A Survivor's Journey to Healing

TW/CW warning: description of trauma responses I've been taking some time away from writing here. Severally factors, of course. However, I'm feeling the need to express myself as of late.  Trauma symptoms/reactions/responses are weird. Usually I like surprises. But not this kind. One day, like yesterday, I'm on the mountain top. For once, I can see the intricate winding trails of my future. I can feel the progress I've made over these past few years boiling to a point which will only lead me to success and happiness. I can see that others see it too.  And then just like that. SURPRISE. The iron ball in the bit of my stomach, secured in a web of knots. Sweaty palms that make it impossible to do anything. Intrusive thoughts spinning and spinning and spinning as if their life depended on it. The twist in my tongue making it impossible for me to accurately speak or say what it is I'm feeling. The invisible elephant that seems to sit upon my chest, no qualms to the fact ...

TW/CW: touch (both consensual and non-consensual); sexual assualt; explicit sexual language.  "May’s Full Moon reminds you that your job is to give yourself the childhood you never had."  My horoscope for my Moon and Rising sign.  Give yourself the childhood you never had. I may have written about this in previous entries. My therapist told me this was I disclosed to her. To give to my 3-4 year old self what I needed in those moments.  This entry, I'm going to look at it in the context of physical touch.  There was a small window of my childhood that I recall enjoying touch. I'd look for my parents arms to climb up in. I'd snuggle up to my Grammie, placing my head on her lap as she scratched my back. I'd let my Sicilian great-grandmothet pinch my cheeks til they turned red, knowing it was her sign of saying 't'amu'.  All memories of touch I liked. Touch I embraced.Touch I welcomed and adored.  Then one day, I didn't like it any more. I felt pri...

There's a piece of my story I'm not ready to tell.  I know for sure this piece happend, for it's what I remember out of everything. It's the piece that haunts me the most. The piece my brain decided I should have on a loop for all of my adolescents, all of puberty, all through early adulthood, all through age 29.  It's this piece that I've told no one, except my therapist. I can't tell my friends. Not even the closest of them all. That never judge, never doubt, never question. I can't say and it is eating me alive. It has been slowly eating away at my soul for 20 plus years.  I think it's the piece that is holding me back from claiming this as my story. The piece that refuses to see this as my truth. I want to say it. I want to scream it. Because for my healing, speaking it gives me the power, the control, the life, the voice, the spirit back. But I can't. I can't because I can't share this piece.  That and because we don't talk about...

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I've been thinking a lot about origins lately.  Especially when it comes to my family. Not a lot is known about my maternal side. However, my paternal side is very traceable. In fact, there are still distant members of that side nesting in the town where that line began. A small port and fishing town on the Mediterranean. Not even on the map for some.  I've been feeling the pull. The call. The urge. To be there. To visit the land where my family started. To see the faces of those whose blood I carry. To walk along the streets that my great, great grandfather walked before his feet came here.  Origins. Beginnings. I can't stop thinking of the start.  Especially names. For I don't believe you exist until you are given a name. My name was thought of during a moment of solace, relief, restoration. My name became because I made it when there was fear that I wouldn't.  I made it. Even thought there was fear that I wouldn't.  From the very beginning, I survived. L...

It feels weird.  Calling myself a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.  I think it's because for 20+ years of my life, I had no idea. I used to navigate this world thinking I was so incredibly blessed to not have experienced major heartache (until my adult sexual assault). I had become so attune to the injustices of the world. All the violence. All the hatred. All the oppression. I couldn't imagine living a life that was filled with shame, sadness, turmoil.  Yet here I was, living in denial. My brain had done a superb job hiding the truth. I lived 20+ years thinking life was great. Until I was confronted with the truth. Until memories finally caught up with themselves.  I acknowledge that something happened. That I was sexually abused as a very young child.  But damn, does it feel fucking out of this world.  I can't explain it, but I'll try.  It feels as if everything you have been taught is a complete lie. It feels like you are an alien on their first ...

"Destiny is finite that’s why you both love and hate the idea of it. The thing you most want is water and time. Be careful but also careless. Whatever you do, remember you are deeply loved and always will be." My horoscope for the week.  Water and time.  Water: My home, my peace, my rest. Time: To grieve, to accept, to heal.  Careful and careless.  Careful: With my heart, with my soul, with my thoughts. Careless: With my radical love for others, with my love for laughter, with letting my curls down, free of restrain.  Deeply loved and always will be.  Deeply loved: By the strong old of the roots of family, by the Creator themself, by friendships that sustain. Always will be: Even after the mistakes, even after the caused hurt, even after the scars. 

I am tired.  Very, very tired.  Of carrying the weight of survivorship upon my shoulders. Of spinning the wheels in my mind, trying to come up with the most justifiable reason as to why I'm so goddamm neurotic all the time.  The weight of it all sits upon my chest like an invisible elephant. Snapping my ribs, bursting my lungs, collapsing my wind pipe.  The shame. The guilt. The confusion. The blurred lines. The hazy images hoping to eventually become clear memories. The paranoia. The internalizing of every little thing. The sensitivity. The overemotional. The high self expectations. The disassociation. The avoidance. The irritability. The numbing depression. The paralyzing anxiety. The self doubt. The judgment. The disbelief.  It's a heavy load to carry. The knots in my stomach, lumps in my throat, strings in my chest pulled. They've all become a sturdy foundation to hold it all.  I'm going to be okay. I know these things won't destroy me. I won't let them...

I've always assumed I was trauma symptom free.  Other than the avoidance, denial, and occasional self-destructive and harming behaviors.  But nothing that would make the neon lights buzz "THIS IS TRAUMA" so loud the break.  Until last night.  I experienced my very first CSA-related full blown, hyperventilating panic attack.  I felt unsafe and uncomfortable in my skin.  The apples of my cheeks wouldn't stop burning.  Palms coated in sweat.  These are the moments that remind me it is real. All the self-doubt, self-blame, and guilt are thrown out the window.  Thanking the universe for two radiant friends of mine  who heard me, saw me, loved me, supported me, and cradled me back to safety and strength.

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 wi...

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 wh...

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 wan...

I wonder if people look at me differently after I disclose to them what I have experienced.  Let me rephrase that.  I fear that people will look at my different after I disclose to them what I have experienced.  I told one of my very best friends. In fact, I told him before I told a single member of my family. And he started pulling back until he stopped responding. I fear it has made me not want to let that one person in, and I mean truly in. To know me as close as any person can know someone.  I want that person who will sit with me and stay as I utter each and every word ofy truth and still see me as me after I finish. Who still sees the amazing woman I have become. Who will still see the strength, wisdom, and beauty I can add to this world.  I want that person who will sit with me through it all and not see me as fragile, weak, and damaged.  I want that person who knows and acknowledges that I am not what has happened to me, but so much fucking more....

I was told that today's energy holds a direct path to knowing myself more intimately.  Now, I know that sounds like some boujee basic white woman from the Upper East Side bullshit (cause it kind of is), but hear me out. I just thought of a poem 'power in the pussy" while in the shower.  How more basic white woman can ya get?  But seriously, I do need to know myself more intimately. I'm getting there. I'm slowly connecting with my former self. But my therapist wants me to go deeper. She wants me to give my 3-4 year old self what she wishes she had had. Protection. Safety. Love. Mercy. Grace. I'm not sure if I can do that yet.  When I experienced what I experienced, a part of me floated away. Ever since, I've tried to fill that missing part with booze, sex, unrequited love, cuts on my thighs, nicotine and a little bit of that sweet Mary Jane.  Yet I still haven't found it. I'm getting close. I'm starting to see that that part of me really didn...

I don't have memories but images.  When I try to stay in a memory for more than a few moments, it seems to disappear.  Instead, I'm left with flashes.  Perhaps that's why I always had an appreciation for photographs. An image, a flash . . frozen.  Time literally forced to stop.  I wish I could remember better. Funny, the things our own bodies will do to protect us.  It's the not remembering that makes healing more difficult. How can you heal from something that you can't fully remember?  I got so good at not remembering that I even started to forget the good things as well.  Images. What do you do with almost 30 years of blurry, fast-paced, constantly moving, flashing images?  I can't remember.  Except for an orange chair.  A fucking orange chair.  One of those kiddie sized plastic orange chairs.  With the metal legs and the triangle cut out on the back. I remember it being upside down, metal legs up.  Funny, the thin...

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...

"Both grounded and all over the place." I read that in my horoscope.  What a silly thing to say.  I am both grounded and all over the place.  I feel the dirt beneath bare soles while I simultaneously feel the spinning chaos and confusion of flight.  Everything makes sense but nothing makes sense.  I am both grounded and all over the place.  The feeling dropped within the pit of my stomach as I sat with the weight of my words. In the moment, I became my most authentic self while morphing into a person I had never known.  Grounded and all over the place.  I'm okay and not okay.  I live. I smile. I love fiercely. I tend. I nurture. I grow.  I also coward. I hide. I shake. I bury. I cry. I shrink.  Step 1: Speak.  Say the words. Utter the syllables. Annunciate each letter.  Breathe in the courage. Exhale the truth.  Check.  Grounded and all over the place.  And that's okay, for I'm grounded in my truth.  A....

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 c...

Memories are fickle. The older we get, the better our knowledge of the world becomes, the more substantial our cognition becomes. The older we get, the bleaker our perspective is, the more skeptical our intelligence is. Honestly, it sucks when you can't remember. You're aware of a truth, but you can't quite pinpoint how you arrived at said truth. You can't remember. Remember. Rememorari.  Re- + Memor. Call to mind. Mindful. I am afraid that I cannot remember. I am ashamed I cannot call to mind. Yet. I know. Know. G ecnāwan . C nāwan . Recognize. Identify. I firmly recognize. I assuredly identify. That something happened to me between the years 1993-1996, when I was just 3-6 years old. I have spent the past 23-26 years of my life repressing the events that occurred. It is through telling my story that I seek answers, to arrive at some sort of truth or the closet to it. It is through telling my story that I seek justice for the 3-6 year old me, a protector ...