It
comes when I least expect it. And I am left wondering where it came from. What triggered it...
The feeling
that I cannot catch my breath...the feeling of being smothered. The
helplessness that comes with a memory I don’t want to remember. The brief bewilderment, the ache
and sadness that comes with it. I find myself inhaling deeply. Calming
with each free breath.
I wonder if the memory comes with
stress, or the feeling of not being able to catch my breath, or if it comes after. I just
know it arrives.
No longer the victim, I say to myself. No more, does he have the power to make me
feel afraid. And almost as quickly as it comes, the memory finally fades.
We cannot control every thought, or every memory; but we can control how we
react to it…
My
hope is that by writing these words, those of you who were abused at the hands
of those who were supposed to love and cherish you, will find comfort that you
are not alone in it. I know the darkness at times can seem overwhelming, and we get weary of fighting it, but there is
light. There is hope. Always hope. I believe this with all of my heart.
I
find that childhood memories usually come
in the stillness when I am holding one of my children, or one of my
grandchildren. Or as I watch my children from afar.
The thought
that comes is how? And Why? How
can anyone abuse an innocent child? A child like me? A child like mine?
It just seems so easy to love.
Among my experiences as a young girl, one particular moment is
emblazoned in my memory, like the branding of cattle. I was held under water in
a pool for so long, I thought for certain I would never surface again. I was
only seven years old, and I was afraid of the deep end of the pool at our
apartment complex.
“Let's jump
in together then,” he said. Reluctantly,
I held his hand, and leaped into the pool...only I did not get to surface.
His grip
tightened, and I was held under for an eternity. My lungs burned. I remember struggling, looking
up at his distorted face through the ripples of surface water…and the sound of the bubbles of my last exhaled breath
rumbling in my ears. And it seemed like such a long way up to the surface
where that breath awaited. An eternity, it was, for me.
When
I was finally allowed to come up for air, I got out of the pool gasping for air
and choking on tears of disbelief and hurt.
That was
the last time tried to leap fearlessly.
I
am not telling this story to elicit sympathy. I am telling it because it is
part of my story. It is a part of the
story of my life. Just one of the many many moments that changed me, and my feelings
of security and trust for most of my life.
We
who are left to struggle with the aftermath of sexual, physical, and emotional
abuse often times identify as victims. It becomes our brand. Our excuse. We try
to control our lives and our relationships in ways we sometimes don't even realize, because at an
early age, we were completely powerless. We were at the mercy of
other people and their control over us.
We worry about what people think. We become people pleasers. We demand love on our terms. We live our lives around
everything and everyone but ourselves. We feel unworthy. We have inner voices
that drag us through absolute hell. We put ourselves last…
And we feel
broken.
For
years, I lived inside of the brokenness. I lived inside of the feelings of
unfairness and anger and resentment and regret. I had no self-worth. I chose all of the wrong men
and tried to “fix” them to my liking. I felt absolutely unlovable for the first 37 years of
my life.
I feel like I am finally
beginning to surface. Even now, at 44 years old; even when I think I have fully
conquered it, it is still here.
I am
sometimes still giving my past abuse, and my abuser, the power to determine my
self worth. I still struggle. I'm not here to lie to you and tell you I'm leaping fearlessly and to tell you I'm all
healed up shiny new and I never make mistakes. I work on healing every. single. day.
What I am
here to tell you is that I know it is not easy.
I am here
to tell you that we can rise above it.
I am here
to tell you that you are not alone in your struggle.
I am here
to tell you that we are worthy of joy and happiness and love.
No matter how
old we are, we can always begin.
Give
yourself the chance to surface.
 |
| playing with seagulls, 2012 |
