I seem to be in an awkward, in-between stage, like I’m emotionally between bad haircuts. I can process things a lot faster, but there seems to be a lot more to process and everything seems to be connected even when it seems there is no reason they need to be connected. I think that is just my mind. Everything is tight. Everything gets knitted together. Everything gets seen in relationship to other things.
There are a thousand jumbled things to process right now. I’m trying to get a jump on it now so that I can go back to school in a week and feel like less of a maniac. I mean, last week, parts wanted to check that C had all her pieces—that she hadn’t been dismembered. Somebody else wanted to sit in her lap, because it felt so safe to be with her. It’s not very comfortable to have that going on inside when you want to discuss maths with a child, which is the plan.
One of the parts thinks he kills people by touching them. It’s from Stecia’s death. Yuri strangled her—I was under the bed, hiding. When Yuri left, I came out and found Stecia dead. I don’t think I knew she was dead. I might not have really understood death as a permanent thing. But I know I kept trying to get her warm again—I must have been alone with her for a long time, and she became absolutely cold. It seems to me I was really small then—three or four—and that being with her body a big part of the trauma: I was trying to save her, when actually I couldn’t save her. It was already too late by the time I came out from under the bed.
So I have been touching C as I talk to her and a part of me has been noting she is warm. She isn’t dead. But this part is afraid that she will die. He wants to keep touching her to check—is she still warm? Is she still alive?—and yet he’s afraid. What if the next time I touch her, it kills her?
That’s just one of the pieces. I didn’t save Stecia because I couldn’t save her, and this has never quite registered before. She didn’t die because I touched her. She died because Yuri kept her from breathing for too long. Death isn’t something that suddenly happens to a person most of the time. It’s considerably more difficult than that to kill someone.
Anyway, that’s one of the thousand pieces.
Then it seems to me inside I am afraid that I will hurt C. It seems to me that the fear is that I will do something sexual or something that might be interpreted by C as sexual and this will hurt her. It doesn’t make any sense, because why would I do that? There’s no reason. But some part of me is really terrified of that.
As I calm down a little bit and the shouting inside seems to quiet, I start to realize it’s because one of the girls molested me. Something is reminding me of that, and this part that remembers being molested is trying to tell me: when one person is big and the other is little (emotionally—C is actually physically larger than me) sexuality can hurt the littler one. It can hurt the littler one quite a lot. This part wants me to know this: I am big and C is little. I have vastly more power. We are not in any way equals. It wants me to absolutely never forget this, and it wants me to remember to protect C from whatever trauma-oriented reactions I might have and to protect C from whatever confused, teenage feelings she could end up having for me.
The memory of being molested has come up in that context, but it’s also a new memory. It’s totally unprocessed and I have to deal with it now, for my own sake. I have to work through that too.
It seems to have gone on for a long time. When a part first comes out and talks about it, it seems to be something that happened only a few times. But, later, as other parts talk about it, it starts to seem like something that went on for years. Something that went on before I knew Nata, in fact. I eventually told Nata or maybe Nata found out, but then Nata threatened the girl who was molesting me. I remember the shouting. After that, I became frightened. Nata told the girl if she did it again, she would kill her. The girl did do it again. She did even worse things to me, but I didn’t want anyone to die, and I didn’t tell Nata. It did stop eventually. I seem to have been eight when it stopped. But I don’t know after how long.
The memories of it make me feel terrible. They make me feel suicidal. It seems to be among the worst things that ever happened to me.