Bloody Hollows

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Note: The following is more from my personal journal and/or other writings as I moved through the inner turmoil after the Knapp trauma which happened the end of July/beginning of August, 2010. The sharings are simply my thoughts at the time processing through events that took place with my ex-therapist, John M. Knapp, LMSW. To access an ongoing index, click here and scroll down to the section entitled June 26, 2011.
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Another Place
9/15/2010
AWW~september 15, 2010
non-subject: another place,

"Don't commit to reading before writing."

If only I can keep that at the center of my core. For it is only that way that I can be true to my self. My self.

I recently made a promise to never again abandon my self to another's silhouette. And if I find that I have failed. If I look inside and find a hollowness. Or if I look down and realize that I am trying to mold a certain shoe to my foot that I really don't like. Or walk a stretch of gravel road that I really don't want to be painfully trudging. I hope beyond hope that first I can recognize my self from the hollowness, from another's silhouette, from shoes not designed for me, and definitley from the crunching of a crushed rocks from a quarry...I hope I will always be able to distinguish my self from what isn't my self. And if I find my self being another self, that I can get back to self.

And when that happens, I won't be the same self. The hollowness. The shoes. The gravel road. The silhouette will become a part of me. There is no way around it.
.......................

I am scared to write tonight.

As I called the phone number I thought, "What if John Knapp is there? What if he decided to join the workshop? What would I do? How would I respond?"

I told myself that that was a silly fear. But I've had many lately, and I don't like them. This fear.

When I awoke this morning, I realized where my deep depressions and suicidal ideation and anxiety had come from the night before. The night before as I lay crying and trembling almost in a fetal position, as my husband held me. I then got down on myself for feeling the way I was, for thinking I'd rather die and never wake up. Here in the arms of one of the most wonderful people I know - safe, secure, but feeling so devastated. I must be a moron. Selfish. And so very unintelligent.

At some point I must have stopped crying and trembling. Because I had dreams. My house dream that I have repeatedly over the last ten or so years. I have it when I am working through trauma. It's kind of become like a home. I know when I am there, in that house, in my sleep dream. I know I am o.k. Because I am working. My insides, the parts of me that aren't always accessible when I am awake - those parts are working, to help me.

When I awoke this morning. I knew my reason for the fetal position the night before. It seems so trivial compared to the tragedies of the world. So trivial, my little world where I have learned for decades to hide, to hush. Yet I can't go back to hiding and hushing.

I awoke and I thought, "How can a friend file a formal complaint on a friend? I can't do that."
My next thought countered, "Carol, John is not your friend?"
"But he wrote Louise just Monday, twisting his last words to me, and he wrote to Louise that he still considered me a friend."
"Friends don't twist words. Friends don't do what John did to you."
"In the email to Louise, he said it was not that bad, what he did to me. So why do I hurt so bad? Am I just a fool? Am I too sensitive? Why can't I have a god damn don't give a shit switch that I can just flip and make it all go away?"

The thoughts almost screaming. Tears now again, pouring down my cheeks. My stomach in a knot. Craving to just go back to sleep to my dream. To the house where I still ignore the upstairs. When will I ever get around to living in and cleaning the upstairs of that house in my dreams.

As I sat on my bed crying, the image appeared. As my mind is known to do with images appearing at certain times. I don't think them up; they are just there. It's like they are set deep in my pysche in my head somewhere. Sometimes they are in my heart.

This image was in my head.

I lay flat on the ground, face up. I was on what appeared to be pavement. It is dark out, but enough light to see - like a street light.

I'm outside of my body watching from above as Knapp stabs me over and over and over. Blood spews everywhere. But I'm already dead, so he doesn't need to keep stabbing. But he does. And he hollars while he stabs, "You're my friend. You're my friend! You're my friend..."

Then he cries as he falls to the right side of my bloody body. I lay there, lifeless. He sits with his knees propped up, his head hanging down, his elbows propped on his knees, holding the bloody knife and mumbling, "Why couldn't you understand that we were friends?"

I tried to write a poem about the image, as I'm known to do. But I couldn't.

And now that I write out the image here, I feel hollow. And I feel I have lost what it was I started to write.

And I am glad that John is not in the memoir workshop. What would I have done? I do not know.

I saw my psychologist, Dr. McCollcoch, this afternoon. I used to see him from 2000 into 2006. He was with me as I left The Way. I love him as a therapist.

He is 100% supportive of me filing the complaint with the state of NY. He will be there if they call.

But I am still scared. And it seems so very silly...to be scared.

I told Dr. McColloch about my image.

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9/16/2010

blood
spews from her chest
he stabs
over and over
as she lies prostrate
face up
already
dead
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Hollow
9/16/2010

Well, my die happy feeling didn't last too long.

Feelings. Come and go.

I had suicidal ideation last night. It's been a long time since that has happened. I continue to cry today.

Depression.

I had a horrible mental image this morning. It was how I felt. I shall not share it.

I had dreams last night. One was my house dream.

I hope this pain subsides. I hope I can maneuver. I hope I can make the proper decision.

I feel very alone....but I am not alone.
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