I was at work. It was a stressful day with lots of unplanned out of my control events. Adding to the stress was the knowledge that the company Christmas party was that evening. I hate Christmas and I hate Christmas parties. To be fair, I hate most parties. I am always anxious and all those people (whether I know them or not) in one room has me wishing I was somewhere else. I get tongue tied and it is a long night of dissociation.
I caught a flash of an image in my inner vision. A child held up an old black and white photograph. Looking closer I recognized the picture. It portrayed a Christmas party I was at when I was three. The man, the family friend who molested me, was dressed as Santa. I recoiled from the image and went back to focusing on the chaos of my afternoon.
Today started poorly. The husband was having a bad morning which in turn created chaos in my morning. I checked one of my Facebook support groups and joined a conversation there. Part of my conversation was ….
There are times when his crazy and my crazy procreate and make more craziness. Which leaves me with no safe place to just breathe. The wife wants to comfort the husband and create the peaceful place he needs. The Angry One Points to our young ones and says he needs to shut up and go away; we have young ones to take care of. Some of the young ones sit and cry, some hide behind the older ones. The young one with the snapshot says nothing, just sits and shakes, holding that damn picture with tears streaming from her eyes. And I don’t know what to do. I can’t hold her … maybe I should try meditating with her. I know what to do. Thanks for holding the space for me and helping me talk this through.
One of the tools I developed in the 1990’s was meditation and working with my personal guides. In meditation I went to my safe place with the intent of seeking out one of my guides and getting their help with this. One of my guides and the child who presented the image of the Christmas party were waiting for me in my Safe Place. The Christmas party in the picture was the first time we were molested by the family friend. It went on for the whole time we lived in the same city, three years. It resumed when we were in the same city again when I was 12. The 12 year old is a different aspect who isn’t ready for help yet.
The child told her story in shared images and feeling. My guide asked if he could take the ickyness from her. The child agreed and sat like a statue while he gathered a ball of icky stuff from her heart, and then mine. We all sat together in the peace for a while.
I asked my guide why the work I did in the 1990’s didn’t fix the issues we are struggling with now. He pointed out that most of the foundational stuff that needs to be addressed are with those who never learned how to talk, or never learned the words needed to tell the story. They weren’t ready to tell the story. More so, I wasn’t ready to hear it.
I was a teenager when my father once told me ‘nobody cares what you think.’ I took that statement to heart. I have lost count of the number of times I have experienced ‘nobody cares what you think.’ In conversations I’m talked over. My observations, when I share them, are frequently discounted. When I was a teenager I told my mother about the family friend who molested me. She said she had ‘wondered’ if that had happened. I asked her why she didn’t intervene. My mother said ‘she knew my father would not believe it’ and that she had had a ‘funny’ uncle when she was young.
My mother died in 2010. We had what my father described as a Norwegian Funeral – a potluck held at our family home. The family friend, aged and bent – long lost to Alzheimers, was there. People tittered when he tried to get sexual with me. I was already dissociating – the house was full of people. I vaguely remember taking his hand off my arm and leaving him with his wife.
When I was six I gave my grandfather an inappropriate kiss. My mother blamed it on tv. My father still tells the story. I just feel sad.