several more herb plants. It occurs to me  that keeping a small garden or a few pots is simple and doable. The greenhouse below was built by my dad from recycled parts. All herbs can be grown in small pots or as part of a large gaden; Sage and Parsely, in particular, are easy to grow. Any way you can piece together any bit of a greenhouse or area of pots with herbs would be great!

My mom invites me to join her. The act of bending down, clipping and smelling the aroma did connect for me.  I felt my alertness increase, connecting the parts in my mind as well as connecting me with the plant before me.

Next Stop: Bay Leaf

Basil

Marjoram

Then, Sage

I can smell the bitter iron in the bunch of sage leaves I held. Standing there among the herb leaves I was viewing,  touching and smelling the here and now. At first, I was afraid it might be too much. Soon, I felt lighter but firm and strong, as if I had come out from a shadow into the clear light. I was there.

Finally, dependable Lavender

“Gardens, like the wild places of nature, are the premises of transcendence.” Des Kennedy said this years ago and I agree. I need to touch on this every day. I am seeing, feeling and smelling the aromatic herbs for the first time. I knew then, if I wanted, I could leave my body, dissociate away, and enter the past, leaving my body a weightless shell running on auto-pilot. I won’t.  I owe it to these plants to visit again, and then again, as I have hopes for myself and the painful sensations I need to put away.

 

August 10th: Body Memory for Alter

My head is down, hands at my side. I can feel a man pushing in me. My legs are clenched, my shoulders tight. It’s painful. Now more pushing pain forced into my vagina, buttocks and more pain pushed up; burning pain up through my intestines. I tried to push away. No- In and Out sharp; penetrating pain. My legs are stretched up board like. I’m shivering but I could hear Lynne guiding me to breath in and out; calming me. I couldn’t speak. She gave me instructions but I couldn’t follow as he’d come at me again. It’s awful, so gross and painful. I tried to listen to her.

Lynne: Others do know and they are here to help you. Imagine someone is trying to pull you away.

Me: I tried but I couldn’t. She’d pull me back.

He pushed again and again. My face grinched, clench. It’s SO gross- yuck! I am going to throw up.  It hurts so much!

Lynne: Look at the window. Look at the trees with leaves. It’s safe.

Me: I don’t believe her as he is still sticking his penis in me. I can’t move. Stretch and clench fists again. Try to push away- push my hands down my side. I try to force him out of me but I can’t. Nothing. Nothing budges. He jabs his penis in me again.

I hear Lynne. She is talking louder.

Lynne:  “Pick up the pillow”  “look up”  “Look around the room.

Me:  “can I.  “can”  “can I” “can I get up”

I stood, walked a few steps and shook my legs and pants; trying to shake the gross sensation out of my vagina.

Lynee: “Look out the window”

Me: Lynne is calling me. I tried to orient to her but can’t shake the stare out of my eyes and the throbbing and stinging sensations persist. Lynee is still talking to me; trying to draw me back. She is telling me I’m in the room.

Finally, I saw a stuffed dog on the shelf: a husky. Lynne asked about the dog.

Me: I used to have a husky. She was wonderful. Now I have Argo.

I feel sick to my stomach, weak and dizzy.

Need to go to work.