I woke up this morning at around 3:00 and knew I was not going to be able to sleep even though I am so tired. There are so many thoughts swirling in my head from the different experiences I had yesterday at work, I know that until I can organize them into a story, I will not be able to rest. This has become a pattern for me. This is why the blog is important for me. Writing the stories helps me to process my experiences, make sense of my story, my life. I share my stories, all my crazy thoughts because I think of my blog as a series, similar to the ones I choose to watch on Netflix. I believe there are threads in our stories which can resonate with someone else, help them identify feelings or emotions they can’t otherwise describe. This is the importance of sharing; it is for those looking for threads to help them deal with what they cannot explain.
Last Saturday, February 6, 2021
Dream
I did not have time to write this dream down last week when I woke, so unfortunately most of what happened is now lost. However I feel the most important aspect of the dream has strong residuals of the emotions felt at the time.
I am not sure where I was, but I was having a conversation with someone, a man, his identity unknown to me. In the dream it seemed to me we were acquaintances, but did not know each other well. We were deep in a conversation when suddenly, I felt a presence nearby. It frightened me, so much so that I dropped the glass I was holding, shattering it. The timing strangely enough coincided with the arrival of a trusted friend who was driving by. I could only stare at this person as they watched me from their vehicle.
This is when I woke up, so I am unsure of why this persons presence frightened me so much, but I know it was a warning, something I must pay attention to even though it does not really make sense right now.
This dream also coincides with me watching a series called “Stranger Things”. The story revolves around a young girl who had been involved in the MK Ultra experiments, who was capable of a special gift allowing her to travel in her mind to see anyone of her choosing. Or theirs (her handlers). In other words if they just showed her an image, photograph she could, through a special process, find that person and divulge their whereabouts. With the innocence of a child, who had been kept sheltered from the outside world, she could not have understood the cruelty of man as they used her for her gift. The similarity to what I felt I was able to do from the chair left me quite unsettled. So much so, I had a severe panic attach when I went to bed that night.
It seemed once more I was given confirmation that my worst fears were possible, I divulged my fathers whereabouts, leading to his death.
The strange thing about my panic attack was that it seemed to happen only in my bedroom. When I got up to walk it out, the feelings overwhelming me seemed to vanish almost completely, but as I walked back into my bedroom, my legs became heavy and jelly like, the sensation of falling enveloping me. In the end I was able to control it with my breathing exercises, allowing me to fall asleep.
Today:
This morning as I allowed the thoughts to surface, I began to realize the importance of that show I had been watching. It was more than the trigger of seeing her use her gifts, it was the room, or perhaps it was the combination – seeing how the two were related. Strange it took so long for me to allow the reasons for the panic attack to be accepted in full.
MKUltra is well documented, the CIA run experiments the height of cruel behaviour from those who saw someone like me as a means to an end, nothing more than an experiment. My pain, my fear gave them the vehicle needed for a successful conclusion. Results at any cost, the goal. How can rational people who live ordinary lives accept such things really happen. That they occur right under their noses, under the guise of “government safety” for “the greater good” making it all the more difficult for someone like me to process what happened in real time. If people can’t accept such things actually happen, where does one begin to get the necessary help. For so many years, I felt if I said anything, they would fill me with drugs and lock me up. My journals were my only proof. Patrick was the only one who knew everything. Is it a coincidence that in the end he ended up in possession of all my journals?
How does one describe such traumatic events? Because for me it is as if it is in that slow motion part of a dream, where you are stuck in a glue-like substance as you try to outrun the monster. But it’s not a dream, it becomes part of your daily routine to outrun the ghosts which no one else can perceive. It is only someone who shares my pain from similar experiences who understands what I go through each and everyday. We learn to cope, but it never goes away, how can it when it is woven so tightly through your body. It is the tourniquet keeping you alive. Ironic isn’t it? My pain is what keeps me alive. But is that really living? Can I feel what others feel in a “normal life”. For example, I know I am capable of love, but can I ever trust enough to allow such an emotion to have a place in my life? I thought putting the pieces together would allow such normalities to exist for me, but it seems to have pushed them further away. But one cannot stop trying.
I have met a woman through both of my jobs as a customer. She triggered me on more than one occasion because of her inability to cope in a stressful situation. Her panic response, caused me to go into fight or flight mode, which then made it difficult for both of us. Like going round and round in a circle of fear. I know I am stronger than she is, even when I am in the middle of such an episode, because I could recognize her behaviour as my own. She could not see how her behaviour had caused me to start falling however. I only mention this because of what she said to me yesterday.
I have 2 jobs, I am a clerk who operates the sales till in each job. This can be tricky for someone who has PTSD or anxiety, but for years I have managed to cope with my disability in similar jobs. On several occasions this woman has come into both stores where I work. After one really difficult experience with her, I decided to ask her about her anxiety the next time I saw her. I wanted her to know I understood, because I saw in her what I also go through. Perhaps there are some who would see this move by me as a mistake, but after what she told me yesterday, maybe you will change your mind.
She came bursting into the store like a little black storm cloud, as she always does. Her body trying to keep up to her thoughts which bounce around at high speed. The first thing she said when she saw me was “oh thank god, it’s you. I was hoping it would be you working today!” And then she proceeded to tell me she had a very severe panic attack the night before. She said the reason she was able to finally move out of it was because she thought of me. This was amazing to me – that I had inadvertently helped. Strange also for me, because I had a difficult time sleeping that night, something kept waking me, my sleep was not peaceful. But it gives me some solid comfort with the knowledge I was her life raft, simply because she knew I understood. Spirit truly does work in mysterious ways, as we find moments at just the right time to say what is necessary to someone who later can reflect on those words to get through something else. Is this not a miracle of life which allows such interactions to happen to us all? If we allow them to happen………
Back to the room. I believe my experience with this woman yesterday triggered the coalescing of my thoughts this morning. The reason for this post comes from all these thoughts and more, revolving around in the end, to the room.
I remember the horror I felt in the moment I realized I may have been responsible for divulging my fathers whereabouts. Is that not the cruelest act against me? More so than any pain inflicted on me, this one event, done with innocence on my part, is the cause of most of my pain and sorrow. It is at the very heart of my inability to live with normality. That I could play such an important role in the death of the one person who loved me with such depth, nearly destroys me everyday. Such a terrible act of betrayal to lay at the feet of a child who knew nothing but happiness in the presence of this man she sent to death. To have it all locked away, never allowed to understand the purpose for such treachery, the source of all my fears. How does anyone live with such a terrible deed on their conscience?
This again brings me back to the series and the purpose of the room. The main character from the series was kept in a room, she basically grew up in this room, until she managed to escape. It was only this morning I realized it was this detail from her story I was so strongly in need of connecting to. Her room was so similar to mine, lifeless and void of character or personality. No way for a child to experience “normal life”. Children are tactile, exploring every aspect of the beauty of what life can bring, most important. For those of us kept in “the room”, normal was completely absent.
I know. People will say, but it was just a show, a story. But you have to consider, it was based on facts regarding the MKUltra program, something very real. The truth is often hidden in plain sight, we just need the eyes to see. Because the panic attack coincides specifically with seeing the episode involving the room, and how she was able to find someone, made me realize there was enough truth in the connection for me to be triggered this way. I had not had an attack such as this since those experienced in Ecuador. This is all the proof I need. To see one small aspect of what I went through played out so well by this actress helped me in ways I cannot explain. The children, in general who acted in this series were incredibly good. The main difference between the actress and myself, was she was able to scream out loud when it all became too much for her………I had to scream in silence and still do.
I continued to watch the series, hoping for more clues, but in general, it was just somewhat of a relief to watch someone find their way through it with so much support rather than how I have had to make my way through the maze. In general, we understand it is much faster to get through trauma when we are able to get the support and love needed ASAP. Well over 30 years elapsed before I managed to get any kind of support or help, more than 50 years for the truly difficult memories, which were still surfacing only last spring while in Ecuador. The process becomes a bit more complicated as time passes.
I remembered an incident from my childhood this morning as well. I’m not sure what my age was, but would say around 9 or 10 years old. Helen, my adoptive mother had said or done something to upset me, although I cannot remember what it was. But she was alway niggling at me, criticizing me, making me feel smaller and smaller with each criticism. As we often do, I let the feelings build, screaming as I said in silence at how she made me feel. But this one morning as I was leaving for school, she pushed me over the edge and I stormed out of the house slamming the door behind me. My moment of triumph suddenly became a day of fear because as I walked away, I heard the glass shatter on this cold winter morning. I turned and looked back in horror, knowing that coming back, I would face a painful punishment. It was a very long day as my thoughts filled me with the dread of going home.
Walking through the door at this place I thought of as home after school, one of the most difficult things I had to face, because there would have to be consequences for such a bold action. I wasn’t sure if I could handle what she would do to me.
How amazing this would happen on the day Helen’s father arrived from Windsor, Ontario for a visit. He was sitting in the front room waiting for me when I got home from school. I walked through the very door which had the glass broken, but can’t recall if it had been fixed. All I saw was the man who offered me my rescue, chocolate 😁 and a hug. As often happened in the home I grew up in, situations like the busted glass were never discussed. I suppose in retrospect, it was a far greater punishment to not discuss it, taking away any chance I might have had to express the feelings leading up to the slammed door. There was no opportunity to resolve the issues, only hold onto them. The possibility of punishment lurked around every corner until well after helens father returned to Windsor.
I suppose this is also why I have such distrust of women in general. I know, those two thoughts do not seem to go together at first glance. This has been a source of great confusion for me throughout my life, this terrible distrust and discomfort around women. But if you think about it, if you know my story, it makes complete sense. It all goes back to my mother and to Helen. They are the reasons why I cannot get past what happened to me.
It seems so simple for some reason this morning. Since December, I have been trying to put into words my discomfort with women, especially strong minded women. Women like Helen seem to have been the norm for my general experiences in life. The few friends I was allowed to have in school must have really wondered at so much of my strange behaviour. I mean I must have had very strange behaviour. How could I possibly fit into a world they grew up in after what I had been through? I didn’t understand friendship, didn’t know how to be one or accept one really.
Helen controlled all aspects of my life at home. My birth mother, for reasons I will probably never understand, gave me up to those who hurt me most. How does one trust once they know this? Forgiveness does not come easy, but I keep trying to understand and accept my mothers reasons for putting me in such a life threatening situation. Did she understand what she was doing? One certainly has to hope not, but it is a nagging thought in the back of my mind.
But I have also been struggling with my ideas about what I say on my blog, which often could never be said in person, and why. Perhaps this one story can help to give understanding as I explain how I join dots between experiences and how they affect my direction in life. Why I choose isolation to a great extent. How those experiences can help me accept all that has happened in my adult life because of what was done to me in my childhood. It is a very difficult, complicated process, unique to the individual. I find I am so incredibly lucky to have found this outlet of expression to help me through this roller coaster ride. Undoing the knots has been painstakingly slow, but I feel I am so close. Losing Mali forced me to go deeper, or die. To die now would be a betrayal worse than that against my father, simply because I have a choice this time. It would all have been for nothing were I to chose not to survive. There is no comfort connected to the knowledge, in effect I was trading my painful goodbye to Mali and my life in Ecuador in order to come to terms for what happened with my father. There was never going to be an easy way out of this house of horrors, going forward the only answer.
Like a pin ball machine, experiences can have us bouncing from one emotion to another. People without anxiety or PTSD have a far greater chance of bouncing more gracefully from one emotion to another than those like us so easily overwhelmed. Just writing about all of this is bringing the onset of another panic attack. This is unusual, as normally writing eases the worry of my thoughts. Putting things into perspective helps to bring balance. So this is a reminder I cannot accept anything as being the ultimate cure. Everything has its time and place, this blog being of great healing value for me. It is a place where being right or wrong is not the issue. Being allowed to have a voice is. I may still be screaming in silence, but my words have found a way to tell my story, and if you listen really closely, you will hear the screams of pain and the joy of laughter as I go from the highs to the lows. To have the freedom to express all I was forced to lock away has given me a sense of belonging. The walls to my room expand each time I share my thoughts. Does this not make sense? I was not allowed to have a voice for most of my life, that time has ended. Like what I say, agree with me……..or not. It is still my right to express my thoughts and feelings, and in a manner least threatening to my own well being.
I know some will understand……..some will recognize the truth of my story because of what I say and how I express my thoughts in these stories. There is no simple solution for me, no slot for my story to easily slide into and I am learning to accept this reality. What I had once hoped to be a great revelation which would at least unlock the prison door, has fizzled into the quiet reality of what was done and more importantly why. The truth was never meant to be heard. Just as I have to live with never understanding why my children don’t want me in their lives, I must face that my story will probably never be properly told. My mother would never allow it, her reputation of far greater importance than my need for resolution. She fed me to the wolves after all and in the end her reasons do not matter. Her choice destroyed so much of me. And those who read my story may realize, she is not the one who came back to rescue me, it was my father. I find it interesting the location of his body was discovered 3 years after her death. It was not her spirit which came to remind me of who I am, but my fathers. The dreams and memories began at the precise time his body was found, the location kept secret for 30 years, and returned to Cuba for proper burial. I knew where he was, I just didn’t know I knew. Because of his great efforts, I became aware of his presence and his love for me so I was able to remember the great love and affection I had for my father, but my mother? It is a very tangled web and these are the knots I continue to undo.