CHAPTER TWO

THE JOURNEY BEGINS

In "Modern Man In Search of A Soul", C.G. Jung Wrote

Every one of us gladly turns away from his problems; if possible, they must not be mentioned, or, better still, their existence is denied. We wish to make our lives simple, certain and smooth--and for that reason problems are tabu. We choose to have certainties and no doubts--results and no experiments-- without even seeing that certainties can arise only through doubt, and results through experiment... When we must deal with problems we instinctively refuse to try the way that leads through darkness and obscurity. We wish to hear only of unequivocal results and completely forget that these results can only be brought about when we have ventured into and emerged again from the darkness. But to penetrate the darkness we must summon all the powers of enlightenment that consciousness can offer. (pages 96 & 97).

For thirty-four years I was able to turn from my problems, to deny their existence, but the curse of consciousness had been placed on me and I could no longer pretend that life was great. I entered counseling deeply depressed. The counselor suggested that I complete a series of psychological tests. Within a few weeks the test results were in and we went over them together. He said, "The tests reveal that you are in serious denial, that you want things to look good. They also indicate that you are extremely angry." As he discussed the test results I sat there and listened. I had always considered the views and opinions of others, not that I was easily persuaded from my own opinions if I disagreed. I went home and thought about the session and the results of my tests. I remembered a dream I'd had two years before. I dreamed I was holding a young girl in my lap. It appeared that she was ten or twelve years old. She was weak and could not sit up on her own as if she had suffered early in life from a life-threatening illness. With my arms wrapped around her, I held her close, overwhelmed by the love I felt for her. She was the picture of childhood innocence. She had beautiful big brown eyes; her hair was thin, exposing her elegantly shaped head. She wore diamond-studded earrings. I sensed that this young girl could have been royalty: she had a numinous quality about her. As I held her tightly and caressed her, I sobbed until my chest hurt. I was aware that she was tied to life by a thin thread. I grieved for her frailty, knowing that each breath could be her last. I awoke from this dream sobbing deeply, my chest aching from grief. I knew she was me.

I went to my next counseling session with the realization that the condition of this little girl was directly related to the effect of my childhood abuse. After careful deliberation I knew the test results were accurate: I was angry, furious at the overwhelming destruction my father had caused in my life. I was also angry with my mother for not having done a better job of protecting me from him. All of my life I'd pretended to be strong. I had survived by denying the devastation. I knew life had always been a struggle, but I had survived. I had convinced myself that I was fine, until now. I was having to admit the truth. My childhood was a war and I was missing in action.

I was relieved that the secret was out, the secret I'd kept from myself. I didn't have to live a lie anymore. I could finally admit that I was not as strong as I had always pretended to be. Admitting my anger meant having to embrace the pain of my childhood. And that resulted in the realization that I had survived by living without feelings. I tried to explain this survival technique to my counselor in one session: "My feelings," I said, "are disconnected from me, secured at a safe distance. They're tethered safely overhead, about two feet up, like a balloon filled with helium tied to a child's wrist so that it cannot fly away."

I told of an incident."When I was twelve, Mom and Dad were separated. Mom was working at construction sites cleaning new apartments, trying to support me and my four sisters. One day, all five of us were in the front yard playing tag, waiting for Mom to get home. Our dog Heidi, a little brown dachshund, was playing with us as if she were one of us. As we played, running from one side of the yard to another, Heidi ran out into the street and was hit by a car. I remember the incident in slow motion. I heard the tires squeal and Heidi yelp as she was thrown to the side of the road. I ran over to her and she looked up at me with her deep brown eyes that penetrated to the very core of my being. She was as much a part of the family as my sisters and I. I ran down the street to get Buddy, our Pastor. My younger sister says he had to shoot Heidi. I don't remember that. I do remember his putting Heidi in a cardboard box, and burying her in our back yard. When Mom got home, the burial was over and Buddy was sitting on the sofa with his arms around all five of us, trying to console us in our grief. Everyone was crying except me. Rhonda, my younger sister, accused me of being cold-hearted because I was not crying like everyone else. She was right. I was cold hearted. My heart had frozen earlier in life; it stopped feeling long before Heidi's sudden death. Her death confirmed the unspoken fear that we lived with on a daily basis--our lives could come to an abrupt end just like Heidi's had."

I went on to explain to the counselor, "You see, I learned early in life the only way to survive was not to feel - it hurt too much. My heart beats, but it's only to keep my body alive; it does not feel. If I allowed myself the tears, the dam might develop a crack. My survival is dependent on not feeling." Later that evening I recorded in my journal, "Anymore, I feel numb! I'm not happy - I'm not sad - I'm not sure I'm even alive! I think maybe I died and I never realized it and nobody else did either."

Copyright 1998