From a Once-Ghost to a Now-Ghost

My support worker suggested that I might find it helpful to write a letter to my 12 year old self whose mother sent her to live with her (abusive) father after a fight.

Everything in the letter below is true and accurate as my perception of the events (and I'm fairly sure, true and accurate as to the facts as well), although I did take slight creative licence on the ages as I won't actually be 30 for another two weeks. My niece, though, really is 12, and does shout the same thing I told my mother.

This is, at this stage, still a first draft. I promised my support worker I wouldn't edit the original minus small rearrangements until after she had read it, and I find that after such an emotional outpour, I'm reluctant to reread and edit just yet. I wanted to share it, anyway, though.




You are twelve years old, a ghost and a memory, but that doesn't stop you being here with me. You view me as a wisp, an ethereal image hazy with what might be but I can see that you are a stamp of yesterday as indelible as octopus ink. You are in my eyes, and under them, in the depths of who I am. You will be changed, soon, by a moment that falls heavy around your shoulders even as it darts away.

When it happens, you will know that nothing will ever be the same, but you won't know how much this moment will become part of you. You won't know that for another 15 years, when you will revisit this moment in the hospital, undressing yourself and folding the adult part of you on the chair for later. Nakedly you will tell the nurse how it feels to be vulnerable and left to his mercy.

You will remember what you shouted, and you will remember slamming the door. You will remember the first time you ever heard her swear was that day, and she was calling you a bitch. You will remember the terror you felt when you realised she was calling your father, and you will remember begging her not to send you away. You will remember that you heard your little brother plead your case, and though you won't remember her reply, you will remember the tight way she speaks, and the sinking of that balloon of hope in your chest as she gets on the phone and tells him to come and get his daughter.

Unaccountably, you will remember the day when you were small and one of your brothers had placed a sandwich into the VCR. You will remember another phone call, to the Police (or so you still believe), and the certainty with which she tells you all that they are coming to fingerprint and take away the guilty party. You remember knowing it wasn't you, deducing it was one of your brothers and not knowing which. You remember you begged them each separately to confess, that you would not be torn through the middle; two magnetic poles no longer touching. Years later, when you remember that other moment, you will remember this one, and you will also remember that picture in your mind, of a small face peering out the back of a terrifyingly large vehicle. In your dreams, that face will be yours.

You won't remember whether it all happened slowly, as if you are stuck in time; or if the inevitability of it all sped you through to its conclusion. You won't remember what this fight was even about, but you'll remember that you didn't mean what you shouted and you both knew it.

You will remember her giving you a bag and telling you to pack your things, and you'll remember only that you sat stiffly in the car, cradling your stereo, and that you cried the whole way to your father's.

Years from now, you will remember, also, some of the aftermath as well, like the day your mother tells you she has antidepressants now. By the time you are 14, you will know this is your fault, and she will confirm it.

By then, you won't remember whether you gave any thought to the friends you left behind, but you will discover that when you return, most of them will remember you. Some of them will reclaim you, but Kylie, with whom you shared a birth month and with whom you were close, will never forgive you for leaving her behind. You won't mind because you aren't the same girl anymore, but you will regret the bullying that follows as she gradually steps up the levels of violence.

Still, you will survive and you will believe you are mainly unscathed. You will believe for many years that your mother is the good one. You will believe that all of this will disappear, fade into the background of who you are. You will believe that it is all your fault.

You will believe it, but it won't be true.

You are twelve years old. Twelve. You don't know it now, but when you are 30, you will have a 12 year old niece, and you will see in her the same streak of independence you had at her age. You will hear her shout those same words to her father, to her mother, to her grandmother... to you. You will see past them and know that they are words that come from a place of anger, but mostly from a place of hurt and confusion.

You will know that if anyone tries to send her away, it will not be her fault, and it will not be a reflection on the value of that 12 year old girl trying to make her way in a world that is often confusing and scary. You will know beyond any doubt that she is beautiful and amazing and wonderful, and that even when she makes mistakes, she is still all of those things.

You will know that no matter what the world throws at her, she will always have value. At 30, you will begin making connections between that 12 year old and the you that was 12. You will write yourself this letter, and in the writing, you will begin to let go of the shadow that has followed you for 18 years, because you will begin to see that at 12, you are still a child. At 12, you are a child who cannot be responsible for the actions of an adult. You are not the cause of your mother's illness, and though you may have exacerbated it without knowing or intending that, it is still not your fault.

You are twelve years old, a ghost and a memory, but that doesn't stop you being here with me. You have been changed by this moment, and you will be changed by many more that are to come, until you become the 30 year old writing this letter. You will look in the mirror one day and though your hair is greying and your skin wrinkles like unironed sheets, you will see, still, the stamp of who you were; the stamp of moments; lived, loved and regretted; all over the solidity of who you are.

Five Years Ago (Lyssi's Anniversary)

Tomorrow marks the fifth anniversary of the loss of my daughter. I was 22 years old and after a year of trying to conceive, we'd finally managed it.

Her father was less than impressed, but I was over the moon. I had so many hopes and plans for this baby, but because her father wasn't so keen, we hadn't discussed names yet. I lost her at about 8 weeks gestation, and some time much later I chose her name based on some of the few discussions we had had.

I'd always wanted my children to have unique names - my birth name was so common that I actually knew another girl at the same school as me whose name was *exactly* the same... right down to middle name! It bothered me a lot, and I vowed that my children wouldn't be in that situation. My husband, unfortunately, had a rather common surname as well, and wanted to name our first daughter after our grandmothers.

That wouldn't have been a problem, except his grandmother was Emily Elizabeth and mine was Amy Rose! I had always loved Rose, but my brother's wife had used that in my niece's name a few years before, so it was automatically disincluded from my list of possibles, leaving Emily, Elizabeth and Amy.. all far too popular to go with a common surname!

By this stage, my husband and I had separated (in fact, we separated about a week after I miscarried the baby), so I wasn't in a position to get his input, but I still wanted to honour him somehow within our daughter's name. Playing with the names one day, I came up with the perfect mesh of his grandmother and mine. That left her middle name, and that one was easy.

Without ceremony, on a day I don't even remember, I announced her name. Elyssami Faith.

Always, when it comes to November, my heart breaks with the ache of not having her. Spending time with my nephew, whose mother joyfully announced her pregnancy at the same event I tearfully whispered of my miscarriage and my marriage breakdown, becomes almost impossible and yet is craved beyond all things. I find myself thinking of all the things I wanted to have with her, for her, and wondering who she might have been. I know I need to let her go, but I'm still not sure if I'm ready yet.

'Lyssi, I love you, my little butterfly, my beautiful girl. I will always love you. I will never forget the little life I carried - your little life. I will do my best to honour you, today, tomorrow, and every day, until I can hold you again.



Cheer-leading / Challenge Statements:
It's okay to grieve for her. It's okay to be sad about the things I wanted for her.
It's okay to spend time doing things other than focusing on her for the entire day, too.
Falling in a heap and being an emotional wreck doesn't honour her. Living well, finding happiness, overcoming, THAT honours her.
Fighting my feelings will only make them stronger and lead to them lasting longer.
Letting go and forgetting are two very different things. (Thanks Ghost Whisperer!)



Tomorrow Erica and I are going to do something together to honour my little girl. Ideally, I want to spend some time doing something that I would have done with four year old 'Lyssi, were she here, and I'd love your suggestions! Even if it's too late to do them this year, we could always try for next year.


Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.

(Re)Gaining Control Of Memories

I'm starting to wonder if the direction therapy with Carol was going is right for me, after all. Carol and I haven't talked through any of my memories. I make a vague reference knowing that she's read my file, knowing she has a basic template of knowledge around my past, and that is it. Vague references, dancing around the edges of the specifics. I thought I was okay with that, that it was the right direction for me at this point but now I'm not so sure.

Two years ago, I was flooded with difficult memories. Talking with Angela, with Melissa, with a few trusted friends online, helped. DBT helped. My memories began to have less impact when they hit, and they started to hit a little less often than before. Once I had spent some time exploring the memories, I found a decrease in the push for them to manifest in my mind.

I understand the need to stabilise the boat before rocking it, but my anchors seem only to create more stress, more strain. The waves continue to wash over the deck and the boat seems ready to capsize.

Lately there has been a distinct increase in memory manifestations. I've been having intense flashbacks and body memories and I've been dissociating a lot. The last group session I attended, I became so mired in a flashback that Melissa had to physically help me stand and leave the room, as well as to help me return to a more functional state.

Maybe it's unrelated. Maybe I should be working harder at my DBT skills to manage these difficulties. I don't know, but I think when I see Carol next week, it might be time to go back to exploring and banishing these demons.



Cheer-leading Statements:
Avoidance is not the answer.
I am not a bad person.


Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.