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.

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.

Cultivating the Garden of Compassion

I've been fighting the urge to shut down, resist, run away from what comes next in my healing process for a very long time.   The door to what comes next looms in front of me and I feel clearly my body and mind and heart as terror washes over me and every muscle, every fiber of my being shouts: NO!    I've been working hard trying to figure out how to stop fighting, stop resisting, to let what comes, come.   And yet, still I found myself running the opposite direction.

All along I've known, the only way out is through, but knowing that and being able to go through are two separate things.   The internal terror from years of brain washing are fierce - flashing red lights, an ear-wrenching alarm sounding and screams of STOP, GO BACK, RUN, DEATH AHEAD are overwhelming.

Memories are knocking at the door, kinesthetic body memories sneaking through the cracks, sliding under it, making my body spasm and cramp and hurt.  And still, I've been resisting.

Perhaps I've been looking at the whole thing in the wrong way.   Could it be it's as simple as being more compassionate, more tender....having a little mercy for myself and whatever comes next?    Maybe I don't have to face it all with a fierce "Come and get me!" attitude, but rather a softening, a gentleness and understanding for it all.

I'm going to cultivate compassion, for myself, for this healing journey, for the memories to come, for the child I was and for the woman I will be.   It's strange that I have limitless compassion for all beings on this planet, except....myself.   I'm going to tend my inner garden, sowing seeds of compassion, tenderness, love....selfishly this time, all for me, who I am, who I was and who I will be.

In the end it seems, it's not about fighting or resisting or even silent acceptance.... it's about becoming as tender hearted toward myself as I am toward others.   It's about softness and opening up, trusting that as my petals open the sun will be there to help me grow, that the world won't end because I see my history or tell my story.   Those fears are old, like old VHS tapes, and it's time to record over them with a different story.  A story of survival, yes, but also a story of learning to thrive, grow, reach, be free and find joy.

Yes, there is still fear here, but also, tentatively....hope.   The truth is those that hurt me are dead, and those that aren't, well, they can't touch me now.   These memories, that damn door to what comes next, these body memories are asking me to simply be present to what WAS, not what is, or what will be.  I will honor them, and the strength of who I was to have survived it all.

Today I will begin gardening, kneel in the rich soil of my heart and begin turning the soil, making it ready for these seeds of compassion, tenderness, understanding, acceptance and love for myself.

Sometimes the answer we search for with such determination, is closer than our breath, if we only stop, listen, feel and be present, no matter how hard it seems.

There is a softness today,  in my body, mind, heart...and this is new and magical.  So, today I will whisper softly: "Come, come out, it's okay, I'm here and able and willing to listen and hear and see, we are safe now, but I will be your witness and we will be fine, more than fine, we will be whole." 

Thank you for your work, your compassion...for yourself and others... and for the light you shine on this healing path for me... I am grateful

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!