Monday, February 18, 2013

The Taste Of Fredom


“Love opens the doors into everything, as far as I can see, including and perhaps most of all, the door into one's own secret, and often terrible and frightening, real self.” 
― May Sarton, Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaids Singing


Doors.   Lots and lots of doors, one after another, running, tripping unsure if I'm running toward the next door or away from it.  A crazy mixed up maze of door after door, all of them the same, that particular color of rust...the door knob looks menacing and I expect the thing to come to life and grab my hand, dragging me in, snapping it's teeth, drool dripping from its gaping jaw.  

But it's just a door.  A door from my past, not here and now, but from the way back time when I was little and lost and unable to protect myself.   I'm not that tiny girl anymore, I have her by the hand, Me.... the grown up version, the kick ass version, me NOW.. who would never let ANY child be hurt, not even herself.   And so, I grab the door knob and look once more into little, tiny me's eyes, and reach out, grabbing that damn door handle, which after all, IS just a door knob and yank open the door, smiling because even me, the NOW me, thought perhaps behind that door was death, but.....it's just an open door, a surrender, an acceptance of what was, and not what IS.

Opening  that door and walking through, knowing that nothing and no one can touch us now....is freedom.  It's the way through, and my path and my goal all at once.   Every single time I open that damn door and walk through I win, we win.... and they, the abusers lose, again.

I am not afraid anymore.  Right here, right now, I am free of fear and able to look through that door, step through it and let what comes, come.   The other side of that doorway is simply what has been  and not, what IS.   What IS:  I am 44, a writer, a Survivor and learning to be a woman who thrives, not just exists, not just goes on, not just fights for this moment and the next, but who revels in it, in this life.

Truth is, every moment is a gift, every moment that I am still here and doing the healing work is a victory and I am learning to feel the joy that is present in every moment, unhindered or bound by fear.   The Truth is, I've already Survived, I've already lived the horrors and they can't touch me now.   I need only witness them, those fragments of the abuse that need to be seen and heard and felt and recognized, given  honor and gently held.  

This is a new space, uncharted territory.  This space where I hold and respect and honor the memories, where I give them the time and love and space to be, and to be done.  This space of light and joy and this sense of wonder at it all, this process, the Survival, the awareness that each new moment is a gift if I only recognize it... feels like freedom.. like running down a deserted beach, feet splashing through the waves, sun on my face and wind in my hair.   It feels like riding a bike down a hill, when it almost feels like flying.  Feels like peace, like possibility and laughter and love.

I understand and accept that tomorrow may feel different.   That this process is ever-changing, and tomorrow or the next day or the day after that may bring back fear, terror, but I also KNOW that this space, just here, will forever be part of the core of me now.  This certainty that I can do this, that I am on the right path, that I need only take the next step and trust in this process, it will not fail me, I will not fail me.. we have already won, and we win every single moment that we are alive.

Thank you for the work you are doing, for the steps you take on your healing path, thank you for being a Survivor and lighting the path ahead for me, take a few minutes today, try to honor and cherish yourself, you Survived, you won, be good to you..... 

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

I'm a Survivor




I'm afraid.   Afraid of what comes next.  Afraid of what lies behind that damn door.  The door that has been haunting me for years now, or maybe taunting me is a better word, or both at the same time.   Huge, rusted metal, looming bigger and bigger as though I am Alice and have taken a sip and now I'm tiny, insignificant in the face of this huge, big FEAR.   Red light seeping out from around the edges of the door the scent of smoke and something darker, dirtier, nastier that makes me want to cover my face and run as hard and as fast as I can in the opposite direction.

The thing is, I already know some of what's behind that damn door.  The thing is, I wish I didn't.  It would be so much easier to never know, to leave those nasty bits of memory where they are, lost, buried, forgotten.   Easier, nicer, safer, better.... but in truth, I know it would be none of those things.   Because in the disassociation of those memories, in the burial and forgetting of them, comes dis-ease.   Life without peace,  without safety, without joy and laughter.   And yet, there is the FEAR.

I'm softening, easing all my walls down bit by bit, doing it so softly and slowly that the movement isn't easily seen or recognized.  Hoping, I can get past the FEAR if it doesn't notice that I'm doing anything at all.

Blood, gore, fear, smoke, candles, hoods, darkness, flickering, a low thrum of mumbled chanting, terror, pain and the fear that if I ease those walls down too much, if I really look, listen and be the witness to what is behind that damn door, it will kill me, I will cease to exist at all, or be so uncomfortable in my own skin that I cannot go on.

I want white wash, I want an eraser that works on my past, making it clean and wholesome and good and .... a fantasy.   It's ironic that before my memories started leaking through, I felt guilty that I had the "perfect" childhood.   That irony tastes like blood and sour like vinegar and like ashes from a funeral pyre.   I want joy, I want freedom, I want big bravery that lets me say "BRING IT, bring your worst, I can take it, I can hear it all, remember it all right now, so I dare you.. Fucking.. Bring... IT."

But, I'm not in that space, in fact I don't know how to find my bravery just now, it seems to have gone on sabbatical leaving me empty and scared and bound.   Acceptance.  Right, okay, no problem. Except it is.   Except I don't know how to do it this acceptance thing, this softening thing, this allowing what comes next thing.  

For now, I'm accepting a new version of me who deserves to have a clean kitchen, to not be afraid of her own bathroom, who deserves a clean welcoming bedroom to sleep in at night, who deserves enough self care to get well and stay well.

And inside the old voices clamor and grow angry that I think I deserve anything at all.   Old VHS tapes of negative commentary on me, how I look, how I clean or don't, on what I deserve.. nothing.  Eject.   I yearn to tape over the fucking things with positive input, positive imagery, positive thoughts and feelings and desires.

I do deserve good things, whole things, light-filled things, joy, happiness and laughter... a clean house and good food and good people who support and care for me.   Maybe, just maybe, I don't need the BIG Brave, but just a little bit of brave.. just enough to crack that door and let a little bit through,  Maybe that's enough?  Just maybe I can take it in in small doses, small bites, and one small bite at a time, one after another will not only be enough but is the key to getting through this fire of healing.

Is that acceptance?   It's a kind of reclaiming, learning how to do things in small bits and letting that be enough.   Maybe, I can see, feel, hear, know that what's behind that damn door can't hurt me now, not really.   I am a Survivor, and I have lived it already.   I am a Survivor and I am strong and brave, a Warrior.   I am a Survivor and I can do this, I can reclaim every bit of memory and let it be fertilizer that makes me grow stronger, taller, thriving with life.   I am a Survivor and whatever IS behind that door, can't touch that.  I'm a Survivor and every single fucking moment that I'm alive and doing the work, I WIN, and they lose.  I'm a Survivor, yes, yes I am.