Latest / System Speak: Complex Trauma and Dissociation / More Fairytales

Transcript

More Fairytales · System Speak: Complex Trauma and Dissociation

• 0:08
  Speaker 1: Over:
• 0:11
  Speaker 2: Welcome to the System Speak Podcast, a podcast about Dissociative Identity Disorder. If you are new to the podcast, we recommend starting at the beginning episodes and listen in order to hear our story and what we have learned through this endeavor. Current episodes may be more applicable to long time listeners and are likely to contain more advanced topics, emotional or other triggering content, and or reference earlier episodes that provide more context to what we are currently learning and experiencing. As always, please care for yourself during and after listening to the podcast. Thank you.
• 1:02
  Speaker 1: I have finished the second part of my fairy tale. I will read it here with the first part again so that you're not lost with where we are in the story, this project for therapy. Thank
• 1:17
  Speaker 2: you for listening. She could feel the warmth of the morning sun on her skin before her eyes fluttered awake. When she did open her eyes, the first thing she saw was her knapsack, where it still swung from a branch to dry. She rolled herself on the green moss that had been her bed, shifting to sit up against the trunk of the tree underneath which she had slept. She shivered, the air heavy with dawning dew and her clothes still damp from the river late last night.
• 1:51
  As she stood to stretch, her stomach grumbled for breakfast. She was hungry, and the wooded air smelled like apple blossoms. She walked around the tree looking for a piece of fruit ripe enough to pick. She could not find one, even as she came full circle back to her knapsack. After unbuckling the large satchel pocket, she pulled out a book.
• 2:15
  It was also still wet and needed to lay out on the sand to dry. Some of the worn pages were already out of the binding, and she spread them about with a pile of pebbles on each one so they wouldn't blow away. In an effort to save the rest, she tried to prop open sections with sticks and twigs, enough that air could get in and the sun could warm their words. Then she scoured the shore's boulders and bushes for berries, but still found nothing. Her bare feet couldn't venture further into the thicket, and her shoes had been lost running from the fire.
• 2:53
  Remembering this made her shudder, not just because of the horror that had been, but because of what happened next. She found a large flat rock where she could stretch out in the sun. She looked across the river and scanned the tree line. She couldn't see any bears, but wondered if it was still there or if it could see her. No one will believe me, she thought, that a bear chased me into the river.
• 3:22
  There was no one to believe her anyway. She was alone and on her own, and the morning stretched into afternoon. She drank from the river that had saved her from both fire and bear. As the sun began to set, she laid her sun dried sweater over the moss to sleep again under the apple tree. It was not the rustling of pages that woke her, but the flickering of moonlight as shadows passed.
• 3:50
  Only then did she hear the chittering, and her skin creeped with goosebumps when she did. She sat up and squinted in the night trying to see the dark shapes near the riverbed. It was a raccoon with its dark masks and sharp fingernails, and it was stealing her pages. She stood up and stomped her foot and shouted, those are my pages. The raccoon froze, staring back at her.
• 4:17
  Finders keepers? No, those are mine. She ran toward the bank to scoop up the other pages before the raccoon stole them. You left them here. I left them there to dry and I put pebbles on them to hold them safe.
• 4:33
  She grabbed the book and stuffed the loose pages inside. I can shred these and they will keep me warm. Those are my words, not your warmth. They are my book, not your blanket. She held out her hand demanding the pages be returned.
• 4:52
  The raccoon looked back at her, chittered, and then turned and scampered off beneath the thicket where she could neither go nor see. She began to cry. She clutched the other pages close to her before turning to walk back to her tree. She was still crying as she placed the dried pages back into the knapsack, clasping the buckles before hanging it back on the branch above where she would lay until morning for another night of not much sleeping. When the rising sun woke her again, she sat up even hungrier than she had been the day before.
• 5:29
  But this time when she stood to stretch, she saw something sparkle in the light by the river. There where her pages had disappeared into the thicket, a path through had been cleared into the forest. And on the path sat her missing shoes, dried and clean and ready to wear. And between the path and the river, on the sand where she had laid her pages to dry, Little piles of berries replaced the piles of pebbles as if someone had prepared her breakfast.
• 6:06
  Speaker 1: Part two. She stood there at the edge of the forest for a long time. It felt like only a moment, not long enough to even finish the berries in her hand. But it also felt like hours and hours, enough for her knapsack to grow heavy on her back. In truth, it was time beyond time, enough she didn't exactly remember when she had slipped back into her shoes.
• 6:44
  She stared in the distance past where the path wove through the tall trees. She had never seen so many shades of green. The shadows of the ivy were so deeply green. They were almost black. While at the tops of the trees, the light shone through the leaves so bright that they looked almost yellow.
• 7:06
  A 100 hues between them painted a collage of the forest where the birds danced their delight and sang their songs. Squirrels played chasing games, and dragonflies darted through the air like fairies from the river to the trees and back again. It made her a bit dizzy how the forest was shaded enough to lull her drowsy but alive enough to be full of adventure. She felt pulled forward, but also hung back. She was ready to go, but also waiting on something.
• 7:46
  She felt more present than ever before, but also far away, as if she were watching from the clouds. She waited to take a step, but her feet felt too heavy to move. She wondered aloud, is it my shoes? What did the raccoon do to my shoes? I don't think it's your shoes, she heard a low soft voice state matter of factly.
• 8:17
  I think that you're still deciding. Both startled and also somehow not surprised, she looked around to find who was talking. Only then did she notice a little brown fox a ways down the path blending in with a large tree trunk half hidden by the leaves. How long have you been there? She asked.
• 8:41
  Long enough to see that you are still deciding. Or rather, to be more exact, I can see that you have decided to decide but haven't made the decision yet. Oh, you are a wise fox. I see what I see and know what I know, he replied. How did you know I haven't made the decision yet?
• 9:05
  Because if both your feet had decided, you would have taken a step. But if either of your feet have even a toe that hasn't decided, your heels dig in until they do. How do you know that? The fox polished a whisker. That's how footprints are made, of course.
• 9:25
  As he said it, she realized he was right. She was rocking forward and back on her feet just barely. Had she thought this way was just the wind? You can't move forward while staying behind. The fox seemed very proud of himself for having figured this out already.
• 9:46
  Why am I staying behind if I want to move forward? Well, he said with a sigh that made her uneasy that he might be bored with her. When you know the answer to that, you will be able to make your decision. Trying to prove herself to the fox, she dug her heels in deeper to steady herself. It doesn't make sense.
• 10:09
  There's nothing left here. The raccoon already took my pages, and now they are destroyed. I can't even get them back. Oh, said the fox, unimpressed. Are you on a quest for pages?
• 10:23
  She felt her cheeks flush in frustration for not being understood. He stole them and tore them up. They are destroyed, lost forever. The fox shifted, sitting like a cat with his bushy tail wrapped around him most dignified. Perhaps the pages are lost forever, he said carefully, but the words you wrote on them have always been yours.
• 10:50
  This checked her, and now she cocked her head to one side like a puppy. What? For a moment, it almost looked like the fox rolled his eyes at her. He did indeed give an actual sigh. The birds do not forget their songs when it rains.
• 11:10
  The squirrels do not lose their nuts when they play. The dragonflies do not care how heavy the river is when all they need is a drink. She just looked at him trying to take this in. He looked at her directly this time. The words were always yours, and no one can take them away no matter what they do to your pages.
• 11:36
  With that, he stood again, circled around the tree, and then disappeared into the forest. She leaned forward just enough to take a step in his direction. Thank you so much for listening to us and for all of your support for the podcast, our books, and them being donated to survivors and the community. It means so much to us as we try to create something that's never been done before, not like this. Connection brings healing.
• 12:39
  One of the ways we practice this is in community together. The link for the community is in the show notes. We look forward to seeing you there while we practice caring for ourselves, caring for our family, and participating with those who also care for community. And remember, I'm just a human, not a therapist for the community, and not there for dating, and not there to be shiny happy. Less shiny, actually.
• 13:08
  I'm there to heal too. That's what peer support is all about. Being human together. So yeah, sometimes we'll see you there.