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part 1 of the story
Dissociative States

Gale Fraser

    As a child I was unused to being noticed. I was forward, maybe; rambunctious, definitely; but noticed? Never. Most of the attention I knew was negative, so whenever I received positive attention, I did not know what to do with it. That must be why I was so enamored by the golden boy who noticed me during indoor track in 11^th grade. Xander’s attention made things wrong in me feel right, parts that were fractured – whole.
    We sprinted side-by-side past lockers around the school’s upper hallway during indoor track practice. He asked me to count his laps for the mile at our meets. We passed notes during Algebra. We attended junior homecoming together. We began spending time outside of school – erratically – in his bedroom, in my bedroom. Nothing kinky; we were kids.
    Lying together atop a red-and-black fleece blanket on his bed, he showed me his scars. His parents had unrealistic expectations of him, standards only his brother could meet, so he wasn’t noticed either. He said he wanted to see blood and make invisible scars visible, make nonphysical pain physical – thus bearable – so he cut himself. He painted pain on skin, crafting perfection...parallel lines up his inner arm, an X across his chest, other indistinct shapes in various places. His scars scarred me, too. I wanted to relieve his pain – to be his balm – maybe to believe attention was a cure. I could not see then that I was drawn to him because we suffered the same. My own brokenness was invisible to me. It manifested only in the way that I needed him to notice me – and keep noticing me – forever and always.
    Although we were only briefly romantic in 11^th grade, we remained close; Xander had girlfriends, I had boyfriends...but when I went off to a Christian college near Pittsburgh, he drove up with my sister to visit me; it was a comical scene: a Taiwanese kid with haunted black eyes, frosted tips, and earrings, amidst overgrown farm town white boys. He called me often that year, still trapped at home with his parents, telling me he might not last the night, that he wanted to end his life. My roommate and I spent hours on the phone with him...just keep him talking. Eventually, he attended my wedding, and when I moved across the country, we remained in touch. I still recall the horror on his face when, during one visit home, I placed his hand on my pregnant belly to feel my daughter kick. We loved each other, and I think we convinced ourselves (or maybe just I did) that love was friendly, filial, platonic, and therefore permanent.

#

    Sleep training was introduced during the industrial revolution but popularized in the 1950s by Spock and reinvigorated in the 1980s by Ferber. Both parenting gurus’ theories became synonymous with “cry it out” sleep methods – where the parent was expected to leave the infant sleepy but awake in their crib at bedtime, then walk away. The child was projected to cry 20-30 minutes the first night, then at most 10 minutes the second night, and so on, until the child learned to self-soothe and cried no more at bedtime.
    Such techniques might (probably did) work for many infants – yet, of course, they would not work for every infant, dependent upon sensibility, health, environmental stressors, etc. Failure with the method lay in its blind application. An attuned parent must decide whether the system is working for their child. What happens, during sleep training, if the parent has low trait sensitivity but the infant has high trait sensitivity? The system undermines the infant’s attachment to the parent who does not respond to their prolonged crying (appeal for connection). The infant learns their needs cannot be met by the adult, the infant learns self-blame, the infant learns their emotions are inconsequential, the infant stifles emotions/needs, the infant learns to distrust human attachment. Repression. Suppression. Broken sense of self. Attachment disorders. Personality disorders. Mental illness: ADHD, anxiety, depression, etc.

#

    Most of my early childhood memories have an unvaried setting and cast of characters: my bedroom and me. In my first dim memory, I stand in my crib, fists squeezing the bars to hold me upright. I stare out my window at the sky through ancient walnuts and crave something. I’m not hungry. I’m not thirsty. I’m not sleepy. I don’t know what I need, but I need it – something to fill the achy empty hole in my belly.

#

Children, especially highly sensitive children, can be wounded in multiple ways: by bad things happening, yes, but also by good things not happening, such as their emotional needs for attunement not being met, or the experience of not being seen and accepted, even by loving parents. Trauma of this kind does not require overt distress or misfortune...and can also lead to the pain of disconnection from the self, occurring as a result of core needs not being satisfied.

~ Gabor Maté, MD, The Myth of Normal

#

    It was never beyond me to steal a guy’s attention from his girl just because I could. Just until I got bored. Then I’d drop him.
    I needed men’s attention like oxygen.
    I went through dozens of boyfriends between my junior year in high school and the day I married, trying guys on, begging them to validate me: Give me attention, give it to me! Yet my heart remained bound and cloaked: You can’t have me. Most of them, at some point, made me feel small or insecure, made my clandestine heart quake. None of them made me feel the way my now husband, David, did. He was the first and only man I’d met who was steady and didn’t bore me senseless. This is still true. His skeleton-free closet befuddled, but he had deep thoughts, ideas, ambitions, like mine. He was interesting and consistent. Reliable and safe. Safe.
    Despite all he is, after we wed, I felt that ubiquitous hole widen in my belly: I needed. Needed to be noticed. Needed to be desired. Needed to be validated. It didn’t help that he was so often away for work. As an instructor at the Weapons School, David shared time between Dyess in Texas and Nellis in Vegas. For weeks on end, I found myself alone in Abilene with two babies under two. Even when home, David worked long hours, often flew night missions (day-sleeping), and studied for his master’s on evenings and weekends.
    In our seventh year of marriage, I lost touch – lost touch with David, lost touch with myself, lost touch with reality. By my 28^th birthday, my second-born finished nursing and my hormones rebounded: I roused from slumber and recognized that I’d forgotten what I wanted in life, where I was headed. I began a master’s degree in a subject I loved: English Literature. But then David deployed for three months to Iraq over the holiday season. One December night, my babies were asleep, the house tidied, my homework done, and silence induced claustrophobia. For relief, I wandered out back over crispy crabgrass to the kids’ weather-beaten play structure. I climbed up to the first platform and stood facing the northern breeze, my arms wrapped around my body. The stars spoke to me; they were free. They didn’t understand how it was to be empty yet tethered by interminable obligation to others’ needs – like a balloon. Their freedom lodged in my chest and split me open: I needed to reclaim my freedom. I needed to be seen.
    I flew home to my mom’s in Maryland with my babies. When my husband’s Christmas gift arrived late, I told myself it was because he didn’t care about me. It was startlingly easy to convince myself of his abandonment and my consequent liberty. Did I even send him a gift? I can’t remember – I can’t say. I certainly couldn’t witness any double standard through the fugue of my need.
    When Xander showed up on my mom’s doorstep dressed like a GQ model to take me to dinner, I thought, Is this for me? Is he still noticing me? After our meal and too many drinks, years smeared on a dance floor at a club where the beat turned my lungs into a drum, and I was back in high school. Free. We crossed a line that night. We both knew it.
    When he returned from deployment, I told my husband what happened, and our agreement was that to preserve our marriage, I would never speak to Xander again. For years I replayed that mistake in my mind. I blamed my husband for his absence over a holiday. I blamed Xander for dressing up, for being attractive, for remaining so close. I blamed my dad for abandoning me so young. I blamed my mom for never giving me sufficient attention. Finally, in pathetic weepy self-pity, I blamed myself: because of my abandonment issues and weakness, I’d endangered my family and lost my best friend.

#

    My parents divorced when I was three; afterward, my sister and I lived with mom. Mom is hard – tough, rugged, strong; she doesn’t believe in pain. She gave birth naturally and says she experienced “discomfort, not pain,” as though life awards prizes for pain tolerance. I’ve given birth naturally too now, but I’d paint my birth pain in words psychedelic. Mom never permitted my pain. She derided my sensitivity. I was expected to “toughen up,” like her, to eschew vulnerability. Once, I crashed during a family bike ride and was convinced my arm was broken; without prodding the bone, mom said, “You’re fine, get back on your bike.”
    Dad lived six hours away with a new wife and kids. Perhaps he would have validated me, but mostly he wasn’t around. When I visited him, he had others to think of in the family hierarchy of needs. I don’t blame him, anymore.
    As an infant and toddler, I’d get hurt or frustrated then cry so hard I passed out. Mom took me to the pediatrician: “Breath-holding spells,” he said, “she’ll grow out of it.” I suspect these spells were a response to sensory overwhelm. Maybe my brain learned that when overstimulated, it could check out – turn off – by depriving itself of oxygen. But could they have also happened for want of connection? I was an excitable child – I needed attention and I presume it was not given. Indeed, I don’t recall getting the attention I needed.
    My last breath-holding spell happened at the ripe age of six-ish-seven. Dad, my sister, Grandpa, and I were walking toward Grandpa’s single-prop plane. He wanted to fly us over our house and his house to see them from the sky. In my excitement, I skipped, tripped, fell, and scraped my knee on coarse concrete. The emotional pain was as intolerable as the physical: I was embarrassed to fall in front of Grandpa and ashamed to cry over a scraped knee. I cried so hard a familiar warm darkness descended...

#

When holding is not adequate, when the infant/body is intruded upon or neglected – or worse, abused – stimulation is too intense for the infant/body self. Its only recourse is to stop being conscious and present, thereby developing a habit of “dissociating” as a defense. Overstimulation at this age also interrupts self-development. All energy must be directed toward keeping the world from intruding.

~Elaine N. Aron, Ph.D., The Highly Sensitive Person

#

    For twelve years after I lost Xander, I shut out every male in my life in what I believed was a heroic and martyred act of marital preservation. Old high school friends, other women’s husbands, coworkers, my students – they’d all get a sanitized version of me: the surface version, the vapid version. Beyond that one conversation with my husband, I was too ashamed to think about Xander, to talk about Xander. There was no space for that grief, so I shut it down. I viewed myself as a shade – a stain upon my marriage.
    We moved to Alabama when I was 30. I finished my master’s, tutored composition online, became Secretary for our church’s chancel choir, taught children’s choir, and competed in two half-ironmen. Two years later, we moved to Virginia, where the kids started school. I taught composition at Northern Virginia Community College, ran two marathons, coached swim team, sang in church choir, and served in various leadership roles at our church and elementary school.
    David’s career flourished, and I was proud. Three years later, he assumed command of a Squadron back at Dyess. I threw myself into the role of helpmeet; I’d do whatever he needed of me to ensure his success. This served dual purposes: it alleviated my guilt/shame as a failed wife and distracted me from my own needs, emotions...grief. As command spouse, I hosted events, gave gifts, welcomed babies. I served as President of the squadron’s heritage merchandise store and President of the Spouses’ Club. When the kids had events at school, I was there. I mothered: nutritious (low sugar) meals, homework, activities. When my son’s soccer league required volunteers, I raised my hand and coached his team. I tutored composition online, again. One day my friend Jill said, “I want to run a marathon, but I don’t have a training buddy.”
    I decided without thinking: “Let’s do it. I’ll train with you.” We ran the Austin Marathon.
    I led Key Spouse volunteers in support of our squadron families as a Mentor. The Air Force’s Key Spouse Program is an official Commander’s program. The Key Spouse’s role is to serve as a resource for spouses and families in need. We greased both top-down and bottom-up lines of communication within the squadron. We checked in with each family monthly to assess needs and provide support in a sort of “no man left behind” vision. As command spouse and Mentor, I coordinated this program alongside my husband.
    At one of my meetings, a bright, young Key Spouse, Kristin, asked me from across my dining table, “Wait, who’s my Key Spouse, then?”
    Immediately I replied, “Well I am, of course.”
    “So who is yours?” There was silence for a beat. I couldn’t answer. Why would I ever need a Key Spouse?
    “You’ll be one for me,” I said finally.
    I became that woman you loved to hate, the one whose days seemed to contain more than 24 hours. I dropped no balls. I lived as though life awarded prizes for busyness. Still, it wasn’t enough. In the quiet of each night, my thoughts screamed – so I drank to silence them, reenacting as an adult the breath-holding spells of my childhood.
    Over time, I grew snappish with my husband. Tension brewed between us. When a violent shouting match nearly came to blows over a sink full of dirty dishes, we both knew our marriage could not withstand that pace.

#

    Greg had a thing for me since first grade. I won’t pretend I didn’t have a thing for him too. The summer after fifth grade, he stood over me at Connecticut Belair Swim Club, his feet on the sunbaked concrete pool ledge. I clung with one hand on the ledge, the rest of my body dangling down toward the floor of the fifteen-foot “diving well,” and peered up at him. I was delighted by Greg’s appearance on my turf and thrilled that he sought out me. His undivided attention warmed my belly.
    He jumped feet first beside me: green flag, start the chase! I waited for him to surface. As the crest of his dark blonde head broke the water’s tension, I sucked in and pushed off. Down I went from beside him, away and down. Wall tiles smeared past at first, then slowed until I palmed them upward to keep going. Pressure built to pain behind my eyes, so I pinched my nose and blew an ear-splitting wheeze. When my toes connected with the floor, I blew bubbles for buoyancy. I’d hang out down here, staring at the bottom of Greg’s feet, so long as my lungs would allow.
    Greg decided to come down for me. When he got close, I launched off the pool bottom, slid past him, surfaced, and caught my breath. I waited for his head to break tension again, then repeated the process.
    How many times would he play this losing game of my devising? How badly did he want me? Something inside me needed to see...my chasm of unmet need.

#

    In a world where I am the perpetual outsider, the language barrier when I studied abroad in Paris my junior year of college placed me outside the outside. It was not as though I were a duck among swans or a donkey among stallions; I was a raven in a botanical garden. Incongruous. Surviving, but not on the same plane of existence as those around me. I tried – or maybe I didn’t try, but I want to think I tried – to whisper with the trees, to be pretty like the flowers, to engage in their norms. But I failed in perpetuity, so I was alone.
    I did not like Jon. He was pompous, vulgar, and stupid. His taste in clothes represented what he was: a wannabe frat jock upholding an image. The French he spoke was a base mocking Franglish that revealed deep insecurity. But he was popular and he’d fuck me. I found promise in that.
    We did it once on the hood of a car in a small town somewhere along the west coast of France. Another time, in the field behind a farm in Provence – amidst weeds full of stickers that clung to my clothes long afterward. I participated little in the process. I lay there. I don’t recall foreplay or kissing. Perhaps I moaned a bit. I can’t be sure.
    I wasn’t seeking pleasure. I needed to feel linked to someone in some intrinsic way. The result was something paltry. It was cheap. As a purely physical act between two otherwise disconnected beings, it might’ve been worse than nothing. It exacerbated my need.

#

    Me: Why am I so ashamed of my incapacity to be alone? What is wrong with me?
    Therapist: Nothing. There is nothing wrong with you for needing connection.

#

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