The hemorrhage
The posts of the last several days have been heavy to write.
I dreaded facing this part of my life. For almost 50 years, I refused to look back there. I was always compassionate toward my younger, child self. But I judged my young adult self hatefully.
When I found the journals I’d written then, I was first grateful for a record of exactly what I thought and felt and lived through because I’d forgotten so much. But I was also scared to death of what I’d find. Had I been even more shameful and stupid than I thought?
I’d not looked at those writings since the days I wrote them. The pages hemorrhaged ache. Such loneliness, despair, exhaustion, and at times, hopelessness flooded from them.
I read recently an essay that said some research study identified hopelessness with a higher risk of suicide. I can’t speak to whether that is true or not. What I do know is that I had moments of contemplating it, usually when I felt most hopeless. But still, somehow, as I read those pages, I saw how I tried to hang on.
While my place with God and religion is much different today, and I’ll write of that later, I am so very grateful for its discipline then. It was an anchor…a support at a time when there wasn’t a lot holding me up. It’s still there now, just in a different way.
The boxful of broken shards
During the first read through, I had to stop for many breaks to allow the intensity to subside. But then I read the pages again. And again. And started making notes.
As I did, many things started coming into focus that I’d forgotten or never realized before. Recurring themes and longings stood out on the pages, and the amount of fight my younger self demonstrated amazed me. Not to mention the amount of emotional and physical bludgeoning that I’d endured. I’d never given myself credit for that. Just surviving day to day was no small achievement.
Suddenly, I saw just HOW MUCH there was to my younger person. Where I judged those years to be worthless, vacuous, and cowardly, in fact, they were a treasure chest full of gems I never expected.
It was like opening a box you thought was empty and instead finding that it was chock-full of so many broken pieces. Overflowing with them. Yes, they were all broken fragments, but each one was vital and told a piece of a story I’d never taken the time to look at. That’s when I knew I had to reassemble them all into a coherent whole. I needed to write and see the entire story. Not a box full of fragments.
There were moments at the beginning when I literally felt like crying. Throwing up. The heaviness of the pain swamped me. This is where having a supportive husband, friends, and a trauma therapist to walk with me through the process has been vital. In moments where I questioned the wisdom of doing this and asked myself if this was the right thing to do, I was not alone. And while I already know the answers to those questions, still, it helps to have affirming “companions” on the journey.
The outcome?
Am I glad I took the time to do all of those posts? Absolutely, unequivocally, yes. I can’t speak for what is right for another person. But for me, it has made all the difference. Because aside from the pain, despair, longing, and ache of my heart, there are other, even more powerful feelings now.
Which emotion should I say first? They are all in there. Here are just some, in no particular order.
Relief.
Wholeness.
Understanding.
Liberation.
Gratitude.
Self-respect.
Amazement.
Honoring.
Self-love.
For the first time in over 50 years, I no longer hate me. I no longer revile that younger part of me. I now know what a hateful thing it’s been for me to think I was a failure, or stupid, or disgusting.
Instead, I am eternally grateful for my younger self, for my willingness to just get out of bed every morning and try again, and again, and again. And even as it took me several years to get out of that house, NOW I know why. And I know what I was doing and learning and trying. I wasn’t just existing. I was working every day toward becoming a person who could free herself even as she wasn’t ready for life. He had denied me that growth. Yet, I got out, ill-equipped, but I got out, in spite of him.
Bringing all of me back together
So doing this work now, it’s like my inner child and my older adult have reached out and welcomed back my long-maligned young adult.
The rest of the mess
Now, there is more to come in this story. The ultimate descent into hell is coming next. I don’t like a messy life, but you can’t go from that kind of brainwashing and abusive system to building a healthy life without trial and error and mess.
So I will take a breath, and then continue the story of struggling to build a new life, even through failures and mistakes.
I just needed to take a moment to honor the magnitude of the effort it has taken to finally piece back together the abandoned story of my 20-something self. For me, it was the right choice.
Certainly, for all of us, the 20s are a difficult time, trying to figure out who we are and where we are going. That I had to start a lot further back than others, and climb out of a very deep hole to get started, I am no longer ashamed of.
None of that was my fault. I didn’t create it. But it was my responsibility to find a way forward to a meaningful life.
So, no matter the mistakes or the mess, I am happy. Satisfied. And content.
Now, to the rest of the mess.
Soul Mosaic 
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