Today I had a breakthrough in Therapy. For months now I have been stuck in the one traumatic ‘spot’ that has kept me suicidal and self-harming. It has caused major dissociation and my Dissociative Identity Disorder has been out of control with one of my alters that I have written about in past posts causing me great harm and causing havoc in our family. The Alter has been causing the self-harm at night when my partner is asleep so we’ve been resorting to bandaging up my arms and wrapping them in duct tape so by the time I get them unwrapped it’s woken him up. Otherwise, I was up in the Emergency Department almost every night for weeks on end. We were getting very close to me being Sectioned under the Mental Health Act.
However, today under EMDR we had, as I say, a breakthrough. The Psychotherapist pushed harder for disclosure and reassured me more firmly than she had done in a long time that no matter what I told her she would stick by me and would in no way believe that I was to blame or was in any way culpable or to blame for what happened. She held my hand and repeated it over and over again. I cried and sobbed until I could cry no more. I revealed what had happened – that at seventeen I was taken from my hotel room by a man called Mick, where I was kept by parents for use by the paedophile ring and taken to the Industrial School Cara and forced to choose two other young children to be brought back for the men to abuse in the room. I knew exactly what fate beheld these children and it broke my heart. I resisted choosing and was thrown against the wall by Mick and grabbed by the arms and wrestled and left in no doubt as to what my own fate would be if I did not choose two. It was a ‘Claytons’ Choice’. I grabbed two by their little hands and led them out of the laundry where we were to Mick’s car.
That night will stay with me forever and haunt me to my dying day. I do blame myself. I wish I could have resisted Mick but couldn’t. He was a huge man and I was terrified of him. He had commanded my life since I was four years old. Decided who came into the room and who didn’t. How long they stayed. What child exited alive or dead. I will also ask myself why did I live to be thrown out onto the Streets of Dublin at eighteen when no longer of any use to them. Were they not afraid I would go to the authorities? Obviously not. Such questions haunt me but today I made progress and I have be grateful for each step forward I make. Each admission to my Therapist of what happened is one unburdened tale. One tale shared. One guilty story perhaps that I do not have to bear. I can but hope it’s true.
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