TRIGGER WARNING: This blog discusses sexual abuse 

2022 was chock-full of 20-year anniversaries for me. I was diagnosed with PTSD 20 years ago. Several terrifying events happened 20 years ago. And I began experiencing dissociative amnesia 20 years ago. Thankfully, all that dissipated within about 2 years. The PTSD was the result of child sexual abuse.

I was on a bit of edge last year, expecting the anniversary effect to trigger my brain into becoming a broken record again. It didn’t happen, perhaps because my awareness of the effect helped keep a relapse at bay.

The length of time that has elapsed has made me more confident to put pen to paper and write about the experiences without worrying about a relapse. In particular, I’ve been trying to describe what dissociation or dissociative amnesia feels like. I dipped my big toe into that water in this article here on the CPTSD blog.

What does dissociation feel like? Can it have a feeling? Perhaps I had feelings during the episode, but once out of the episode, how do I know what I don’t remember?

In my experience, dissociative amnesia is a complete blackout of events. It has a start and a stop. It is different from forgetting where you put your car keys. In that situation, you typically can backtrack your steps: I was in the kitchen, but before that, I was in my bedroom. Before that, I was driving the car into the garage…and so on.

Instead, I have a black hole in my memory.

A black hole is a region in space where the gravitational pull is so strong that nothing, not even light, can escape from it. It is created when a massive star dies, and its core collapses in on itself under the force of its gravity. This results in a point of infinite density called a singularity, surrounded by an event horizon beyond which nothing can escape.

This is such a perfect metaphor for me. When I was sexually abused at 9 years of age, my inner star died, and the core collapsed in on itself under its own force. Now that point of infinite density in my memory is surrounded by the event horizon, and no memory within the black hole can escape.

What’s worse is that anything that may significantly remind me of the sexual abuse can get sucked into the black hole never to escape.

However, I have experienced the escape of some memories from that black hole

However, I have experienced the escape of some memories from that black hole. They come trailing clouds of terror from a prison house that has closed upon me. (Sorry, Wordsworth!)

That terror, that speechless dread, that fearsome horror is exactly why my brain tries to protect me from those memories. I suppose a therapist would say, “Good, now you can integrate those memories into your daily consciousness and live a better life.” But let’s be real. That’s not what happens. I can live with the conscious memories, but I can never go back to how I would have been if the child sexual abuse had not occurred.

 

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