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 fully attune herself with a powerful man at a party I attended for work.

Upon being introduced to this man who hosted the party in his spectacular New York City apartment, my thought was that he in no way reminded me of any of the powerful abusers of my childhood. I had been worried I might get triggered, but during the greeting all seemed well in my system. Not long afterwards I noticed him smile at me from across the room, and I smiled back as though we had a natural and intimate connection. I 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, which may slightly alter my appearance to highlight exactly that which pleases certain men. This stems from my network past where as a child sex slave, I was magnetized to become the man's dream girl. I observed that this part of me had connected with this man outside of my own awareness, like a fairy floating through the ether.

The following 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 had her write answers with my non-dominant hand. In extremely neat handwriting she wrote that she was annoyed 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 hates snot. She was perfect. She was beautiful. She was what the men wanted. 

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 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 gently inform her that these men were not nearly as subtle as she and were not connecting with her for the pleasure of the connection alone, 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 sailing the U.S. Northeastern seaboard with the powerful American when I was nine years old on the Wayfarer, his 40-foot Hinkley yacht. I liked feeling the cool wind on my face sitting on the foredeck. After a few days my nose got runny. Developing a cold, I longed to light the fireplace on board but was told we were not using that in July. While the chills kept running through me, I observed the American’s controlled yet disgusted reaction to my runny nose.

I 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.

As I was sharing these memories with a friend from the perspective of the shameful child, she reminded me of this perpetrator's issues with his own nose. Had I not noticed, upon our first meeting some months before this sailing trip, his fear of being slow and ugly and how he was especially complexed about his long nose? I had made him feel better about that, reassured him that his nose was good-looking.

To think that someone who influenced world politics never overcame toddler issues. Is pedophilia not best explained in that it is impossible for a person taking children as sexual partners to be emotionally mature? Such a person’s emotional development was arrested somewhere in childhood.

The accoutrements of the rich and famous’ lifestyles all serve to show great seriousness and maturity. The rules (not sniffling?) require restraint, education and knowledge. Interest in material things and elite activities can run deep and unite many attempting to escape pain from unhealed emotional wounds. The complex and extensive know-how brings order to inner chaos of unresolved trauma in the infinte pursuit of perfection, grasping for the best of the best. The idea of having and being the best encourages the superiority complex that was so prevalent among the emotionally infantile world leaders of my childhood.

A few days after connecting these memories to my feelings, the pragmatic voice from the little girl part within said her name was Use. It is very rare for my parts to say they have names; I was programmed to become one personality with various alters, but those parts did not get assigned names in the training, which is often done so the handlers can easily call up the different alters with their specific functions. For me, usually when a part appears, there are distinct characteristics but no name. Use is different. This nine year old girl part had not shown much interest in me, being really only geared towards powerful men, but she had quietly mulled over my questions. She was beginning to see that these men had only exploited her, had never taken care of her, and that I, her adult self, 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. It so happened that the location of this retreat was close to the mansion where this American had first brought me back in 1972. On the first evening in the group meditation, 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., flown back to Switzerland, then driven to Germany.

Use's voice was a hacking cough, not allowed a 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 part that hid behind Use, rail thin, cut up, ashen and devastated. The girl used for rape whose innocent friend died in this circle of prominent men, depraved knights in service of Lucifer. The girl who believed she was going to die too, and was instead drugged with privilege and promises.

I still don't have my voice back. After working through more of my attachment and connection to 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 the places and things to which I have been drawn in my adult life were directly linked to this billionaire. My taste in food, clothes, art, the way I conduct myself, and even where I live and my holiday travels 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. Use never needs to be used again.