Tasha lay on the bed, her face buried in the pillow, weeping silently. As I watched her, it was as if I knew her thoughts. She wanted to cry out, to scream. But there were no safe places to cry. People just got frustrated when she cried. Besides, It had been four years since Vicki's death. She should have been finished crying long ago.
Finally, when all her tears were spent, she got up, went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk. Milk had always made her feel better.
Then, suddenly, she disappeared. There I stood, holding the glass of milk. And in that moment, I understood. I was Tasha. And yet I was not. I was 24 years old, newly married, and taking five psychology classes, hoping to graduate the following semester. Tasha was 12 years old. I had made her that way on purpose. Only a 12-year-old was mature enough to have the kind of relationship I had had with Vicki. And only a 12-year-old was still child enough to stop speaking when that friend died unexpectedly. I, on the other hand, had to go on as if nothing was wrong, as if I was not afraid of crossing the street while walking to class, as if the scenarios in which I could feel a car hitting me never intruded upon my study time. Tasha lived with all these things I couldn't allow in my life.
But Tasha was supposed to be a character for a story which I had begun writing shortly after Vicki's death. What was happening to me? How long would it be before I burst? What would happen when I did? Would I not remember what I did yesterday? Would I not remember last year? Would I tell people that my name was Tasha? Would they laugh at me and call me crazy? I couldn't let that happen.
This wasn't the first clue that something was wrong. In March, I had gotten married--and I had learned something about myself. I found that sexual activities were particularly difficult for me. In fact, they were not merely difficult. They were terrifying. I thought that perhaps the problem was that I was undereducated about sexuality. I sought help from Mandy, a friend who was quite knowledgeable and open.
In addition to giving me some pointers on making the sexual experience more enjoyable for myself, she referred me to an email-based support group--one for survivors of sexual abuse and people with dissociative disorders and multiple personalities. I began to participate on the list, ignoring posts unless they were directly related to my own circumstances or were posted for informational purposes. Dissociative or multiple I was certainly not. Never did I wake up and find it was days since I had known what was going on. Sure, I had occasional periods of "blanking out" in which I was rather oblivious to my surroundings, but these were most likely seizures. I had even been prescribed Depakote, and much of the time it did reduce the episodes in addition to helping with my mood swings. I had undergone a battery of neurological tests in 1986 because of these episodes. They revealed nothing, and the doctors suggested my parents put me in counseling. I had eventually sought counseling later, when I was in college. But the episodes continued. I became convinced that the doctors had just not been able to confirm the seizures, especially upon learning that people with seizures could still have normal EEG's. It was on this premise that I pursued more testing with a new neurologist in April, 1996.
One thing I had learned was that it was important to monitor my symptoms and all of the surrounding events. I began trying to do this.
April 22, 1996
I spent a total of four hours in bed blanking out today. I hardly have strength to type, let alone fix dinner. My mouth is not forming words correctly, and I sound whiny. I don't like days like this. I tried to stay with it. I was not upset or depressed. But supposedly this is all in my head.
Today Depakote does not help. My husband asked if I took it. I do not want to tell anyone about this. It isn't real--they will think I am trying to get attention and making excuses to be lazy. But I am so scared. ... I don't want to be "stressed out". That means there is something that I cannot deal with because I don't even know what it is.
I am going to try to cook. It is either that or don't eat. I am afraid. I feel as if the strength has been sucked out through the tips of my fingers.
A couple of weeks later, I found a key to the sexuality problem. I would later learn that there were several keys, but finding the first one was quite a shock, especially since the manner in which I found it was completely unexpected.
May 5, 1996
Listening to Karen sing at church this morning, I thought about how unique people's voices are. I remember trying out for a singing group when I was in the eighth grade. Everyone tried out in pairs, and I tried out with a girl named Tracy. The choir director commented on how well our voices blended.
During our freshman year of high school, Tracy and I were friends. I spent the night at her house just before my 15th birthday. I remember this because it was after a performance where Tracy had sung a solo.
While I was there, Tracy's dad molested me.
This incident bothered me for quite some time. It had been nine years since that night at Tracy's house. Had I made all this up? Was I overreacting or just trying to find some excuse for the problems I was having now?
I finally asked my mother about it. She remembered the incident vaguely. No, I hadn't made it up. In fact, I began to realize that other experiences I had had were also classifiable as sexual abuse and had pushed me away from any interest in sexuality. In my mind I knew that I didn't have to live as a prisoner of those experiences.
May 25, 1996
While I was at home, I talked to my mom about my memory. She actually had time to talk about it and was very open to it. I ealized while I was talking to her that these are not my problems to handle before God, and they are not my problems to live with here. These are someone else's problems. Not mine. I don't have to live within them or in their control. All I need to do is realize that I have a right to have boundaries and to expect others to respect them.
Living this out in my life was easier said than done. I continued to struggle sexually, especially when confronted with gynecological exams. I also continued to experience blank moments which I could not link to anything in particular--until September, 1996.
In September, I found Tasha. That's when the real journey began.