December 24, 2022
I cannot become stronger if I allow those who still see me as weak into my life. My strength is in walking away and allowing them to have their space, rather than trying to win a place with them. I see clearly now how my own space must be defined in order to create the environment best for me. Everything will begin to settle and grow in a good way once I do. I have also learned or more accurately acknowledged it is the triggers which allow me to feel what happened to me. Otherwise it is though I am walking beside myself unable to fully connect to what I experienced. But then why would I want to? Visually I could compare it to when someone who’s gone into cardiac arrest get the paddles to jumpstart their heart. Triggers are like the paddles sending a spark into the body which then briefly feels the consequences of remembering. The rest of the time, at least in my case, my body has learned to close the door on what I do not want to feel.
December 26, 2022
This morning another side of this coin has been shown to me.
First I must explain the mice. There have been 2 kinds of mice in my apartment the last month or so. At first I only noticed the one which I felt because of it nature, was a spirit mouse. Always on its own and seeming to bring to my attention something which was unnoticed right in front of me. This is the “spirit message” of the mouse as I read about once it’s visits caught my attention. The most obvious message it gave me was when I followed it from my kitchen into my bedroom, wanting to see where it was trying to hide. I really didn’t want it in my bedroom, however, this was the moment I realized it was a “spirit mouse”.
I have kept an image I drew of my father while in Ecuador on my dresser for a year or more. It has never been moved in all this time. When I walked in through the door and turned to look in the direction of this dresser, it was difficult not to see the drawing had been turned on an angle and the bamboo flute I purchased last year was laying on top of it in a very precise way. This would have happened on November 30th, a day off and in fact the same day I also remembered who Dennis reminded me of. This explains why I did not write it down before as the realization regarding Dennis took centre stage. The mouse forgotten for the moment, I walked slowly towards the dresser, then straightened the picture, placing the flute beside it as it was before. A strange calmness came over me as I attempted to understand the message. My father was reminding me of my presence, his strength, our strength, in a way he knew would get my attention on the same day as the reminder of my abuser came to light. Astounding really.
This beautiful mouse came to see me another time while I was knitting in my chair at the back of the apartment. It just came out to sit under my poinsettia plant, staying there for a minute or so looking at me before disappearing out the door once more. It was a quiet, almost meditative moment, one which is still strong in my thoughts. The other mice in my apartment are the normal brown field mice which wreak havoc and create damage, something my landlord and I are working at eliminating. This is new for me, but mice do not belong in the home, so despite how much I dislike killing anything in nature, I understand they have to go. Still the message remains – look at what is right in front of you for the answers needed. Over the last weeks, this is exactly what I’ve been doing.
This morning as I woke, the answers, needing to be written down, were reworking in my thoughts and ready.
If we are able to see trauma, in order to be managed by the victim, as being packed in boxes on the shelf in our minds, then triggers are the earth tremors which cause one or more of those boxes to fall and spill their contents. When this happens to me, my body has been trained to talk about silly things or busy myself looking for something (assuming I am at work and dealing with a customer) until the box with the memory is safely packed up and placed on the shelf once more. Once the box is safely back on the shelf, my mind can switch back on, my ability to function normally returns. Like a magician who distracts us in order to make something disappear, I make a fuss, often in a self humiliating way, in order to hide the fact my brain has just been partially turned off in order to accommodate the minds inability to deal with the memory. This process actually takes quite a bit of self control in order to not collapse on the floor with my head between my knees, giving up in despair. I often feel sick after as I wonder how stupid I must have seemed to the person across from me who has no idea what just happened or why.
This concept really fascinated me and helped me see something else which has been under my nose forever, yet not something I could grasp. The triggers are my proof. In the way of “Spirit” Dennis was brought into my life for the purpose of showing me the man who tortured me in my childhood was real, the triggers were the strongest evidence I could receive to confirm this, without showing me physical proof. The triggers are my body remembering what happened, my minds inability to accept it and my need to hide the memory quickly, an indication of how deep the scars are. The reality right under my nose has been my body’s reaction to behaviour unwittingly displayed by those I randomly meet, as well as those like Patrick who learn to use the behaviour which causes the triggers, to control me. Dennis understood what he was doing, the important question is – did he understand why it was important to do so, or was he just taking pleasure from hurting me?
Yet another point became obvious to me this morning as I sorted through this information provided while I slept. The woman who I typed the story of Lori for, sent me a message last night, which I received just before I went to bed. She said I was a gift to the universe and I was at this time an important gift to her. When she picked up the draft the other day, she had also said this to me, as well as expressing her thoughts that I was one of Gods warriors, one of his angels on earth. This could not really sink in for me because I do not see myself in such a way, I am just plain ordinary me trying to get the truth.
This morning it occurred to me how what she said means I have my face back. The shaman told me four years ago I had no face which was an indication of the weight of my burden. The following year when I saw him, he said everything I was doing was helping me get my face back. There have been other indications over the last month or so, my face is at last visible. I shared this photo of myself, not for the first time, but on this occasion, it received a lot of positive attention. This was such a surprise to me I began to look at it a little closer. I do not photograph well, so to get a picture of me someone likes is quite a shock!
The day I posted it, I saw for the first time, my mother in myself. I believe I have my fathers eyes, not their color, but their depth and his smile. My son to me looks so much like him, with many over the years saying how much my son looks like me. My daughter, who I feel looks very much like my mother has also been told far more than she cared to hear, how much she looks like me. For me it was difficult to see the resemblance between us. Even before I knew his name, when the dreams began I said Lucas looked like my father. This irritated Patrick as he wanted me to see the likeness to him. Helen my adoptive mother was always angry if anyone said I looked like my father as she wanted me to be compared to her in looks. We shared no common features though.
I feel I was blessed to receive a nicely balanced combination of my birth parents which can be seen in certain moments, yet remain unnoticed simply because no one knows who my parents are. Or at least there is no physical hard evidence to prove who they are. This is part of why I have not had a face myself – they took my identity from me, changed it to something unwanted, comparing me instead to the likeness of those who hated me and all I represented.
So it occurs to me, at least with my mother, there is something of her elegance which I carry. I really don’t mean this from a place of ego – I can see her beauty in my daughter, but not in myself. It’s only because my father told me just before I left for Ecuador, I was a very gracious woman. It is his words which give me the courage to accept having my mothers grace in me. If I think of her from my memories I can see her in my face. It’s not easy getting a photo of her without the make-up plus being so well dressed, something I never took to, as I preferred no make-up and simple comfortable clothing. In this way also, I feel I am more like my father, not concerned with how the rich behave or their need to be noticed.
The physical traits which come from living with those who love you developing as the years pass, were lost to me. This is something we hear is it not? That adopted children take on the character traits of their new family, often looking enough like their adoptive parents, they are not seen as such by those who do not know of their heritage. It can often be assumed the children are living with their birth family.
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