Question: just how much of my alters’ emotional angst am I responsible for? By the time the emotions reach me they feel rather bedraggled and watered down. No wonder then that I’ve come to this crisis point, this necessity for dealing with something which (I realize now) should have been dealt with this summer, when the original wounding transpired.
In an e-mail, Austin encouraged me to reach out for help, to not go through this alone. But this is what I’m used to, this is how I’ve gotten through my life. Asking for help doesn’t come natural to me (I know, I know, this is part of having been victimized as a child, when I had no choice but to suffer in silence.) Must I go against my own nature? Is it even right to do so? To disturb the universe with my paltry complaints?
I’ve figured out the source of my inner disturbance, and of course it turns out to be what drove Jenny and Funnygal underground. It didn’t hit me until last night that my obsessive sewing and other domestic activities are the busy work of someone trying really hard to avoid the inevitable—-the dealing with emotions which on some level I must have sensed would bring up a lot of pain. And they have. Last summer’s wounding has brought me right smack back to square one, right back to that shock of realizing my mother would never be there for me. And I’m so sick of this whole subject. Get over it already, goes the refrain of my thoughts. So she wasn’t there for you, didn’t protect you—-that’s old news.
During my childhood I was very active and, as a result, sported a lot of wounds and scabs. Particularly on my knees. I remember picking at my scabs, making them bleed so they’d have to heal over once more and last that much longer. Why I wanted to prolong the whole healing process, I’ve no idea. Perhaps every time I drew fresh blood it let me know I was alive. And running my thumb over the scaly barklike scabs reminded me that there was a me who ran and climbed trees and rode my bike dare-devil style, no hands downhill. And so the inevitable question: am I just picking at scabs every time I face this truth about my mother which, by now, should be engraved on my heart? Must I be eternally coming upon it unexpectedly with my typical startle reaction, even after all these decades?
Oh yes indeed, do I dare disturb the universe? Or maybe to be more honest, do I even want to?
(My silly redheaded stepchild self!)