Of Use, and her Terror
Whenever I go through an emotional growth spurt, it often ends with a day of sickness. The physical symptoms might be minor, but there is a strong sense of not rocking the boat - to be still, not to let my mind go out, not to check emails or social media and claim the day for the sickness that re-calibrates the mind/body system. So when my throat was hurting and I began losing my voice three weeks ago, I expected the same. I had discovered a new part inside of me, and now that I was aware of her existence and had realized how she functioned, I was all set to have a quiet day, and be done.
But the little girl was not done. She had spoken clearly, broken through her shame of the arrogance that kept her hidden from my conscious mind. She was a tough part to acknowledge, because she was not embodied. A week earlier she had escaped to connect and become one with a powerful man at a party I attended for work. Upon shaking hands I had noted that he in no way reminded me of any abusers, and I should not be triggered. However, not long after I noticed him smile at me from across the room, and I smiled back as though we had known each other for years, and felt certain vibrations in my body that sometimes indicate my face and body are plying into the desired shape for someone with whom I have a psychic bond. This stemmed from the network where as a child sex slave, I magnetized to become the man's dream girl. I observed that this part of me had connected with this man outside of my awareness, like a fairy, floating through the ether. The next day, I was in a foul mood. Doing errands in my neighborhood, every time I saw a baby, the thought came to me that this was an ugly baby. It was easy to take note of this, because I usually don't have such thoughts - I usually am enamored by babies. This was a part acting up, and perhaps she had a message.
I wrote questions for my part, and allowed her to answer with the non-dominant hand. In extremely neat handwriting she wrote that she was annoyed (hence the bad mood) because I had found her out. She wanted to have fun, connecting with powerful men. I asked her about the babies. She wrote that she hates babies. She hated snot. She was perfect. She was beautiful. She was what the men wished.
She wrote about certain men with whom she had become one, some abusers, some other powerful men I had come across over the past few years, and how she loved being quick and smart and light in her oneness with them. Particularly she loved the man who gave birth to her, the powerful American philanthropist who had trafficked her to the U.S. He hated babies, because he hated snot, and slime, and bodily fluids. He liked things super neat. He could only stand things to be light and beautiful and sunny and perfect, including her. My adult self wrote back to her in my dominant hand, to let her know that these men were not nearly as subtle as she was, and not connecting for the pleasure of the connection itself, like her. Had they not used her as a child? Had they shown her that they loved her in any real way? Had they cared for her?
In the following days, memories returned of getting a cold on the American's boat sailing the U.S. East Coast, and his controlled yet disgusted reaction. I had felt that I had failed him. He had been talking about how sophisticated I was for weeks, how I belonged to his class of people, and there I was, sniffling like a dirty street urchin. Soon after I had been jetted back to Europe and never saw him again, left to die in the network for all he knew.
A friend reminded me of this perpetrator's issues with his nose. Had I not noticed, when I had first met him, his fear of being slow and ugly, specifically complexed about his long nose? Was he projecting shame he had been made to carry as a toddler, for being helpless with a runny nose?
I speak of this reality often, and just want to state once more that this man was someone who influenced world politics, and yet clearly had not resolved basic childhood developmental issues. Most people grow up enough to conquer their shame of bodily fluids, just with age. If it is difficult to understand pedophilia from men who seem so together on the surface, perhaps this example better highlights the emotional immaturity of our world leaders.
A few days later, the pragmatic voice from the little girl part within said her name was Use. The nine year old girl was beginning to see that these men had only exploited her, and never taken care of her, and that I, for better or worse, was a safer option.
My voice remained hoarse, but I was convinced that a three day silent meditation retreat would cure it. On the first evening, in the group meditation, the inner screams filled my head. Use felt safe, and the terror of the other side of her reality began to give way. A coughing fit had me retire to my small room overlooking the Hudson River. The coughing kept me up, and I was reminded of childhood, coming home after being trafficked to the U.S. and flown back to Switzerland, taken to a hospital where things were done to me but my cough was left alone, to finally be driven home to Belgium, where I stayed in bed for three weeks, coughing uncontrollably. Use's voice was a cough, not allowed any voice of her own, not allowed any mental distance, not allowed to exist other than for these men. Finally she could scream. The image emerged of the exiled girl that hid behind Use, rail thin, cut up, ashen and devastated. The girl used for rape while her innocent friend was sacrificed in a dark ritual in Switzerland, in this circle of prominent men, depraved knights in the service of Satan. The girl who believed she was being flown out to be sacrificed herself, who didn't want to live anyway after seeing her little friend butchered, and who was instead drugged with privilege and promises.
I still don't have my voice back. After working through the last attachment and connection with the man who was more of a parent than anyone ever was, I've been floating in a zone of absolute neutrality for days, observing all the ways in which my desires and goals were linked to my unresolved trauma and attachment to this perpetrator. My taste in food, clothes, art, the way I conduct myself, and even where I live and my vacation destinations were tied to Use and her loving connection to this perpetrator. I have asked myself what I want, clearly, for the first time in my life, because my future is finally the blank page of an open book. I'm thinking of a new name for Use. Maybe she wants to be called Destiny.