An introduction

Often, what people seem to want is a narrative.  What happened to you? How did you feel?  What do you remember?  But it never really happens like that.  It's more of a slow realisation and a raising of so many other questions.  Most important for survivors is: how can I function?

And it's this question that I'm battling with, it's the question I brought to my therapist, who I've seen for the better part of a year now.  We're working on emotional regulation, spending as much time as possible in "ventral" states: present, aware, a state of connectedness, and safety.  Part of me now wants to somehow describe what happened, how it happened, but I'm often so lost for words and I descend into dissociation so rapidly that I can't articulate what is going on for me.

Today we talked about "cues of safety", staying in our happy zone.  One of the problems for me of complex, or developmental trauma, is that often I can't even trust that I am safe.  People can quickly swap roles and switch from being safe to dangerous.  Trust is a complex and tangled web.  I've been deceived so often I find it hard to reliably trust either that I am safe, or that the person who is trying to help me is safe.  However, I'm also extremely unsafe when I'm with myself.  Often my mood swings so low that I become suicidal and I rely on having someone with me for emotional balance and regulation.  And so, to survive through life, I've bounced from one relationship to the next and it's luck rather than judgement that I've found a loving and supportive partner.

Back to the safe zone, then.  She's autistic, but the most genuine and loving person.  She doesn't judge, she monitors and analyses my mood (she's learned to adapt to neurotypicals).  She feels like home.  She's attentive and caring.  She's my safety.  Despite the abuse, I still crave for loving touch and I still give it also.  When it's safe, it's grounding.  She's wonderful at that.  We hold hands often, we walk arm in arm (a necessity as she's visually impaired), and we're gentle with each other.  Coming home to her is beautiful and lovely, and we spend time on each other: caring for each other.  When I'm in a ventral state, I'm happy: the relationship feels perfect, we laugh and play or cuddle and watch tv.

Things in other states put distance between us, however.  I won't dwell too long on it but sometimes our relationship changes, I get scared, even of her at times.  And when I'm dissociated I'm entirely disconnected from everyone.  Often, I just want to die.

Back to home.  Safety.  The smell of her clean hair.  Her beautiful teeth.

This is therapy.