Due to mood issues and meds issues, my therapist and I had to postpone trauma work for a few sessions. We picked back up today, though, and I am exhausted. I brought the memory of my first sexual ritual, which occurred when I was aged six. Just as before, she read it in session, asking questions as she went.
When she had finished reading, we talked very briefly about it. She has a tendency to be late, and this cuts in to our work time. She assigned my second writing. She wants me to write to my six-year-old self. This is funny to hear, for an ex-multiple. The problem here is that what I know she wants me to say to that self and what I actually feel are two different things.
My therapist wants me to thank my six-year-old self for starting our chain of survival. She said the fact that I made it out started right there with that little girl. In part, I can feel a sense of pride for that. Still, the majority of me feels like that girl was broken. Like what she endured made her less, somehow. Like they took a piece of her that can never be remade. My therapist wants me to write nice things to her, and part of me does feel grateful. I don’t want to insult or berate her. I just don’t feel like her at all. Post-multiplicity, I know perfectly well that the six-year-old is me, and her voice does not sound in my head. I’ve come to realise and accept that it’s me alone. However, I still have trouble connecting to those feelings. When I do writing assignments for therapy, I relive my experiences, but they get too overwhelming, and I pull away.
Part of therapy is going to be reconnecting to those feelings. That should be brilliant. I did the integration bit in an almost militaristic fashion, but I didn’t actually feel the pain, anger and fear. Apparently, that will be a necessity to healing the memories. As my therapist said, it’s a good thing we’re good journey partners. This may take a while.