003.

I'm stuck on the question of why. 

I was born into the Protestant church.
The dreams of lazy Sundays were just that, dreams. 
Church was second to family (although it seemed to compete, if not win, with family). 

You learn quick to not to question when you're a pastor's kid. It wasn't my parents who taught me that but the church itself. It is what it is. Fate. Destiny. God's will. 

So when I ask myself, God, the universe, why . . 
I latch. I perseverate. I drown. 

Why? 
What did I do wrong as a human to deserve this? 

Up until this time in my life, the question was "what". 
I couldn't place a finger on the feelings of shame, guilty, embarrassment and denial that seemed to stir once in a blue Moon if my I allowed my mind to wander. They occurred sporadically, but flared when I or my family talked nostalgically about our life in a certain state. The tightness would form in my chest. The strings of my stomach would knot themselves. 

Yet I couldn't remember. Anything. 

Until I sat across from my therapist, frozen as she asked me if I've ever experienced any trauma in my life. I had just finished explaining some irrational anxieties and fears. I don't think I blinked before I felt my spirit just sink after her question. I didn't think of my sexual assault in community college, which was certainly a traumatic event. Instead, I went to the question of "what". Suddenly, the answer was there. For over 20 years, I had felt that tightness, those knots and didn't know the source. But it all made sense now. 

I think . . no, I know but can't fully remember . . that something happened to me when I was little. 

The what. 

But now I can't get past the question of "why". Maybe I thought if I knew the what, I'd be able to figure out the why. And I know what you are thinking. 
Shouldn't it be "who" instead of "why"? We'll get to that later. Maybe. 

Why? Am I making it up? Did I misinterpret? Did I do something wrong? Is it my fault? Why? 

I'm stuck on the question why.
Which sucks, because I know I'll never know why. 

A.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

009.

There are times that I just want to be me.  And not what happened to me.  I want to be me without the big Ts and little ts of trauma. I want to be the me that you think you know before I tell you what I've been through.  But I can't. Because what happened to me is not all of me but has become a part of me. It's formed my sense of self, my world view, my fears, my insecurities, my behaviors, even my passion.  It came up again. Today, actually.  Me feeling as if someone I hold dear to my heart could potentially see me differently because they know what has happened. And that frightens me. Because as much as it has formed parts of me, it does not and will never become the totality of me.  I want an island that has mystical powers. Powers that allow me to remain the person that I am yet remove this thing that has happened. For I'm certain, had I not been touched as a child, I probably wouldn't have been forced as an adult. And I just want that gone.  I want to exist in
Read more

005.

Part of depression (or mine, I should say)  is that you don't take care of yourself.  I've seen myself as lacking lately.  Lacking in good decisions. Lacking in self-esteem. Lacking in efforts towards healthy decisions and behaviors.  Tonight, I took a shower.  Not out of necessity but out of want.  I usually take showers in the morning.  As I lathered up the shower poof with my favorite coconut body wash, I wondered what it would be like to wash myself of this. Instead of the dust, dirt, and oils of the day, what if I were washing off the acts done upon me?  I wish that I could rid myself of this.  Scrub every speck of the event off my skin.  Erasre every intuition that this truly occurred.  As I got out of the shower, I put an extra bit of moisturizer on my face, massaging instead of rubbing.  I coiled the cotton fabric around my coconut coated curls. Dipped my fingers into my favorite Palo Santo body lotion, and realized...I deserve to treat myself like a queen.  I don't
Read more

To: F.L.

You took from me something so rich, so divine.  Innocence. Naivety. Unadulterated bliss.  Safety. Assurance. Trust.  I plunge, wondering if this will be it. If this will be the moment I feel something worse that what you made me feel.  If this will be the moment I awake from the perpetual nightmare, running on a vicious loop.  The moment I'll be free of when remembering was just too much.  Forget? Living an eternal purgatory. Never able to shake the nausea your name evokes. How could I forget? I want to know what it feels like to not want to shed my skin for a thousand years before I feel rid of you. I want to know what it feels like to own every step that I take. I want to know what it feels like to shake the ground with a confidence this world has yet to embrace.  Instead, I yield. I curl my body so tight that I'm but a ball. A ball of insecurities. A ball of lose skin, measured by the amount of rolls that appear when I sit. A ball of veins filled with tequila laced blood, on
Read more