(I began writing this two days ago, before I left Y-Town).
I plunge into worthlessness mid-morning. Nothing in particular has really triggered this. Thinking about some of the specifics of abuse is difficult and makes me feel horrible, but I can close it back up again and it seems for a while I have. Then it all climbs out again.
I should add, I am leaving for the capitol tomorrow. I know I will feel less anxious if I am organized about this. If I make more arrangements. If I have lists. Lana needs lists.
Lana is five. She needs structure and certainty. I know this.
The worthlessness makes this hard to do. What is the point of doing anything if I am not worth anything anyway? And so I just try to keep moving. Slowly. But I try to keep doing.
I can only do this for so long. I finally realize I am hungry because it is lunchtime. I cook. I eat. I have a cup of coffee. I can’t keep going anymore.
I sit down on the bed for minute, overcome with inertia and despair. I turn on some music.
I feel myself become, over a few minutes, someone else. I have never been aware of this happening before. Of course, it has happened, but I closed off my awareness of the feeling of it inside and could only watch my behaviour.
I am Charlie. Charlie packs.
Charlie packs and does trips and is interested in new things and going places. He does other things too, but he has come out now because he packs and I clearly cannot carry on.
It is a strange experience, to be in the background, aware of how Charlie is thinking and feeling, but not trying to wrest control of him, not trying to pretend what is happening inside me is not happening. Just letting things be.
I have switched because I am stressed. Stress of various kinds renders the walls between the parts of myself less permeable and more absolute and it also pushes back the overlap between myself and the parts that has begun to develop so that there are things I once again stop seeing as myself.
But the awareness of it is probably progress.
I learn some interesting things about Charlie by allowing him to do this. I learn he is kind and caring and, although he is 11 years old, surprisingly competent. What he thinks is reasonable. I didn’t expect that because, from the outside, I have experienced him as emotional and impulsive, and because he is, in his own way, grieving deeply for Natalya. So I don’t expect him to calmly go about the business of packing because he knows the “littles” will have meltdowns if there isn’t some order and structure in their lives and no one else seems capable of doing it.