Swallowed, Chewed, Spit-Out and…

20 years Later: Inner-Work, Understanding, and Peace

KTHT Prompt from Diana C. — thank you for this challenging one: Write about the hard maneuvers you took through chaos to make peace look and feel easy.

The chaos began

in 1971, when I started an investigation into my inner self. This was the beginning of descent into un-named depression, a suicide attempt, and madness.

In 1972, during a relationship with my first true love, there were sexual blocks. Together we co-created these blocks out of past wounds via our naivete, along with her fixed beliefs and my passive acquiescence. After the disastrous, hellacious end to our relationship, I was hospitalized for agitated depression.* Towards the end of my stay I developed a full-bodied rash — an allergic reaction to an anti-anxiety they said, and it was discontinued abruptly.

Ninety days later I was cured (ironic sarcasm) or translated “the insurance ran out”. Instead of titrating the tricyclic antidepressant to increasingly lowered doses it was suddenly stopped — a big “no-no” in the medical field, but I didn’t know that at the time.

I was left with a sleep aide, that our family doctor not only refused to refill, but threw the remaining pills away. Sleepless occurred. What a surprise. Three weeks later, after delusions of grandeur followed by persecutory delusions, I was re-hospitalized. My father’s company insurance rep found a new policy or something.

I thought they (Mom and Dad) were taking me to Auschwitz to be gassed with the rest of my people — in hindsight a past-life bleed-through, perhaps. I was left there on Memorial Day weekend in 1973. While escorted by a gaggle of aides to another colonial house masquerading as a psych hospital, I blacked out.

Of course, I only knew that I had blacked-out when I came to three or four days later at 3 am in a darkened room with a strange man sitting next to me as I woke soaked in sweat. He told me I was on “constant observation” for reporting that I felt suicidal in my admission interview. I told him I had never said that. How could I have said that since I couldn’t remember? It was during a blackout. Later I made-up a story about it to comfort me since I felt terrorized. And I had a visual hallucination that the man watching me had a glistening face free of facial hair. A few nights later, he appeared with a fake beard, which turned out to be real. That’s reality testing for ya.

*It turned out that my first love became an international children’s rights lawyer/advocate during international wars and conflicts. Attempts to contact her were denied.

Worse

One day I decided to escape. I was caught, and I put up a struggle, but when seven people take you down, there is no escape. My body was transported to a room with only one bed where I was restrained in 4-point cuffs. I was completely immobile and yelled,

Rape!

I yelled “Rape” repeatedly at the top of my lungs day and night until my voice was gone. I lost track of time. Black fog entered the house and the room so I could only see about 12 inches in front of me. Night was day and day was night. I was so raw, and terrified to fall asleep, so I’d push myself to stay awake until the jaws of sleep took me.

One day, a young girl appeared out of the black fog with a washcloth for my face. I asked if she was an angel? No, she said and introduced herself as “Joy”. And then she said: “My father raped me just like your father raped you.” My heart opened for her. But my father hadn’t raped me. Or so I believed.

Eventually I was let out of restraints and got “better” only to black out three more times that I could remember. When I came back from a weekend pass, the charge nurse had me come inside the nurse’s station and she told me that Joy had leaped out of the hospital van going 60 mph and died. It was because she didn’t want to be discharged to her family, where she’d be facing rape again. I couldn’t take it so I stuffed/buried my grief and made myself numb so I could survive.

Mark of Shame

I was discharged from the hospital to a half-way house with a diagnosis of Schizophrenia, Chronic, Undifferentiated Type. I was intimidated by my psychiatrist when I went off my medications. But since that time, I have had no visual hallucinations or delusions. But I believed I was a schizophrenic and that I had recovered from it — working on the problem, investigating it…

In 1993, after having had 5 flashbacks and multiple intrusive memories from 1991 to ’92 of incest and ritual sexual abuse from childhood, something amazing happened.

I worked at an alternative mental health half-way house. There was a 30 minute break before our morning staff meeting occurred, so I looked up the tricyclic anti-depressant I had been on 20 years earlier in a Medication Reference Book. I read that sudden withdrawal and/or rare severe side effects to the medication could produce seizures, death or acute psychotic reactions.

Enlightening.

I deduced and felt relieved that the schizophrenic diagnosis was a mistake. At the time in the 1970s, PTSD was relegated to war veterans and not people with sexual abuse. That was the awareness then. My therapist and I figured out that I was suffering from a Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder). It was worse, but it felt right, and I knew with help that I could deal with it.

The First Gift

Without prompting from me, the Consulting Clinical Psychologist who sat in our staff meetings and who was an expert of psychopharmacology said:

“Schizophrenics don’t have visual hallucinations unless they have organic brain damage, are reacting to medications or street drugs. They only have auditory hallucinations.”

Ah…

In Hindsight

Three of the incidents — blackouts in the hospital and one vision in my head were parts of the gifts of being able to “see” into memories or time travel into “the past”. I had multiple points of view in which to view memories, see into “the future”, and trance channel.

Although the rest of my life has been difficult, it has been a relief to know what happened and why it happened. In that sense, it has been 90% easier. I have a lot of love, compassion, and gratefulness for that younger me.

All in — I feel peaceful and happy to have surrendered into my mission: