My Psych Profile #2 - Attachment theory
My parents are not who you think they are...
First of all I need to tell you as an aside about the first bit of this. You can find it at that link.
There were two things I wanted to say about this. Well, about my next psych profile thing, I mean. The second thing is still in my head quite readily, which is about the junior intelligence officer from MI5 who is responsible for my PF (personal file). That person will benefit greatly from what follows, because – I joke about this all the time – my current PF will be full of the most ridiculous clichéd psychobabble rubbish (it’s been used already by some of the ‘cognitive infiltrators’ – yeah, you know who you are, pay attention), and that junior support officer seriously needs to re-consider or – yeah, I’ll put it this way – revaluate their values.
The other thing, the first thing, I have just forgotten. There are still blocks in me which prevent me from realising certain things. This is the serious stuff and is part of the mind control programming and the child abuse network (I am simply going to refer to it as ‘The Network’ from now on). It is only very, very recently that I have been able to even understand that what happened to me was a concerted mind control. If you haven’t experienced it yourself you simply can’t comprehend it. Likewise, you may think you are aware of concepts like ‘coercive control’, but unless you have actually experienced it, then seriously, you really, really don’t know what it is.
I’m not being patronising here, by the way. I often get scared that you will think I’m patronising and arrogant and so on (or maybe even lying) by saying stuff like ‘yeah I went through this and that abuse so therefore I know better than you’ – no. No! I do not think that! If you think I think that then the monsters win! Don’t ever fucking let them win.
Promise me! Don’t fucking ever let them win.
I have been putting a certain portion of my past into chronological order over the last few days. It’s really fucking scary. I’m going to tell you about it next week.
For now, however, don’t worry. There’s no stuff requiring what do they call it? Trigger warnings? Fuck off. You don’t know what a trigger warning is. That’s just PC gone mad type thing, specifically designed to prevent you from learning about what really happened.
You want to understand how it feels to be hunted by your sexual abuser in a forest? No, of course you don’t.
So let’s not talk about it today, eh?
Well, here is what I wrote about myself, around about this time last year.
For my case officer. For the PF.
If you want to make use of the child-parental relationship to conduct a psych analysis of a person, then you have to know who the real parents are.
In my case, this is hidden, and will almost certainly not appear on my psych profile.
So in the interests of completion, here it is.
My birth mother immediately rejected me after what must’ve been an excruciating experience requiring forceps to drag me out. From a spiritual, or esoteric, or astrological, or maybe even Paschat point of view, my reluctance to emerge into this world might possibly be explained by the necessity of having the precise time of my birth recorded to the required minute. 02:40, just for the record, on the 41st day of the year. Within the orbit you call 1973.
My birth mother, by the way, upon enquiry many decades later, maintained that the birth was perfectly normal with no problems. Well, according to the little birth card I have, which has ‘forceps’ quite boldly stated, clearly she was still in denial. So it’s not me who was ever in denial or whoever had these kinds of parental-child issues – it was her. It wasn’t me who had the mental illness – it was her.
As a consequence of all this, for the first, most important year of my incarnation here I was in fact brought up by my maternal grandparents. Attachment theory, in which I would certainly place high belief (given that ancient humans always practiced alloparenting), holds that infants think emotionally. In such a manner, this means that as far as I was always concerned, my real parents were my grandparents. And the most lovely thing about this is that I know they loved me. I know this for many reasons, one of which is that they saved my life. During that year I became deathly ill. Again, the Paschat perspective would suggest this had something to do with the struggle against xeno-incarnation. Of course you don’t have to believe that if you don’t wish to.
And naturally, I have no memory of that, not really. I do have some flashes of memories from that early part of my childhood and all the good ones, for which I remain grateful, took place at my real parents’ home. Any bad ones were at my bio-parents’ house.
So if you wish to understand me better, think of my real parents, not those other two. I never mourned for even an instant when my bio-father died. There wasn’t even a single flicker of emotion. Even to the extent that I felt myself even a little resentful about having to travel to attend the funeral. And now that I have disowned by birth mother, I need never think of them again, nor waste a single drop on their memory. For they did me great wrong, and I will leave karma, or Ma’at, to do her good work.
So after that first year, I found myself ‘returned’ to my birth parents, who were, of course, as far as I was concerned, total strangers. And not particularly pleasant strangers at that. The male, given his stature and his Marfan’s Syndrome, seemed to me as some kind of monstrous goblin, or troll, depending on which fantasy setting you prefer. As for the female, she was clearly angry about something, it seemed to me. Always sharp and biting and prone to sudden outbursts. One of the bad memories I have was of the two of them, this man and woman, shouting at my real mother across the kitchen, with me nearer to her than to them. Perhaps it was all about me, and she was trying to protect me, and they were saying something like ‘it’s our child and we decide’. I don’t know.
Between the ages of 5-7 – when identity forms – I went to the local primary school, on the other side of the park across the street, then over a beautiful little bridge over a gentle stream and down a little lane. Always sunshine, it seems to me in my memory. And yes, I was extremely precocious – but not in any annoying or arrogant way – it was simply that I discovered I was probably more intelligent than the rest of the class put together. But was it me who was hyperintelligent, or simply they who were stupid? I never thought of them like that. I was simply confused as to why they couldn’t understand the things that I could. Understanding was easy to me, but not for them, it seemed. But they never thought of me in a bad or bitter or resentful way either. They celebrated my intelligence. They loved me for it. They all wanted me on their team when we did quizzes. And our teacher loved me too, kind and young and smiling and giving me extra work to do which I would lap up.
I had friends. And for the life of me now, I don’t remember a single one of their names.
My birth mother found her opportunity to deal with me when I was seven. Perhaps she was the one who hated my precocity and intelligence, or my emerging girlishness, who knows? Or perhaps it was simply their wholesale, me-first embracing of Thatcherism. So they had me whisked – or snatched, perhaps – away from that happy place and unceremoniously imprisoned in a dark Elizabethan stately home masquerading as a boarding school, in which almost without exception the adults there were monsters. The headmaster himself was a monstrous, psychopathic methodist. To use the word abusive may be sufficient for most observers, perhaps. To me, as a child, one wonders what it was I did, that was so wrong, that I should deserve such punishment.
How long it was before I wasn’t there anymore I do not know. How many days, or weeks, or months it was before my protective, Obedient alter became fully formed and sent me into a deep, dreamless sleep for the duration, I do not know. Simply only that this is the point where memories cease. And perhaps in the place of precocity and genius, for that had me punished, she chose the path of least resistance. Enough intelligence to do what was asked of me with efficiency and accuracy, but no more than that. A temporary submissiveness, for the sake of survival.
All of this, by the way, explains my heightened ability to read people, almost to the point of telepathy. It was a necessary survival mechanism. My alter studies everyone we encounter, minutely examines their microexpressions, every piece of information we have about that, far, far deeper than any words they may be saying. We are looking for their intentions, their motivations. Perhaps this likewise explains why I am such a good counter-subversion agent. It’s clear when a person is lying about themselves, playing a part. Of course, since the advent of the Internet, in which people can as it were hide behind their screens and leave only words by which to judge them, my alter has again found it necessary to adjust and adapt – to develop a heightened sense of reading comprehension but all the while for the same purpose – the need to know about the person behind the words, their motivations, and their intentions towards us. And we share, of course – abilities and unemotional knowledge and learning. As for the sensory memories, well, I don’t have a need to know, and neither do I have a want to know.
I have been given only flashes, usually without the emotion, and only sufficient flashes required for me to understand what happened. Understanding is vitally important, after all.
One of the disconcerting aspects of our dissociation time was that to our mind there was no logical connection between whatever it was we were doing, or had done, and the abuse-masquerading-as-punishment to which we were subjected. It was random, in a way. Without the ability to make the logical connection between cause and effect there is no way to avoid the cause. It was only so much later that we understood the logical connection – it wasn’t us, it was them. The cause was simply the fact that they were psychopathic monsters who took pleasure in what they did, in both the inflicting of pain and the pure sense of power over another that must’ve given them. Quick, addictive release of endorphins and dopamine and all that jazz. But of course, that understanding is no defence, is it? If it’s still unpredictable and random and there is no way to alter one’s own behaviour to avoid experiencing the effect. For I am not the cause, they are.
My alter still lives in some fear of all this. I feel her prodding me from time to time, perhaps after I have done something to come to the attention of potential monsters. She says we will be punished, even if we haven’t done anything wrong. So what do I say to that? What can I say? We can’t allow those monsters to dictate our life? That would mean they win? And we mustn’t let them win? But what is more important, she says, our principles, or our safety? For us, it is perhaps an unanswerable question.
These are the scars which remain. There will always be scars, of course – but scars can heal.
I only awoke again when my alter deemed it safe to wake up. I found myself thirteen and on my way to Australia with my aunt, uncle and cousins. Far, far away from the source of all that threat. Safe enough to be me again. For three months I was surrounded by good people, bright people, kind people. Real human beings.
Of course that couldn’t last. And besides, I had a lot of catching up to do on the growing up front. Perhaps a seven year old in a thirteen year old’s body. Not long after that I was again dispatched to some distant institution, this time something more Catholic, to continue what they still insisted on calling ‘education’, but which, now I look back on it all, was nothing of the sort. Perhaps my memory palace still retains some vestige of the information imparted at those places, with no emotion attached to that information to register any sensory memory of absorbing it, but I learned far more real things of real value on my own, afterwards, in the decades since. Things I chose to learn, not them.
When I was seventeen, it happened again. I remember in the dining hall one morning, feeling as if I was hovering high up just beneath that grand ceiling, turning my gaze back down to see myself surrounded by zombies. Scary, frightening zombies who hadn’t registered my presence yet. But it would be only a matter of time. And so my alter, sensibly, decided to get us the hell out of that place.
And I offered no objection.
Since then, this me, the original me, has of course engaged in a kind of struggle to regain some sense of joy in the world, some sense of freedom to be me. It took a long time to overcome the incessant gaslighting from my birth-mother, and no one who has not suffered coercive control can really comprehend how it works, or that it even could work. For some of those great lies are so out in the open that an honest person simply does not conceive of the notion that it could even be a lie, because no one, after all, would be so mad as to believe they could get away with it. But that’s how it works. That and incessant repetition of the lie. Repetition and reinforcement until, from the mind’s point of view, it takes on the neuronal form of a piece of knowledge in the filing system. A filing system which, in itself, has no notion of the difference between truth and untruth. It does not possess the capacity to distinguish. It only registers emotionally-tagged information, or subject and topic, and administers it accordingly.
But eventually, yes, it did come to an end. I won. I won at least a portion of the inheritance from my real father which she stole from me, I had one of my childhood abusers prosecuted and imprisoned, and with that complete, I disowned my birth mother and the rest of her family likewise. Of course I would love to have had a real family, to be loved and to have maybe a brother and a sister and childhood friends and happy memories and those friends’ weddings to go to and nieces and nephews to shower with gifts and pearls of wisdom and eccentricities. But that will not happen.
My real father died when I was fourteen. Then my alters woke me up. Because I, myself, died inside. My real mother, she died when I was forty. After being deposited in a home with my birth mother having power of attorney and draining every last penny until when my real mother died, her entire possessions could fit into a single suitcase. Or so my birth mother said. But she was a liar. But she had power of attorney. If my real mother ever made a will, like my real father did, she would’ve left so much to me, because I was always her favourite. Her number one.
But there is no time to mourn no more.
I am left with one memory, a dream, from shortly after my real father died. We were there together perched on a sharp rock out in the sea whilst a violent, angry storm raged and raged against that dark, nightly coastline. But I was entirely unafraid. For he had surrounded us with some kind of magical, protective sphere of translucent energy, and the elements could not touch us. That was the final memory I have of him. And then he went away.
Perhaps he has still been there, from time to time. Or it has been my alter. Or it has been some other, protective spirit watching over me, for there have been moments when I have sensed that presence. Like that time I was on a school trip and we were climbing up some huge escarpment, in a line of us, a mountain slope covered in snow, stretching down for perhaps a hundred, maybe two hundred metres before ending in some sheer drop into an abyss. We came to a high ridge and had to scramble over one at a time, each moving forwards in turn. When mine came, and I thought to myself how I can’t really get up that high, I glanced back down in a moment of pure peace and wished only to let myself go. Slide blissfully down that snow and tumble into that abyss and just not be here anymore. But that’s not what happened. A force pushed me over effortlessly, as if I was light as a feather. Looking down, there was no human behind me giving me any shove. It was my protector.
For I am not alone. I am never alone.
This has been just one part of me. An annex, for the psych report. A character formation and a series of confessions.
Make of it what you will.
It doesn’t belong to me anymore.
To be continued…
I read this and felt such sorrow for young Evelyn. I can’t imagine what this must have been like. Hopefully the act of writing it down on your own terms is cathartic in some way.
I love you Evie Devie Doo