“In my mind there is a long dimly lit stone walled corridor. It is lined with doors and has a low arched roof. I can sense only darkness and weight, as if it is buried in the dirt. The hallways seem to stretch forever. Beyond the doors are rooms. All the halls connect to one central room. “The Wood Dome” is what I took to calling it (DOS, the old dayz, and an 8 character limit). That’s where “The Controller” lived . . . or lives . . . for a long time.”
This image (the Wood dome above) as well as the hallways have been in my mind forever, or at least it feels that way. Ever since I was young . . . (‘about 13 or so’, a part of me says, but I think even before. Maybe when those dreams just started, back when I was 8.*)
I’ve read that such imagery (hallways & doors – with or without rooms; some can lead out into landscapes – an ‘alternative universe’ type thing) – is common among many DID patients. It seem especially prevalent in those cases where some sort of ritual abuse was involved.
(Thinking about ‘compartmentalization’ – which may be the subject of my next blog, since I see it so well in my own life span.)
I ‘discovered’ what was behind some of those doors when I was 21 or so . . .
Pain, mostly. Old loves. Painful still.
Like a hot spark with sharp spines I hold them – carefully, gently . . . I try to let them go. But they won’t. And it goes along with my philosophy that you should hold a love with an open hand, always ready to let it go. As a matter of fact the graphic above is titled “With Open Hands” – it was done for a love of mine, and how “I” felt about her . . .
She went away, naturally. It seems they always do. This was a philosophy my brother and I once agreed was true. I was about 11 or 12 at the time. He was 13.
So I shut those doors, locking them behind me. Locking ‘them’ in those rooms. Memories, places, things, loves, emotions – what else lays behind those closed doors? Those closed doors in my head, my imagination, these ‘places’ when I was young? Do I dare? Do I want to? Will it make any difference, either positive or negative? Is it even important? I think behind each one is a ‘secret memory’ of something I was doing, something (or one) I was in the past, did in the past. I don’t know – there is no complete knowing, and once known you can’t forget. That’s the danger in that thing. Some things are best left alone? And they are hard to get into. It’s not like I can just walk up to one in my mind and throw it open. I know: I’ve tried.
A door opened prematurely leads only into blackness.
I think I’m gonna leave them shut right now.
I’ve never lost the love for someone I loved. Once there they are there forever. Which is why I am cautious in love. Very much so. So much it cost me my life when I was younger: refusing to love at all.
I don’t want to get hurt again.
That was part of “13’s” attitude, his condition. A kid deciding “He’s had enough of love and all this bull!” – and repeat that exclamation point about a hundred times.
When I was little, I used to this dream with a hallway: “The Witch’s Dream”, I call it. “Dream.” Hah! More like nightmares, though I wasn’t always scared (rarely – usually just dissociated & kinda curious) – I was a confused child. The ‘white hall’ with its trap doors I was supposed to avoid (but tended to fall through with frightful regularity) – somehow ‘sensing’ them with my mind. What a useless exercise that was! And those witches with their long dark robes. And the table with its ‘sacrifices’ – which sometimes was ‘me’, the little child. What strange dreams for a child to have? I can still feel that child’s fear and uncertainty, that curiosity and wondering ‘what is going on?’. Dream or no, it still felt very real.
“Witches Dream,” I hear in my head. My mom was a witch. Dad – gone off to war. Who knows what happened? But somehow I doubt that our rural section of Georgia was a witches coven’s paradise. I don’t think there was anything at all. Just my mom being a spiritualist who used her ‘witch’ reputation to tame a child or two (like one of my friends who swore! – he turned her into a frog. But he got better, of course.)
I’m not too surprised that my mind is divided into sections and corridors. With rooms and doors. And a long arched hallway. And yet I am. Not being able to get behind them bothers me. I’m always searching, looking for something. “I gotta know,” – or want to know. Without knowing why or what’s important . . .
except I know:
the important thing is now. And while it may nag and eat at ‘parts’ of me (like a gnawing mouse) – for the most part I’m just fine with it.
At least for a little while.