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Swan Pond Press |
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Becoming One Excerpt
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An Excerpt From Chapter 11 |
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This strategy more immediately resulted in considerable lag time in conversations, which in itself appeared strange. I learned
to remain silent and noncommittal, constantly updating my position to match that of a "normal" person. It
became an elaborate game to correctly anticipate a conversational break so I could "naturally" participate.
Even greater than my fear that I was crazy, was my lifelong dread that someone would find out. As a child, that someone was
my mother, who I felt certain would put me away permanently if my behavior grew too extreme. I continually tested her resolve
in that area, but for the most part, faded into the background to not draw undue attention.
This created an ongoing conflict intellectually, as I was naturally curious and inclined toward study. Excellence and achievement
focused a spotlight on me whenever grades were due. I learned early that being noticed for anything was dangerous. Good grades
also briefly appeased my mother. My dilemma was how to receive justly due accolades without simultaneous detection of some
form of defect. (A defect was
anything not readily explainable, with which my life seemed replete.) I was forever searching for a balance between satisfying
myself intellectually and not letting anyone else
know I could.
The fear of discovery created a "push-pull" between perfectionism and its partner, procrastination. Perfectionism might guarantee
no one would notice I was crazy, especially if I was supervigilant to every detail. The chain of prediction and probability
could be calculated endlessly. (And often was.) Focusing so tightly on perfection could, temporarily, block out feelings of
craziness. But "too perfect" would tip someone off, so I constantly procrastinated doing anything that might create the essence
of perfection.
This kind of thinking creates entire conversations in advance, yet does not allow term papers to be written until the morning
they are due. It anticipates and remembers everyone's birthday to engender goodwill, yet fails to timely pay bills. It allows
one to dream, but never quite succeed.
I carried my fears into adulthood, marking time between obvious insecurities and a desperate bravado. Strange, unexplainable
things continued to occur, but it seemed best
to pretend nothing happened at all. So I endured ridicule and confusion, created anger and tension, and lost credibility with
the people from whom I most needed it. This, in the hope that my fundamental flaw that I was truly crazy remained unnoticed.
I never opened up completely in therapy prior to working with Howard. I felt intellectually superior to therapists, and played
games. If a therapist was blind to my obvious insanity, s/he would never uncover my secrets, either. It never occurred to
me that if Howard could recognize "crazy", he might also know what "not crazy" looked like. I quickly realized he was three
steps ahead of me. There was no time to play games. He constantly challenged me to expand the limits of my thinking.
Howard vigorously campaigned to convince me I was not crazy, and that DID was, if anything, evidence to support his conclusion.
His model suggested that DID, by its very nature, indicated a desire not just to survive, but to triumph. He repeatedly used
the metaphor that I had cast a lifeline into the future for a later, safe reunion. I wanted to believe him, but needed proof
of an unequivocal nature.
September 13, 1991
* * * * *
The new memories and hallucinations I was experiencing terrified me. I felt isolated, but certain I could handle anything.
I reassured my boss that nothing happening personally would affect my work, since work created my major escape from the terror
in my mind. Even with that certainty, the next six weeks took a tremendous toll on me.
October 30, 1991
I feel myself disintegrating right before my eyes and no one sees me disappearing. The disease of the week bores my friends
and they want something happy now. Performances at eight and twice Saturday. Nothing is real now. Everything is pressure I
can't stand it I will explode from this pressure and nothing will be left of me. Nobody calls nobody cares. I smile I laugh
I sigh I commiserate; no one sees this shell making the moves of a person. No one sees they can see right through me because
I'm not here. Every day I am less here than yesterday and no one sees, no one cares.
* * * * *
What happened to take me from full-of-bravado to becoming invisible? I constantly awakened in panic with night terrors and
drugfree hallucinations. I heard voices from within my head. I feared something inside beyond my control would make me kill
myself. I longed for a day when some heinous memory
did not descend upon me. And still, I worked and "acted normal," pretending everything was perfectly okay. To do otherwise
would invalidate everything I'd fought for/against my entire life. After six weeks of this pressure, becoming invisible was
beginning to look attractive.
Since childhood, my much-needed outlet for pentup emotions has derived from writing poetry. I keep it honest. I take each
poem seriously, and nearly always know exactly what it
means. But my poem "Thirty Years On" (see below) was a great mystery. The first verse seemed likely to be about me, while
the rest seemed odd. It was written three months before I met Howard. I could not unravel whatever the title meant, which
bothered me for months. I tried repeatedly to change it, but found I was "unable".
Sometimes poems with very complex rhyming patterns poured out of me faster than I could write, and I'd wonder, "Where did
that come from?" The notion that my poems might originate by some uncontrollable internal interloper was distressing. For
years, I'd claimed that Inside Sarah wrote my poems, but never took the implication far. This notion fueled the fire in my
"crazy" debate with Howard. Then I looked at "Thirty Years On" one more time, and knew exactly what it was about. It was a
conversation between Nita and Sarah. All I did was add "who" was speaking when.
Thirty Years On
Nita: Nothing feels so lost and lonely
Sarah:I've been touring once upon a time
Nita : Have you lately read a sonnet
Sarah:Do you wonder where I am tonight
April 17, 1991; revised October 30, 1991 |
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