Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Battle Over the Control of a Pencil

She wants to write. Desperately. I can feel her reaching for the pencil, with all of her tremendous strength, all that power that was saved in a tiny frame. Not now, I think at her, I have this report to finish up and then … but arguing with her is worse than useless. I could picture her pouty lips set in a stubborn line, and silent, she exerts pressure on the left hand, trying to distract me from what I am writing so she can take over.

I have never seen her so desperate to communicate, because she never lets me talk when I really need to. When those times come when the dam should break and feeling come through, there she is. She only protects me, in that she refuses to let me make a bigger target for anger by shooting my mouth off. She only stops me from talking to stop me from making a fool of myself – ourselves - in front of others. I can take the words, but not the frustration of not acting. Sometimes I wonder if I have outgrown her, and if she is no longer needed.

But I cannot discard her. She is a part of me unlike anythign else - except the others.

Imagine the strength that she has that she can control all of us, screaming for blood, the pound of flesh, peace and what not, and stuff us all into a dusty little corner of our collective mind. To keep the body out of all our control. To prevent action, when all the rest want it. To keep us quiet when we are either sobbing from fright, fear and pain or screeching blue murder.

I think of Terry Pratchett – Angie and Perdita, the two minds in one body, and Perdita “growing stronger in the left hand” and almost groan.

She is, perhaps, the most powerful of the lot of voices in my head. Silent, and lurking in the background. Quiet I call her, and I have seen her come out only when I need to be protected. Yet, what is it that she wants to say? Curiosity gets the better of me.

No, I overrate myself.
She would have broken through my resolve anyway.

Imagine my surprise when I saw my hand now scribbling freely, and my being completely independent of it, just watching. It is a sight to behold, the relatively small crisp handwriting with the points on all the letters abruptly changing form. They become large and artistic, clear words and ideas, and things I had not heard before, or that I had heard and ignored. My eyes grow wider at the message that comes through, and the core appears to be amidst a lot of other words. They hold my eyes and my mind, and I wonder – how could I not have known?

I am Me.
We Are.

10 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

OMG My heart is pounding from reading these words. You have described perfectly what it felt like to fight over a pencil, to try and continue writing what I needed to tell him while she tried to stop me. The words at the end are different but the frustration... I threw the pencil across the room after she took it from my control. That much I still could do and I cried. I am trembling now from the shock of reading this because it is so real. Even after I threw away the pencil I tried to communicate. I wrote with my finger on his skin. After a bit he realized what I was doing. I slowed down so he could read and again she tried to assert control. She wrote "not safe" but after that I was able to control the writing and went back to the pencil and paper. Gradually my heart now is returning to normal. Soon, this will be just another little shock which Muse will write about and people will read and not understand. Well, I know some will understand. Weebs

7:28 AM GMT-7  
Blogger Camphor said...

Weebs, I had not expected such a strong reaction from you. I know it's something that really shook you up, but this powerful a reaction... *shakes head - indian style*

It's a tribute to how I wrote that in spite of all those little changes, you related. Thanks.

And I hope Muse comes to your rescue and this shock wears off soon.. and always remember that even we don't understand, we still try. *hugs*

Thank you

7:33 AM GMT-7  
Blogger Camphor said...

Correction: More than little changes, I made it a lot less emotionally charged, and changed the way you reacted to it... And what she was trying to do. All of those are major changes.

But then, I only knew that she had tried to take control of the pencil and wrote something, nothing more than that...

And .. *hugs tightly*

7:40 AM GMT-7  
Blogger Kini said...

I feel as if I'm intruding on a very private conversation so I shall refrain from commenting on the emotional sphere of this post. The sanctity of one's thoughts should of course, be given the highest respect.

As for the phenomenon you've described on this post, all I can say is... I comprehend. Free association writing as the shrinks call it has been one of the most effective and beautiful forms of catharsis and self-healing. Though as you so rightly pointed out, sometimes it can get nasty and tell you things you don't want to know.

I used to post my free-association pieces on my blog earlier but after a while it became pretty public, and so I have refrained from doing so for quite a while now.

The description of the process is as usual, immaculate and i applaud you for it. I have to admit, at one point the schizophrenic part of me came alive and asked to be heard but he kinda had to wait for me to finish reading.:)

Cheers I say.
*clink of glasses*

8:04 AM GMT-7  
Blogger Camphor said...

*drinks her orange juice* That was me talking to the one who inspired that piece with two lines, Kini.

I was rather afraid that it wouldn't make sense to those who didn't know what I was talking about.

Thankies for the compliment there, and I do wish I could see Pierre again. I doubt my blog will ever get as public, I don't leak its existance to all my friends RL. You're the only one who knows me RL and knows about the blog.

Free association writing as the shrinks call it has been one of the most effective and beautiful forms of catharsis and self-healing.
I copy, I agree, and that's one reason why I write so much of it. I'll probably write a lot more of these peices, now that I have a place to put them. *g*

8:54 AM GMT-7  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Really related to this post. I have to admit..I don't know what you're talking about(what sparked it off)..but the weird part is..I can relate to it!
Here's a poem I wrote in one of those 'moments':
"Drowning in a sea of misery,
Tears roll down,
Friends look on,
But they can't set me free..

Scare myself to death,
That's why I keep on running..
Stick around for a while & then maybe you'll see
A different side of me.

But I just can't contain
This feeling that remains.
I'm just out to find
The better part of me.

I took a walk around the block
To clear my troubled mind.
And the thing that freaks me out
Is I always seem to be in doubt.

I'm searching for things
That I cannot see.
And the thing that gets to me
Is how weak I seem to be.

As the sun sets on another day,
I close my eyes & hope...
That after midnight, morning will come,
And tomorrow might be good for something..."

Have to admit..borrowed a couple of lines from some of my favourite songs.They just seemed to fit.
Flower Girl

10:36 PM GMT-7  
Blogger Camphor said...

FlowerGirl! I'm so happy to see youa round, and I think you relate because of the pain. *hugs* It will be all better, it will.

What this ost is about ~ there is a person with MPS (multiple personality syndrome) and one of the subbies - Quiet in this case - is taking over the body to do something.

Your poem ~ girl, *hugs* It might be true that we can only watch, but we do wish we could help. We do. And it will get sunnier. Trust me.

10:51 PM GMT-7  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

11:14 PM GMT-7  
Blogger Vavoom said...

What a wonderful post and a wonderful blog. Man, you have me hooked!

11:21 PM GMT-7  
Blogger Weebs said...

I don't know if anyone will ever see this but I wanted to add my own version of what happened.

Battle for the Pencil

Rapid handwriting
Thoughts tumbling onto the paper
A neat italic print.
Thoughts pouring out
Fast as the hand can write them
Emotions unchecked.
Explanations given.
Words locked behind sealed lips
Finding expression on paper.
”This is who I am.”
”This is how I am.”
”I’ve longed so to tell you.”
”I need you to love me
In all my brokenness.”
Heart pounding tightness in my chest,
Ants crawling across my skull,
Labored breathing.
Fingers tightening around the pencil
Each word an effort.
The letters now large,
Round, uneven,
As a six year old might write.
I battled for the pencil
To continue the opening of my heart
But the words I read
Were not what I tried to write.
”They are about loss of control.”
Again in my own hand,
The words wrenched from me.
”I can’t.”
the admission of defeat.
mounting frustration.
the pencil thrown across the room.
scalding tears locked inside
burning eyelids
trembling
fighting for control
A new attempt
A fingertip tracing letters upon bare skin
Writing fast
Words pouring out
Knowing he is not aware
Yet writing anyway.
His light bulb moment.
Slower now
Spelling out each word
Communication re-established
Questions
Resistance
”NOT SAFE”
Those words out in the open.
Hers
Reassurance
Acquiescence
Taking up the pencil once again
Communication accepted
At least this time.

And now you have the rest of the story

7:07 AM GMT-7  

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