A Survivor's Journey to Healing

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.