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This writing supports the basic principal of
Internal Family Systems Therapy; our minds our naturally
multiple and with trauma our personality parts may
become more extreme. Healing begins by locating
these parts in our body for the purpose of forming
a relationship with them. If we meet the wounded
parts of ourselves with compassion, they may tell
us about their fears and what they need from us.
Listening to them comes with a price – a promise
from our inner Self that they can count on us to
come to them even if they call a thousand times.
What does it mean to be thrown into an experience
that is out of our control? Whether it is illness,
a natural disaster, someone takes over our bodies,
our possessions or we are chosen by another to become
their victim or their enemy? It scares, shatters
and shocks the parts of our personality that trust.
After a trauma it is hard to regain a foothold on
normalcy. There may be no words except “there
is nothing I can do to change this.” Parts
of us may have different stories to tell about the
same experience. Listening inward is a major step
in the healing process.
As a therapist I have many opportunities to learn
more about personality parts and traumatic reactions.
In my personal life, I too am not exempt from difficult,
jolting life events.
I decided to share this experience as a sample
of how the Ten Minute Artist discipline can be used
to metabolize and transform grief.
In 2004 I co-authored a book on the long term effects
of trauma. In the book I gave examples of my own
childhood abuse. I knew in my heart that family
members would be upset with the book. I truly believed
that my relationships with them were solid enough
to manage the stress. I shared parts of the book
with them before it was published and there were
questions and conversations. When the book was finally
in print there was anger. Over time silence set
in, discussions stopped and in the end my family
did what they believed was right for them –
they turned their backs on me and locked the door
behind them. I realize now that it really wasn’t
about the book, it was what it represented. It was
more about my taking a stand, setting limits and
speaking publicly my truth. At first I thought,
that family members needed time to think it through.
Eighteen months have passed and it has become increasingly
clear that their decision is final. When I see them,
they look through me and when I speak or make eye
contact I am met with a rock solid mountain of rejection.
At first I blamed myself for speaking out and at
times feel deep shame. I have kept the secrets of
abuse all of my life so why did I do this now?
What had seemed like an irrational childhood fear
was now coming true – “tell and there
will be a price to pay. You will be blamed and abandoned”
My intentions for speaking out about my abuse were
to help other survivors – yet, no one in my
family of origin can see this as a positive act.
Instead I have become their enemy.
Other unrelated crushing events seemed to velcro
themselves onto this loss and like dominoes, my
personal life began to crash around me. Every external
safe place seemed to shatter and just when the world
began to feel safe again – another confusing,
angry, blaming experience and then another. Young
parts of me that had long ago been wounded were
once again triggered and grieving.
I knew that life was not going to stop because
of my grief. I am forever grateful for the support
of friends who speak to me from Self and in doing
so trigger my Self to come out and join them. In
Self – I have compassion for the parts of
others that become scared, threatened and in turn
threatening.
Along the way I remembered the ritual of the ten
minute artist. I had used this on other occasions
as one dose of creativity – ten minutes and
done. This time, in dealing with a grief reaction,
I knew it would need a higher degree of commitment.
It called for incremental work. At first there were
ten minute sessions when all I could do was sit
at the computer or write one line or rearrange bottles
of paint.
Sparking the experience of healing the wounded
parts came first by finding them in my body. I ask
them where they live and what do they need from
me? Writing and painting, went on all at the same
time, sometimes moving from one activity to another
during the ten minutes or doing other things and
being called back by a part to the work. Sticking
to the ten minutes keeps a frame in which to express
rather than let the grief spill into external life.
This is a sample of the writing that helped a part
of me that is concerned with truth and justice.
She has a hard time believing that the family she
was born into is never coming back. This is an ongoing
piece of automatic writing that continues to companion
me and remains a work in progress.
The Writing:
During this time of writing I am aware of a young
girl who lives close to my heart. I listen in as
she dialogues with her nemesis, a critic who resides
in the bowels of my being. These polarized parts
produce the heated struggle needed to transform
her pain into meaning.
“What is this season’s inner struggle?”
I ask the young girl.
The answer comes quickly: “The search for
justice,” she answers in a soft voice.
The critic laughs throwing himself to the ground
and rolling around in a big belly raucous shaking
his whole body. “When are you going to give
up that idea?”
Ok, the tender part changes her words, “the
hope for fairness, maybe just fairness will do?”
From somewhere inside an inner crusader’s
voice can be heard in the distance, taunting the
young sweet part, “don’t give up your
hope my dear.” A part named Don Quixote comes
by on his galloping white horse slicing the air
with a silver sword. He sails on by leaving the
girl in the dust.
Long ago she heard him whisper, “Where did
you ever get the idea that this world would treat
you fairly?” A lump gripped her throat so
hard it took her breath away. Then, because she
did not want to believe it to be true, she forgot
what he had told her.
The inner critic chimes in, “Nope –
the guy was right justice and fairness are up for
grabs, a crap shoot actually, if you base it on
what people have to say to you and about you –
you are going to be screwed!”
The dialoge of the inner discussion between polarized
parts goes on, is added to, erased and worked out.
Each day it continues, ten minutes at a time.
The Painting:
Pulling out all the stops I alternated between
writing and painting. At first the painting was
dark, harsh and over time transformed into soft
pastels. The part of me that paints expressed her
sadness by struggling with the reality of the unevenness
of the mountains to the right of Mount Sentinel.
The painter worked hard attempting to bargain with
another part that wants authenticity, truth and
fairness. Ten minutes a day, for two months, they
battled it out and in the end both parts learned
to accept what cannot be changed.
On the night that the painting was finished, I
had a dream that I was saying goodbye to my family.
There was sadness and when I woke the painful event
had been transformed into a feeling of lightness
that I associate with unburdening. The room was
quiet in the soft paleness of morning; every cell
in my body was at peace.
The Poem
This poem emerged from the quiet, a gift given
to me from within. It answered questions for which
I have had no answers. Another transformation of
pain into meaning.
Alchemy
Strands of light stretch across shadows
with seemingly one intent—to touch a lonely
leaf.
The leaf turns gold,
trembles on its stem.
You shift your body next to mine.
I pretend not to notice.
Throughout the wood, the hush of branches,
sieves the air.
Your eyes betray
a forced indifference.
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