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.