A Survivor's Journey to Healing

Potentially triggering entry.  I think i just remembered.  By 'I think' I mean.. You know that scene in Haunting of Hill House?  Where's she's on the couch in the basement of the little girl she is counseling?  Yeah. That.  I just had one of those moments.  Laying in bed. With my arms by the headboard.  I felt my body become small.  And uncomfortable.  I wraped my arms around myself.  And began to shake my head.  And cry.  I began to cry and feel invisible.  Invisible and uncomfortable.  My body tensed and I froze.  I think I remembered.  And I don't know what to make of it.  Because I no longer feel myself or in my own body. 

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

I'm starting to realize that I don't need to remember in order to move forward with healing.  All this time I've wanted to remember.  If only I could remember, I would move on.  I don't need to remember.  But I need to trust.  Trust myself.  Because I know.  I know that what was done to me was bad.  What happened to me was not my fault.  I don't need to remember.  Perhaps if I did remember, I would end up killing myself. Ending it all because I simply could not deal.  Maybe I can't remember because I'm trying to save myself.  Today I was asked to choose between life and death.  It wasn't a treat. I didn't have a gun held to my head.  Instead, I was asked from the words of my father himself as he stood in the pulpit, delivery his weekly message.  D30.15-20.  Life and prosperity.  Death and destruction.  Life and death.  Blessings and cursings.  Today, I want to choose life.  I hate what has been done to me. But I love that I am alive despite of it.  I

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