Saturday, September 7, 2013

The Sheep

circa late 1990's

I hear them crying. It is the most awful sound I have ever heard. It is the sound I imagine rabbits make when they are dying, as described in Trudy Chase's When Rabbit Howls

I have to see from where this noise is coming. It is nighttime, and the sky is clear blue. The stars guide my way up a green hill. As I look down into the pasture below, I see them. There are dozens of them. They are sheep with long necks like llamas, but the texture of their wool lets me know they are really sheep. 

I run to them. Someone is dragging them; there are big hooks in their mouths and a string attached to each hook. I hug one of the sheep; he is so soft. And he is crying so loudly now. I grab the string and it is strong and sharp like fishing line. I pull the string to try and create slack but it is too strong. The thing dragging us is so strong. I grab the string with a firmer grip but this feeble gesture only cuts my hands wide open. 

I can't do anything to help them. I can't do anything but listen to them cry and watch them being dragged away. Their eyes are wide open with fear. They think I can help them. But I am powerless. There is nothing I can do but watch. The pain of this scene cuts me to the bone.


The sheep are me, various parts of Little Me who were wounded in multiple abuse scenarios. My schizophrenic-abandoning mother, my sexual abuser who I have now dubbed The Wolf. This makes the representation of sheep all the more powerful.

Through my healing journey I have systematically identified all the parts of me who were wounded. As dissociation has long been my survival mechanism during times of trauma, I have come to envision that each abused part of me escaped my body during the moment of abuse. Small white wisps of smoke hover somewhere outside and just above my body, pieces of my essence that escaped and have been too afraid to re-enter until now.

Much of my therapy and various healing modalities are aimed at reintegrating each and every one of these pieces of me. First they had to be recognized, then named. Through Healing Art I try to understand their pain and personalities. And then I do everything I can to show them they are loved and accepted. But above all, I want to show them they are safe now. They survived though no one was taking care of them.

I am taking care of them now.

No comments:

Post a Comment