It was a FULL-SIZED, Louisville Hillerich & Bradsby, Little League-approved baseball bat…1965…brand new…and BEST of all – inscribed with Mickey Mantle’s name at the end. Anyone who followed New York baseball in 1965 knew that Mickey Mantle was the ultimate batter. So, of course, that bat was my absolute pride and joy.
I suspect I was a rarity, as I was probably one of the rare girls at Yankee Stadium that day. It was the very first “Bat Day!” and anyone who had a child and a ticket to the game got a free, official Little League bat. Since all I remember seeing around us were boys and their dads, AND given it was 1965, the idea of a GIRL coming to bat day would have been unusual.
My two friends (both boys) from our neighborhood were going to this event with their dads, friends of our family. They must have invited my dad to join them, and since he only had daughters, and since, in a lot of ways, as the oldest, I was the replacement son, I got to go.
I remember bits of it. An exciting drive to New York City. Walking in and being handed THAT bat. Clutching it to my chest as we pushed our way through packed stairwells to get to our seats, and gripping it tightly the whole day. Stopping at a hot-dog stand for dinner on the ride home.
The entire day was heaven, with even my dad being in a good mood. And…that bat. I was going to treasure it forever. But sometimes forever isn’t very long.
This tool does not require a lot of words. Yet do not consider the brevity of this post an indication that it is not that important. Other than attitude, it is the most important one of all. To show no awareness of what it means is to throw away a most precious gift:
Time.
I’ve read a number of books by a YouTube podcaster, Ryan Holiday. He writes and speaks about a 2000-year-old philosophy called Stoicism. And that ancient philosophy couldn’t be more relevant for extracting meaning in every moment, today.
People often hear the word “stoic” and mistake it for taking on the world with no emotions and a hard, outer shell. It is the opposite. In some ways, it mirrors many teachings of Buddhism, Taoism, and many other ancient paths to wisdom. It is about living as fully as possible in the present moment; about knowing what is in your power to do or control and doing it without procrastination. And it is also about knowing what you can’t control, and letting that go.
But most of all, its most valuable message can be summed up in two Latin words, two words that say it all:
So. About tools. There are several I am going to share. And I need to start with maybe the most important one, at least for me. If I had this one, I could hang in long enough to use all the other tools that would come.
Attitude
“The girl in the navy sweatshirt…softly asked, ‘How did you not give up?’” “By realizing that giving up would mean giving in to the narrative that was written for me by my circumstances, by other people’s choices and mistakes.” Daria Burke, Of My Own Making
If I were forced to pick just one quality in me that helped save me in that house, and continues to fuel my healing now, I think I would choose “Attitude.”
The true and full answer for how I survived is a whole lot more complex. In reality, it was a swirling mix of so many individual happenings over my life that came together in just the right way, at just the right moment. And without that, I wouldn’t be here. I consider it just as miraculous as how the dense, hot, swirling chaos of dust and rock from the Big Bang gave us a nurturing, life-sustaining Earth. A long shot.
But that one quality, “attitude,” is the closest word I can think of, because in the end, that is what often gets someone through — how they view something, what drives them, what gives them a lifeline to hang on to.
The word salad of survival
For sure, my attitude is built from so many more words, each one contributing to my long-shot survival and eventual thriving.
There were people – from my husband, therapists, my wonderful high school teacher, family friends, and even strangers who, in a momentary crossing of paths, gave me the sustenance I needed to keep going.
There was God, even during the times I hated Him or Her. All during those daily Masses, that young me was deeply listening to the Gospel stories of how God takes care of everyone, even the lilies of the field and birds of the sky. I absorbed those words and held on for dear life.
There was even just plain blind ignorance. And I don’t mean that as a put-down. It’s just the reality of childhood.
When you’re a kid, you don’t know what you don’t know. You have no clue that your life isn’t the norm. You assume what you are living in is how everyone lives — some nice things, some not so nice things that you just have to survive. So you don’t even think to question it. Daria Burke said as much in her book about her own life:
“…we are hardwired to seek out and trust the familiar, even when the familiar isn’t safe or good for us…When you grow up surrounded by poverty, abuse, and violence…it’s not uncommon to accept your circumstances as commonplace, even expected…stressful forces that become so ordinary, they fail to register as traumatic events.”
In one way, then, blind ignorance was a blessing, at least at the time for me. By not knowing the reality of how abusive it was, I could retain an attitude that anything was possible if you worked hard enough and waited long enough, even in the midst of chaos.
I had hope and optimism that one magical day, I would be an adult and things would all “just work out.”
Hope and tenacity – your name is “resilience”
Actor Jane Fonda, in a Fresh Air interview, spoke of her life, her own sorrows at losing her mother to suicide at a young age. Of her wound of growing up without that love. And of the deep sorrow of learning years later that her mother’s suicide was rooted in being sexually abused and raised in an abusive household.
When asked why she kept striving in life despite her personal pain, Fonda talked about resilience, which to me incorporates the attitudes of hope and tenacity:
“Resilience is such an interesting thing…I think people are born with it…resilience is when a young child who is not getting love at home, kind of — there’s a radar that’s scanning the horizon. If there’s a warm body that maybe could love her or teach her something, you go there. You find love where you can. You find support where you can. That’s a resilient child. That was me.”
And that was me, too. I might not have always chosen wisely, but I really tried to find and take in love as best as I could in any moment.
One of my therapists along the way pointed out how amazing it was that, despite what I lived through, I stayed open to the hope of love. And that I did take it in whenever I could find it, from whoever offered it along the way. Yes, I made mistakes, but still, I kept the hope of love.
Now, for sure, I was hugely naive as to both my reality at home and what that life would cost me. And of course, that way of thinking would eventually implode when I realized the truth. But maybe it was best, then, that I could assume my life was “normal,” even if it was the opposite.
The other thing that ignorance gave me in childhood was what Viktor Frankl talked about in his book, Man’s Search for Meaning. He spoke of people surviving concentration camps because they found a “why” to keep going.
My “why” might have been totally wrong, warped by my father’s brainwashing, but still, I thought I had a why to go on. He drilled in that I was helping him and keeping the family together. And he kept demanding I not grow up to “be a stupid woman.”
So when you are told those things a million times from early childhood on, in your young mind, you think you have both a reason for your existence that gives you worth, and a goal for your future. And so you have hope. Of all the qualities I possessed that made up my attitude, I would say hope was the largest element. I will write more later about “hope” through life.
Of course, there’s the reality that those rules slowly poison you and prevent you from becoming your own person. And there is also devastation that comes when you get older and feel that you were played for a fool, so you hate yourself.
The mixed bag that was me
Aside from all of the above things, there was that mix of who I was at my core. I was a dreamer. So in any given moment, I was Nancy Drew, Ivanhoe, Robin Hood, a World War II Australian coastwatcher spying for the Allies in the South Pacific, and so many other personas all wrapped up in one. From those stories and biographies, I learned that true heroes were brave, unrelenting, and determined to stand up for what was right, no matter the risk.
I loved to learn and was creative enough to use that for Moments of Respite to feed my soul, especially during the bad times. I trusted the people I loved, was loyal to a fault, and had a good heart. And I was a highly competitive kid who never wanted to let anyone, especially the boys, beat me out at anything. If a boy could do it, so could I…and better!
That might have been foolish at times, like when I dared to out-race my neighborhood friend on my bike while he tried to nail the football in front of my bike tire. I was just a split-second too slow, flipped up in the air, and tore up my shoulder as I skidded across the pavement while just missing the curb with my head. This was, of course, the era before bike helmets. Yes, foolish. But NO ONE could say I didn’t try.
Painting by author
Also, there were the influences and examples of the old Slovaks in my life. They lived through poverty, loss, war, and the Depression. Their rules were to work hard, get an education, stick by family, tough your way through anything life throws at you, and don’t whine, be weak, or give up.
So I was the mixed bag of tough, loving, loyal, determined, stubborn, gentle, trusting…and hopeful. I thought I was living in a house that, while not perfect, was truly loving, and would someday, somehow, be better. I had hope. I will write more about the nature of this quality in my life later.
When I escaped that house, I did finally realize the extent of all the lies I had been living with. And that destabilized me for some time. But once I started to pick myself up, I was angry. And anger fueled a level of rebellious determination that, for a while, bordered on spiteful. I was going to survive and come back and fully reclaim my life, fast, just to spite him.
While that works for the short-term to get one started from despair, eventually, I would come to realize it wasn’t going to be fast, or ever completely healed. And I would eventually release the spite and instead, tap into self-determination — reclaiming what I deserved for my own good, for the love of my family, and for the goal of breaking that intergenerational cycle of abuse handed down by my family of origin.
So, now? Throw the damned football
So now, decades later, who am I?
No matter what, I am still that dreamer. That person who uses Moments of Respite to feed me. I still hold all those values I read about or saw in others.
I am also that determined, feisty person who refuses to give up or be held back by anyone. Tell me I can’t do something, and I will do my best to prove you wrong. I may be more judicious in picking my battles now, but still, I yield my power to no one.
So, somehow, despite all my father’s bludgeoning, I managed to keep that spark alive. I got just enough nurturance along the way that he could never completely snuff out my spirit.
For sure, I almost didn’t make it…several times. For sure, I have almost given up many times. And so often, I have crashed in despair.
Even now as I write these entries, I feel weary, sad, and angry. But somehow, I still have inside me that kid on the bike daring life to throw the football.
She has an attitude that screams – “I WILL take back as much of my life as I can…and I REFUSE to let him rob me of my future! He took my past. He will NOT get my future!”
Child-like
I have learned that it’s good to keep my “young inner child” alive and close by. I don’t mean to be childish, but “child-like.” That is the part that always had hope. And while no longer naive, I am still “hopeful.” I BELIEVE I can make my life a gift to me and to others.
And again, I can follow the example in Fonda, who is older than me, but who also refuses to give up on healing her life:
“…you’re never too old. You know, I’ve gone back into therapy now at 87 because I want to figure out why I’m not a better person and why I wasn’t a better parent. And I’m figuring it out…At 60, I thought a lot about, ‘OK, this is my last act.’ This is it…My last 30 years…What do I wanna get out of it? I wanna end with no regrets, or at least as few regrets as possible.”
No regrets. So, my first tool for sustaining in this work: Attitude.
And maybe the biggest ingredient in attitude for me is hope.
Note:
I am seeking financial support to complete my memoir, work with an editor, and return home for fact-checking. Your help would mean the world to me as I take this step toward healing and giving voice to my journey.
Please like, comment, and share this post to help spread the word. The link for my fundraiser is on GoFundMe. Thank you for your support.
The short answer is that no one can answer that ahead of time. It will take what it will take. It depends on the nature of each person and what they have lived through.
For me, given the long duration of my abuse, the deeply ingrained messages, and the amount of trauma stored in my body tissues, it’s not surprising that it was going to take a long time. And still does at times. So the amount of EMDR and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy work from 2018 to the present has been the most intense and continuous of my life.
I went back through my journals and calendars for those years and discovered that the number of EMDR sessions alone numbered twenty-four to date. The heaviest load fell into the first two years – thirteen sessions by the end of 2019.
Photo by author
Particularly during those two years, I needed the constant repetition to slowly and carefully crack open some of those huge and painful topics. Many of those sessions were recurring themes: rage, grief, loss, terror, shame, mothering, women’s friendships, family systems, and such.
“Whatever it was that he saw in me that made him choose me – I was determined that part of me would NOT survive!” My journal, July 22, 2018
If ever there was a statement that captured the self-hatred, blaming, and disgust that I felt toward me all through life, this was it.
I assumed it was me. I was wrong, somehow to blame, somehow responsible, contaminated with some trait that he couldn’t resist. I must have brought something to the table that caused this…and thus…it was my fault.
Or, even if I cut me some “slack” because, at least in the beginning, I was an infant, still, I was disgusted with myself. He had chosen me for this hell. So whatever it was that I possessed that drew him to me, I was going to PURGE it as soon as I could identify it.
Looking back, it’s a ridiculous idea…it wasn’t me at all. But given that he abused me right from infancy, it is a logical one. When bad things happen to young children, they assume they caused it and are to blame. They are still at that stage of thinking that everything is about them. So good or bad, it’s their fault. And on some deep and early emotional level within me, I carried that same message.
It was only now, in my late sixties, that a germ of a realization was dawning upon me and creeping into my consciousness…an idea I could finally FEEL, not just tell myself and try to believe it: Was it possible…that I was NEVER to blame? For any of it? That maybe it was about whatever he carried WITHIN HIM all along…
It takes more courage to remove one’s armour, than to assemble it.”
J. Střelou
The racehorse in the gate
The digital clock to my right read 4:01.
I settled onto the couch, a pillow on my side in case I needed to pull it to my chest. My therapist moved quietly about the room, pulling the window shutters closed and turning off lamps.
She settled into her desk chair, a clipboard and pen handy so she could take notes. The only light in the room now was from her small desk lamp.
I appreciated the darkness of the room. It walled out the world and helped me reinforce that we were about to journey to another place and time.
Before me at eye level was a tripod about 4 feet high holding a 3-4 foot long horizontal LED light bar. It was narrow, about two inches high, with a black background.
My therapist clicked the remote for the light bar to ensure it was working properly. Immediately, a small green light zipped across the bar. She adjusted the light beam’s speed and reminded me that she could adjust it to whatever my comfort level needed.
Despite trying to relax into the sofa cushion, every muscle in my body was a taut rope. I wondered how I would react this time…what thoughts might come up…and would this do anything. I felt like a cliff diver perched high atop a rocky peak, arms stretched out before me, and leg muscles tensed as I leaned out over the expanse to drop into the surf below. Would I clear the rocks or land on them?
My therapist’s voice brought me back to the room. “How are you doing?”
“I feel like exploding…I can’t wait to get on with this.”
“Where in your body are you feeling tension?”
“My muscles are all tight…but especially my throat..like I am being choked. And a heavy pressure on my upper chest.”
“Do you still want to continue?”
She barely asked the question before I cut her off.
“Oh my God, YES! I can’t stand this any longer.”
She confirmed that my husband drove me to the appointment and was in the waiting room so that I didn’t have to drive myself home. Then she began the process.
“You are in control and can stop this at any time. Follow the light beam back and forth with your eyes as you think about the image we have settled on. We’ll stop periodically to give you a rest and see what comes up for you as we do this.“
I shifted on the couch and stared hard at the dark light bar. I was a racehorse in the gate, ready for the sound of the gun.
“On a scale of zero to ten, with zero being no discomfort and ten being the highest level of discomfort, where are you now?”
Again, she barely finished her question, and I blurted out, “Nine…almost ten.”
“On a scale of one to seven, with one being totally false and seven being totally true, how true is the statement ‘I feel powerful?’”
“One.”
“Okay. Let’s start. Just focus on being there in your house on Sunday afternoons with your father coming down the hall and yelling at you.”
The last two weeks have been extra stressful with some medical things going on with my husband. While all remains “stable,” ever since he nearly died in the early 2000s after a “routine one-day surgery,” I never take those for granted.
Given the trauma from his medical emergency back then, on top of all the abuse trauma I carry, it is not a surprise that I don’t handle new “possible stressors” with ease.
It is also true that writing these memoir entries now about the deep emotional pain I felt in the EMDR sessions is hard. I re-live those emotions. It is necessary to write about those times and to extract new meaning from them. But it is also necessary when things get too intense to just take a breath and resort to one of the tools I used to survive all those years of abuse: Moments of Respite.
I have mentioned them briefly earlier, and I will talk more soon about them — what they are, and why I love them as a coping mechanism. But for right now, given that I needed to resort to that tool with current goings-on, I will share a sample of my newest one – a little “break in the action” for all of us.
The chaotic mess of mammalian breathing
So, we all breathe. Big deal. Inhale — diaphragm pulls the thoracic cavity down, the lungs expand, oxygen-rich fresh air flows in. Then the diaphragm snaps back up, forcing air out of the lungs. In the middle, red cells get rid of CO2 and take in fresh oxygen. Sounds simple enough. But in reality, it’s a pretty chaotic process.
Before I relate the session experience, I need to take a moment to consider the question – Why rage?
Why did I carry white-hot rage toward my father? And why did that need to be the first thing we tackled?
I will let the images do most of the talking here.
Who was he?
Probably best answered by the stories he shared with me on our weekend car rides, all of them disgusting or upsetting. Such as the one about abusing cats when he was a kid.
When we started planning for the upcoming EMDR session, I had no idea what to expect this time. Would it trigger another panic reaction like in 2009? Would it fix ANYTHING? I only knew I wanted to try because my psyche was demanding it.
For sure, I wasn’t even thinking about whether this would need multiple sessions. I wasn’t trying for any specific goal other than some relief. The pressure on my chest and the choking sensation in my throat were immense. And I so wanted to cry. But I couldn’t.
It was an understatement to say that with all the rage, fear, and pain building up, I felt like a loaded cannon. In fact, the better description was that I was a cannon barrel that had been OVERloaded with SEVERAL shells rammed tightly against a triple charge of gunpowder…and that lit fuse was dwindling closer to the gunpowder by the second.
No small challenge
In our final preparation meetings, we went over my rage and emotions again and again, trying to narrow down the list of issues and memories to one main event. As my therapist explained, EMDR can work better if we clearly define one issue, along with a specific associated memory or event, and the statements I held about that episode — Things like: What did I currently believe and feel about that event…and about me? And what would I prefer to believe in the future?
She explained our approach and why we would handle things that way. In cases where the trauma was a single, more recent event, improvement might come fairly quickly. On the other hand, with complex trauma like mine, it would take more work and time.
In preparation for that EMDR session that was coming, I spent a lot of time considering the things my therapist suggested — the nature of that white-hot rage I felt toward my father over what he had done to me and what it cost me. And I thought a lot about why I struggled to feel I had any power now in life.
Painting by author
The place of ghosts
We all have a shadow side…a place of dark rage, born out of the pain of abandonment that wails the cry: “What about me?”
It is a place of our ghosts, filled with toxic poisons, bubbling, oozing, and swelling in a stoppered bottle. As the fires of life’s pain intensify, the heat and pressure build. The boiling liquid rises, forcing itself hard against the stopper until, finally, the block gives way.
If we’re lucky, it will just push the stopper up enough to leak out and ease the pressure. Or, if we can bring attention and wisdom to the process in time, we might be able to toggle the stopper slowly and safely release what’s under it. But if we ignore it, it builds, explodes, splatters, and destroys.
Transformative wrath
I love mythology and stories about old wise women and crones…especially since I am one now, at least, old. So, this excerpt by Jean Shinoda Bolen, MD, in her book, Goddesses in Older Women, says it eloquently:
“…Outrage is good, healthy anger that finally is directed at changing an unacceptable situation. The depression and anxiety that women suffer from in the first and second phases of their lives are usually the result of feeling angry and powerless, afraid to express it….By the time a woman is in the third phase of her life, she may no longer be intimidated …or held emotionally captive by an abusive or domineering person…
“This is when she can tap into…the ‘Enough is enough!’ archetype. These are the energies of the goddesses of transformative wrath, powerful agents of change…if she has gained wisdom — and has the resources of compassion and humor — she will not be impulsive, one-sided, and carried away by fury.”
Well, I am old. And I certainly didn’t want to be impulsive and get scalded by the hot mess inside me. So “wisdom” would be welcome. That is where the guidance of my therapist, husband, and close friends always comes in handy.
What about anger?
Regarding anger, my therapist put it in perspective first by affirming my right to have it. “You come by your trauma honestly. It was done to you. And given how long you were abused, if you stayed angry for a long time, it wouldn’t be unreasonable.”
So anger, that emotion that is terrifying to so many of us, has a right to exist. And it can even be a force for good if wielded carefully.
Despite the upwelling of so many intense emotions these last months, I was here to heal, not destroy. I could not deny the level of fury, but neither would I let it lead the journey.
I remembered something that the Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, shared in his book about how to care for anger. He described our anger and pain as being a crying infant inside us. It doesn’t need to be ignored or punished, but instead, held with compassion and love. By embracing our rage and pain with love, we can let its fury wear itself out safely, calm it down, and then look deeper inside it to see what it is about and hear what it is trying to tell us.
So, the thing I needed to do at this moment was not run, but to stare down into that cauldron of noxious fumes and identify what ingredients my shadow side and ghosts put there to cause such pain. And try to hold it all with self-love.
Now, I am not a Buddhist monk, and more times than not, when I am pissed off by someone or something…or my dark ghostly companions have goaded me into despair and fury, I can have some really “animated” conversations with myself. Maybe I’m not exactly gently cradling the baby of my inner pain, but at least I’m paying attention to it safely.
All alone, as I clean or make dinner, I vent about all the things I’d like to tell this person or that, the things I should have told them, or whatever. I imagine I’m not the only person who fights the battles of the world this way. But it’s safe. No one is there to hear it all, and sometimes, out of the solitary yelling, some questions or insights will pop up.
Challenging the ghosts & their “Triad of Toxicity”
In the case of all the toxic messages my inner ghosts were trying to tear me down with, I realized there were three very powerful ingredients in that cauldron that I call the “Triad of Toxicity” — Secrets, Shame, and Stigma. So I pondered those. Questions, arguments, and retorts flooded my head:
Why do we live in a closet, swallowing down the toxic poison of secrets, and feel we would be “bad,” or “wrong,” or “disloyal” to speak our truths?
Why is it that instead, we spend most of our lives behind the facade, pretending we’re just fine, when the truth is we’re choking on that bulging bottle of family secrets?
One question that came up just the other day was, “Why do people think trauma and incest survivors should be quiet and get over it?” I was thinking about what another incest survivor said in the book, The Courage to Heal – “Incest is not a taboo. Talking about incest is the taboo.” She nailed it.
We are viewed as the “problem” — the living, breathing reminder of something everyone else wants to forget, something they don’t want to look at. Something ugly and uncomfortable that needs to be kept hidden.
So, we clamp our mouths shut, make ourselves small, and refuse to speak, like a good little victim. But…the poison keeps building and choking us. And ultimately, it will either kill us or haunt us for the rest of our lives.
I didn’t do this!
For a lifetime, I’ve felt apologetic, not wanting to cause discomfort, and feeling like speaking betrays the secret of what my father really was versus what everyone else thinks he was.
I kept the secret, which protected his carefully cultivated reputation and image. Because if I spoke, if I shined the light of truth on him to show his reputation was fiction, I would be the villain.
The other day, this emotion burst out of me from somewhere, and I wanted to scream – “So people don’t want to hear it, and criticize me if I speak what I need to…But I DIDN’T CAUSE THIS! I DIDN’T DO IT! IT WAS DONE TO ME! Why do I pay the price?!”
Messages to silence us
The ingredients to this stew of control are powerful: You start with a mix of secrets, personal shame, and society’s stigma, add in some misguided loyalty, wrap it in a crust of self-hate, and garnish with a side of messages to stay silent.
After a lifetime of being crushed by trauma, then add in society’s response, it’s no wonder so many never speak, and some don’t make it through.
What are the messages to silence us?
They include themes like: Minimization. Anger. Accusations. Fear. Gaslighting. Guilt trips. Shaming. Questioning your memory. And zero-sum game thinking. That is where only the person with the worst story has a right to have pain and feel it. And since your pain will never be bad enough, you don’t have a right to it. So get over it.
No doubt many have heard at least one of the following, or felt its energy directed at them. Or worse, after hearing these, I know I have internalized some of them, and then said them to myself:
You’re just being selfish.
You always want the attention.
So you had a rough time. Everyone does.
Get over it.
You’re being dramatic — you were always the sensitive one.
It could be worse — there are people dying of disease, so be happy you have it better.
Others have had it worse than you.
You are mistaken — it wasn’t that bad.
You were just imagining it.
It’s over and done with.
It was a long time ago
You’re still going on about that?
Can’t you let it go?
Focus on the present. Life is short, and you’re wasting it thinking about the past.
Maybe if you stopped navel-gazing and focused on others, you wouldn’t have this problem.
There are so many good things now, can’t you just move on?
You’re going to upset everyone around you by talking about old history.
If you just forget about it and focus on the present, everything will be fine.
If you loved us, you would just leave it alone and move on.
Why are you sharing private business in public?
I am sure there are more. These are more than enough, though.
Poet Lucille Clifton, writing of the abuse she suffered in her childhood and people’s response to her speaking out, captured all of this so powerfully in her poem:
why some people be mad at me
sometimes they ask me to remember but they want me to remember their memories and i keep on remembering mine
Why are we silenced…and what does it do to us?
In the book Your Brain on Art: How the Arts Transform Us, it explains that two big inhibitors to recovery from trauma, especially shame-filled traumas like sexual assault or abuse, are the shame we feel in ourselves and the stigma put on us by society.
In shame, WE want to stay quiet because we don’t believe we have the right to speak, we haven’t been believed, or we have been beaten down by fear so that we don’t dare tell our truths.
In stigma, SOCIETY wants us to be quiet. We are viewed as a danger to the normal order of others, different, weak, or broken, and so we are set apart from them. It is probably that part of the human brain that thinks “different” or “unknown” is dangerous. We are dangerous to them, so we are driven to conform or to isolate.
No turning back
I have lived through decades of trauma, despair, suicidal questions, and finally, rebuilding, learning, and thriving. I did my work quietly because I believed that repairing was my business, I was so ashamed and loathed myself, and I didn’t want to burden anyone else with it. And, I feared criticism or rejection. If I stayed quiet, I was allowed in and possibly respected for my “strength.” But if I talked?
I realized that I’ve lived for seven decades in this manner. I hid the toxicity, the pain, and the inability to feel much. But now, the more I worked with my therapist and grew stronger, the more I felt this crushing pressure of “something” within me, waiting to be rescued…or maybe better: waiting to be brought back into my life…by me. That meant I needed to reclaim my power.
I was starting to feel and hear that part of me that I’d sealed off and forgotten about, years ago, in order to survive. Now, for better or worse, it was time to take my own counsel. Maybe I was strong enough now to approach that sealed chamber, and open it up…and release…whatever was there. Would it be out of control and destroy me? Was there more pain than I could withstand? Or would it finally be the portal to the rest of my healing and a wonderful new life?
Time and therapy may not heal all wounds, but denial heals none. I had to know. And I was tired of running. I am the sort of person who will endure something for a very long time, and it may take me even longer to realize I am doing it and ask myself why. I am not always the quickest learner. But once I do realize and ask, there is no turning back.
Note:
I am seeking financial support to complete my memoir, work with an editor, and return home for fact-checking. Your help would mean the world to me as I take this step toward healing and giving voice to my journey.
Please like, comment, and share this post to help spread the word. The link for my fundraiser is on GoFundMe. Thank you for your support.
Soul Mosaic 