Behind the Fourth Wall

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I rarely name my muses or give explanations for my poetry or prose, both essays and creative non-fiction, so that my readers have the opportunity to respond to my words with their own interpretations. I have found this adds to the value and the mystique of the greater amount of my writing. I also live a trauma informed life, which I will be posting about at some time in the future.

This morning I awoke with an essay of parts of my personal history already written in my mind, which is often how my writing materializes. I stayed mulling it over for an hour, snuggling deeper into my bed. Then tears ensued, relentless tears. Often when this happens I am aware that some younger dissociation is processing a memory or an event that I may not be aware of. I can feel the tears in my own eyes, but I am not swept away by the emotions causing those tears. Today was not such a day.

Almost immediately physical symptoms appeared: pain deep in the bones, rashes erupted on the arms, small blue bruises began to form on the ankles. No medications have been effective when these symptoms from past traumae manifest on my body but medical cannabis prescribed for my Dissociative Identity Disorder eases them. Through a shower and breakfast the tears continued, accompanied by sobs I have not known for a couple of years. I know I have been intentionally processing some memories of my adult life for the last month, but it was within manageable limits of discomfort. Not so today.

There is a younger persona within who I have been unable to identify as yet who believes that if she gets angry she will die, and the world will be destroyed. Processing my past and accessing my anger this past month seem to have evoked this response. Until she is ready to tell me who she is, or I determine how old she is, I will not be able to communicate effectively with her or reassure her that her fears are no longer justified. Because where she exists, all her fears of her own death and the destruction of her world are valid, appropriate, and true for attempting to tell her truth.

I don’t ever know how long these episodes will take to resolve, sometimes it is a few hours, sometimes it takes months. One 24-year old persona who presented almost 8 years ago still works diligently to reconcile her memories of loving her husband with the reality of the harm he caused her for many decades. I don’t know when I will be posting something again, it might be a day or a week or longer. Taking out these old poems hidden away in my keeping boxes and putting them into the world on Medium since March has stirred up a wasps nest of terror for the younger me’s who wrote them.

My father did unspeakable things to me when I was a child in secrecy even from my own mind, but I am angriest at him for leaving me vulnerable to be with the man who ignored, neglected, and degraded me for decades before I became strong enough to see and face the truth and seek my freedom from him. I am sexually, physically, and emotionally injured in ways that I may not be able to overcome and heal from before I die in spite of my best efforts. I am 64 this year and some younger self will not stop crying because I want to write about what my life partner was able to do to her without consequence.

I have not written this to evoke pity or even sympathy, but to make it clear to whoever within me is listening that she is safe now. I have not been able to read love poems for many days for this reason. I thank all those who read my words and support me so unstintingly: Patsy Starke, James Finn, Gwen Saoirse, Indira Reddy, Louise Foerster, Farida Haque, edh lamport, Joan Evans and others who I may not be remembering right now. Thank you to A Maguire and DiAmaya Dawn at Lit Up, I will be back in the fold as soon as I am able. Safe travels to you both.

©JkMansi Juhi Kalra 2018. All rights reserved.

To know where you're going find out where you've been. I strive to be joyful. I read. I write. I’m grateful.

To know where you're going find out where you've been. I strive to be joyful. I read. I write. I’m grateful.