Miracle

It's a miracle we're alive.   I survived.   Despite living through, witnessing, being part of things that are beyond anything any human mind should have to hold, any heart should have to bear... somehow.. we survived.

It's truly remarkable that I'm here, just in this space, typing these words.   I was not meant to become an adult, I wasn't born to be.. a human.. I was reminded constantly I was born to be nothing more than useable, a sex toy, distraction, tool... but never... a person.    Yet, here I sit, typing, writing down the unspeakable, the things meant to be secret forever... living a life... learning who I am beyond all I was taught... beyond everything that was "planned" for me...

I am.    I did whatever I had to do.. in each moment to survive, and I did survive, and it amazes me very single day, that I'm still here, still breathing, still striving, still loving... despite, well - everything.    I'm not dead, I'm not locked up somewhere, I'm not an abusive person, I chose differently, I broke an abusive cycle that went back generations.. It stopped with me, it's done.. the reality changed..  a new pattern, shiny and bright in it's place.

Each moment I'm here, I win.  

Each breath I take, I win.

Each time I choose love, not hate or harm, I win.

Every time I step more fully into the light, I win.

I win, and the abusers, they are dead and gone and they lose more every damn moment.

I hold this close, tenderly cradle the knowledge that I'm still here, that I won, in my darkest moments.   Just here, just now, when I'm fighting such a brutal, gut wrenching battle, when I'm working so, so hard to not resist the memories, even though my worst fear is so close I feel like I'm going to scream, I remember that I won, I tug that little treasure out of my pocket and smile softly, tucking  it away before picking up my weapons, and going back into battle.   It's the balm that soothes my wounds, the water that slakes my thirst, the light when I'm not able to see for the darkness.. and it makes everything okay, it makes it all worth it, those two little words...

I won.

A letter to my child self....

Little one:

I wish I were there to hold your hand, for you to look into my eyes and know everything will be okay....you are so very brave, even when you feel there is no hope... you go on, you survive.   I want you to know you did nothing wrong,  not ever... you did just what you had to do to go on, to survive.

I want you to know good things are coming.   That the world waits for you, that beyond this horror show of childhood you've had to endure is a beautiful life, just waiting for you to reach it.

Please hear me: you did nothing wrong.   You came into this world a being of light and love, and no amount of darkness and torture could possibly touch that.    They tried, over and over to break you, to break us.... and you never gave up and you never gave in, you will grow up to be a woman still filled with light and love.  They will not win, they didn't win.

When things got dark and seemed impossible you became a tiny warrior, you did everything and anything you could to not lose your love, to not hurt anyone, to keep going.. despite the insanity and cruelty around you.

I need you to know that it's not your fault, that nothing they did was your fault, that you did only what you had to survive.   I know you hold enormous guilt for the things you were forced to do, but you are only a child, too little to fight them... and if you had fought them, you wouldn't have survived... we wouldn't be grown now, we wouldn't be having a life, we wouldn't be having the sweet moments of joy we get glimpses of now.

Sweet girl, I know you think you should have died, that you don't deserve to live, that the others - the ones that didn't survive should be here and not you....but the Universe makes no mistakes, you do deserve to live.. you deserve all good things, and when you grow up you will do your best to help others in every moment, you will love all beings, you will be proof that love and light cannot be killed, that no matter where you come from you can be a light in the world.

I am so grateful to you, for every moment you lived, for every memory you held onto until we were strong enough to work through them....for the years you were strong and steadfast and a warrior and no matter what they did to you, with you..... you did not let them snuff you out, snuff us out, because here we are, and they are dead and gone.   Thank you, for showing me what being a warrior is, what being a survivor is, for giving us the chance to have this beautiful life... I promise we will cherish every sweet moment, that we will finish this sorting of memories, and then we will play.. we will dance and sing, we will run on the beach with the wind in our hair, we will laugh too loud and dance in the rain.... we will play and do all the things we longed for when we were little.

Come, take my hand sweet girl, know your job is done,  you can  rest now, and just be happy to be alive, I will do the hard work now, I will finish the warrior work, and soon we will be free of it all, we will be joyful and savor every moment of this sweet life.

Come little one, take my hand, let me hold you, let me rock you and make you feel safe, the work is mine now, rest, and know I love you.

Where I'm From...

Where I'm from is dark and death stained.   The memory's scent is copper pennies and sulphur, burned out candles and sweat.   I was born to be nothing, to stay nothing and go back to nothing.    And yet, here I am, still living and learning to thrive rather than simply survive.    I used to wonder if what was born from darkness into darkness could ever be anything but that same black void but now I know the answer.  I know the answer because I am standing in my own light and I shed light on those around me and out into the world.

I know the answer because I am that light, that light that I dove into.... deep inside myself when things were not safe.   The deep well of love that I found at my center, the hours I spent there in hiding from the dark world into which I was born, those hours saved me.  I learned to not be the dark thing I was being groomed to be, I learned that just there, in that safe inner space where love and light lived no one and nothing could touch me, not really.

Where I'm from is rage filled and pain drenched, it was beyond comprehension, though I've spent many hours trying to understand... I know now it is beyond understanding.  I know now that what matters is where I am now and where I'm going.  I understand now that the people who rained such darkness over me are dead and gone and I'm still breathing,  still here and able to see light now, able to see and feel and express love.   I know now it doesn't really matter where I'm from, what matters is where I'm going and what I do with my life in the Now.

Today I know that I have not only survived, but that I have moved through that blackness and transcended it, I am beyond the reach of those that brought me into this world and those that wished to take me from the world.    I take each new breath with a sense of ease, with the knowledge that I can make it through anything, that I'm stronger than any mountain and braver than any warrior.   

It's a new day and a new life and I am grateful to be alive, grateful to be healing, even grateful to the memories as they arise and I accept them, hold them with tenderness and honor them.  I am grateful, to be in the light now and to know that the light is where I'm from now.

It's All A Balancing Act...

This healing process is like a rollercoaster, sweeping up, higher and higher and higher until I feel like I can fly and then plunging down, so fast it feels like I'm going to be sick and wondering all the while why I got on the ride in the first place. Except I don't. Well, maybe, sometimes I do.

I've been doing a lot of self care, battling my own inner critics and the old tapes from the abusers saying: "you don't take care of you, you take care of others" or "you can shower all you want and you still won't be clean" or "no matter what you do, you don't deserve to love, no one will ever love you, you are simply a toy to be used." But, there's a difference now, a small voice that speaks up, whispering that none of those words matter, that those words don't belong to me, they belong to long dead abusers and I won't honor them anymore. A voice that whispers that it doesn't matter if I don't deserve love, because I'm learning to love myself. A whisper that my only real job right now IS to take care of me.

I'm so full of gratitude for those tiny voices from deep inside that are speaking up and helping to combat the ancient tapes of the past, of the abusers. I'm grateful for the circle of support I have in family, friends, my therapist, my support group. I've reclaimed my meditation practice, changed the way I eat (mostly), reclaimed my bathroom and kitchen and I'm slowly making my living space someplace to feel at peace.

But there are still days like today, where night terrors plague me all night long, and there is a depression that threatens to drown me, and exhaustion seems so thick that I cannot breathe. I'm learning to stay present even to this space that holds sadness and depression. I'm learning to not question why or how, but simply to be aware of it, hold it almost as tenderly as I do the moments full of joy. This week I ate things I shouldn't have, and I'm feeling guilty and knowing I will feel worse because of it. But even with that, I am trying to simply be aware of it, not judge it, not beat myself up over it, but simply to recognize it and let it go.

I am still learning the balancing act between black and white. Between doing nothing and over doing so much that I am beyond exhausted. Learning and teaching myself that it's not only okay for me to set time aside for art and writing, but it's imperative, it's what I'm on this planet to do and that it's just as important, more important than doing the laundry or washing the floor. Writing still feels selfish, like I'm doing something frivolous, that any moment I will be caught, that I'm doing something wrong. Old tapes, again, rising up to poison the present moment.... so, taking baby steps to remind myself to be aware of those old ideas, those old brain washed thoughts, and to soften into allowing myself the room to express myself in paint and collage and words.

I am 44 going on 19, learning what works for me and what doesn't, what I truly want and need versus what I was taught. Learning how to be a friend, or a sister, or simply me. I'm enough, and I deserve to do what makes my heart happy, I deserve to take good care of myself, I deserve to follow my heart's desire and write. I deserve to play and laugh and feel joy with no guilt.

So, today I am being kind to myself, simply being aware of the sadness and the fact that I ate wrong, and trying very hard not to judge myself. Learning to give myself the same compassion I would give to everyone else. Compassion, that's my lesson for today.

Be kind to yourself, show yourself the same compassion you show anyone else, thank you for your work, your healing, your words and your presence to my own words... May this day be a blessed and beautiful one for you. <3

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..... 

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.

On Fear and Trust and Tears

Rage is an odd thing.  A foreign thing, at least my own.  I'm too familiar with outside rage, abusers rage, rage that most people have, but rarely recognize as such.   All anger makes me panic, even my own.   Stretching into who I am, when I strip away all that I was told I was, taught I was, brainwashed to believe I was....is a bit like trying on clothing that is two sizes too big.  There's all this room for me to move and space for me to discover and grow.  There is wonder at the magic of some things about me and fear at some parts I find as well.

I feel a bit as I did on the beginning of this healing journey.  Terrified and yet in awe of all that I see, all that I can be and all that I am leaving behind.   No, I'm not the "Perfect" girl that the abusers labeled me, and that I knew always was a lie.   But I'm also not the "dirty" girl or the "slut" or any other label they chose to beat me down with.   So what does that leave, or more importantly WHO does that leave?

Yesterday, in my Women's Mindfulness Group, I came undone.   Surrounded by these intelligent, caring, beautiful, inspiring and strong women, I opened my mouth and heart and told them my deepest fear.  I bared my soul, crying and terrified, telling them how stuck I feel just now, that I am busy rejecting and running away from what comes next on this healing path... and that it feels like no matter what I do I can't seem to STOP rejecting and fighting it, even though I know the only way out.. is through.  I told them my deepest fear, of that god forsaken door and what may lay behind it. 

The abusers were good at what they did.  All of them.   They worked very hard to create an abuser.. in me, of me.   Brainwashing, hours of fear and terror, darkness and pain, threats and torture.... all to make sure I would become one of them.  That I would be complicit in their abuse and torture.

What if they succeeded?   I know, already, that I was forced to do things, that haunt me every day of my life, every hour.   Things I will never forget and have yet to forgive myself for... despite the fact I was forced to do them, both physically and in every other way.   What if there is more behind that damn door?   What if I accept what's behind the door, open it and find, that I am just like the abusers?  That I have conned myself and everyone else.

As I cried my way through telling my Group, one member tip-toed over and sat behind me, rocking with me and holding me, and as I looked to each of these remarkable women - all that I saw, ALL I saw, was love, acceptance and support....and reflected back to me, Who they saw.  They do not see an evil person, a dark person, an abusive person at all when they look at me... What they see is a woman who is a survivor and who is strong and is fighting to heal and who radiates light and love.  That is who I strive to be, who I hope I am... and I am forever changed by seeing that reflected in their eyes.

Today I gave myself permission to have a slow morning, and then I reclaimed my Yoga and Mediation practice.   For the first time in ten years, I truly reclaimed my spiritual practice, what feels most like home to me.   I cannot express what this means to me, or how hard I've fought to get it back.   I continued the day taking care of myself, seeking balance and trying to trust that I am NOT who the abusers tried so hard to create.  Trusting that in this too I win, and they, well they have lost, forever.

I am still tired and soul weary.   I am still scared and trying to sort out my way to acceptance of what comes next on this journey.  But I am hopeful.  I am blessed to have the support I do, in my sister, in my sisters of my Women's group, in my therapist - who has held my hand on this healing journey for almost 9 years now, in good friends.  I am blessed.

And too, I am blessed by all of you who are survivors, or friends of survivors or loved ones of survivors.  Thank you for reading.   Thank you for walking your path.  Thank you for inspiring me in moments I feel I can't go on.  Thank you.

May this be a blessed and beautiful day for you~

This Body....

Question
BY MAY SWENSON
Body my house
my horse my hound  
what will I do
when you are fallen

Where will I sleep  
How will I ride  
What will I hunt

Where can I go
without my mount  
all eager and quick  
How will I know  
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure  
when Body my good  
bright dog is dead

How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door  
and wind for an eye

With cloud for shift  
how will I hide?

My body. This body, just here, just now, that I mistreat in so many ways.  Not that I mean to mistreat it, at least not consciously.. but I do nonetheless.   I'm not sure the "whys" of it.   Though there are many that are fairly clear.   Fear of the bathroom, shower, bathtub.. Fear of the Kitchen, the Bedroom.. fear of fear of fear.    So I will make mad dashes into the kitchen to grab something, anything to eat.. anything that won't take time and effort, anything that won't keep me in the kitchen for more than five minutes before I dash back out to safety.

There was a time before PTSD that I showered twice a day, every day, without fail.  I was beyond compulsive about it.  Now though, when I step into the bathroom, or really before I do actually step inside, I pause just at the doorway my toes just at the edge of the carpet as though I were about to jump off some unimaginably high cliff into shark infested waters.   I hesitate, do I really need to shower today?   Do I really need to brush my teeth? Comb my hair? Use the toilet?   When I stare into my apartments plain little bathroom, that has seen no horror show, no abuse, nothing that should instill this utter terror... superimposed are scenes from my history, different bathrooms, different showers, different colored tiles and linoleum.. shimmering as though it were an oily imprint hovering over the present.  I hear shouted words, gasping breaths and muffled tears, I feel the bodies memories of broken ribs, cuts and skin scrubbed raw, is it any wonder I feel the urge to run away from that space?  Isn't it more amazing that I ever actually do step inside?

I am 43 years old.  I was never meant to be here, alive and at this age.  That was never "Their" intention.   Some days I feel like an imposter or like I've somehow conned my way to this age and at any moment it will be taken away from me, this life... before I ever get to truly live.  Some days, I feel as though I have no right to be here, well, most days right now.   But there are moments, moments where I know I'm meant to be here, that I have something important to give.. to offer.  That there must be some reason I lived through all I have, have fought as hard as I have and that I'm still here, breathing, being.

This body of mine has been through SO much, so much, I wish I could be more kind to it.  I wish I could love it, accept it, be grateful and take better care of it.   I do try, and I have gotten better at it.   Some days it's a vocal thing, stepping off that carpet in the doorway and onto the bathroom linoleum, all the while, saying aloud "this is MY bathroom.  This is my Sink, This is my Shower, This is my bathtub, and YOU, you are dead and gone and you don't get to have this space."  The days that the ghosts of dead abusers lurk around every corner, it helps, sometimes I repeat it over and over, sometimes shouting it, and I wonder what my neighbors must think.   But, it works, so let the neighbors think I'm crazy.

I want peace... I yearn for a time when this healing process is not so in my face every moment of every damn day.   So the question becomes.. how to care for this  body and keep it well enough to enjoy when I do get there, when I am able to truly be free from this constant battle.   How to learn to care about this body, care for this body, give it some love and attention.. rather than hating it and mistreating it.   How to feel the body memories and not take them out on the body.  How to feel the aches and pains, spasms and cramps.. and not blame this poor body as it tells it's story.   It's a puzzle, that I'm still sorting into little piles, trying to put it together in both my heart and mind, and yes.. body.

May this day be a blessed one for you....

Fear

There is something about showing up to this page, to any page, that sends fear ricocheting through my body, head to toe, hands shaking, heart racing, that old too-familiar panic showing it's face.  Then I am forced to take a step back, and I wonder to myself, "Why?"   Why panic, fear, anxiety at this writing, the thing I love most in the world to do, why.. now that I know... that I dare to dream of writing as something I'm Supposed to do, rather than some stolen, hidden secret that I dare not imagine?

The "Why" is in the act itself.   The "why" is in daring to break the radio silence that is so ingrained, so trained into me, it feels closer than my own breath.  Don't tell.  Don't talk. Don't write. Don't even think about it.   Those dire warnings still carry the chemical, body remembered follow up of: ... Or Die.   I wonder is the anxiety and terror in part the bodies reaction to that dire warning, that follow up fact of death?  "Oh yes! If I talk/write/tell/whisper.. death."  says the body as my pen hits the paper or my fingers hit the keys.

And I'm full circle almost, and I feel as though I'm getting repetitive. Reclamation!   Even here, chest tight, breath fast, sweat beading on my brow, hands shaking as the letters appear on my screen... This space, this moment, these words... all MINE.   I claim them again and again every time a letter appears on this screen on this stark white terrifying background, each letter, each word, each phrase is a victory and is my own. Mine.

There is more work to be done today, more writing, probably the dark, scary writing that feels too oily black, thick and dark and tainted to ever see the light of day.   And I am scared.  Terrified. The urge to run, to NOT write it, to not put it on the page is strong and fierce like an undertow of the ocean, grasping at me, threatening to take me under.

That too, that terror, I claim as my own, the urge to run but the decision to NOT run, to let the fear be present but write the words anyway, I claim. Mine.  I wonder if the fear, the terror will ever fade completely one day?   I wonder too, will letting those dark, scary, fear-filled words hit the page, despite the terror, will that begin to shed light where no light has reached before?   Will surrendering to the process, accepting it all, fear, shame, anxiety and words written despite it all.. transform the words into something entirely different than I could have ever imagined?  Perhaps so, perhaps not... but either way, they will be MY words, written by me, claimed by me, owned by me.  Mine.

May your day be filled with love and light.

Reclamation

RECLAMATION
  Use Reclamation in a sentence

rec·la·ma·tion

[rek-luh-mey-shuhn] Show IPA noun

1. the reclaiming  of desert, marshy, or submerged areas

2. the act or process of reclaiming.

3. the state of being reclaimed. 

I'm not sure why this word has captured my attention so strongly just now. Reclamation.   Perhaps it's because I DO feel as if I'm reclaiming my life, my heart, my soul, my body, my mind.... and even things like my apartment, my kitchen, my bathroom.   I notice all the "My's" in the sentence above and the inner urge is to erase them. But, I won't.  Mine.  Each day as I wake up, there is this moment before the world starts, before the pup needs to be taken out, the cats cry to be fed, the phone rings .. where I lay in bed and think: "Today is Mine."

There is power in those words.

As a survivor we learn quickly that nothing, not even ourselves, can we claim.  We certainly can't claim a home, or safety, or our bodies, or our minds.... that's all ripped away, or violated or claimed by an abuser or, or, or.....   

To this day, 43 years old, I still cannot say: "My desire is...."   Just typing half that sentence causes anxiety for me, my old familiar panic rushing up, heart racing, the urge to run washing over me.  Run where?  I've never known, but the urge is there nonetheless.   So, there is much work still ahead for me, clearly.   This path of healing is long, hard, exhausting and often terrifying.  But today, just here, just now.  I don't have to conquer THAT particular piece.

For today.. This Moment right here, I reclaim my right to a wonderful life.  I reclaim my body, the whole of it, mine.  I reclaim my mind, and heart and soul.   I reclaim my kitchen, my bathroom, my living room... all mine.. no others.

This Moment... reclamation is my goal, and more than that, it is my present.  Even if it means repeating to myself inwardly or outwardly, whispered or shouted.... This is MINE.. mine alone.  Nobody and nothing can take that away.

May you have a blessed and beautiful day today, find something, anything to reclaim, and whisper.. or shout it from rooftops!