There are times I encounter situations which require me to go back to the past to provide a timeline to my trauma or to explain my childhood to a therapist, physician or other helping professional. It’s not possible to get the help we need without some sort of narrative of what our story is. It is a necessary process we must move through in order to get the help we need but also it’s the part that I’ve come to dread the most.
You see, I’ve not fully grasped the art of revisiting “there” without reliving it. This is a skill that many survivors have yet to master, some of us more than others depending on the degree and length of abuse, the amount of support we have in our lives and our overall stamina to give a damn. Sometimes we give up. Sometimes we summon another shred of strength to take the next hurdle. Sometimes we serendipitously find a source of support that takes our hand and walks with us.
Going back “there” is visiting a crime scene. It is darkness. It feels evil. It is fuzzy and laced with imminent danger that is more visceral than visual. It has the power to accelerate our nervous systems instantly like the flip of a switch. One minute we are fine, the next minute we are not. Each and every time, we must return to the scene of the crime, hoping for the best. The conflict of wanting to relate our story while revisiting it creates great anxiety because in the unearthing comes the intense jarring of being “there” again. Exhuming our stories challenge us intensely and take us to places that we vowed to escape. We must straddle two planes of existence, the “now” versus the “then” and be grounded enough in ourselves to know the difference.
As a child, I created many means of escape. My physical self found itself running away, hiding in the woods, or screeching like a wild animal until an auntie would find me, wrap me in her housedress and apron and clutch me until I settled down or until a man would backhand my little girl face so that I’d shut up. While not foolproof, this mostly worked to keep them away from me by being unavailable or perhaps too much trouble to target.
But it was the brilliant escape that I created in my psyche that saved me from the unspeakable moments. When my abusers realized that controlling me would require more violent means, my body ultimately became their property. I was a child. I had no means to physically fight off grown men. It was only in my mind that I could escape by floating away and into the recesses of a place earmarked for the worst of the worst.
It is unavoidable to have a life where we don’t acknowledge our wounded self on some level. We must sometimes relate it to others. These wounds comprise and define us as much as the light that shines within us. My challenge is to continue to understand and accept that place with love and compassion. While these moments, strung together created trauma and pain, they also created a space that runs deep and wild. It left us with crazy, wonderful intuition and a soul that can see the face of God. It provided us an opportunity to transcend the unspeakable with a brave and courageous heart.
So you’ll find me willing to visit there briefly or peek in for a bit…but I won’t stay “there”.
I don’t have to anymore.
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Thank you for this. This is something I experience, too. I am often surprised how uncomfortable I become when I need to tell my story to a new doctor (or whoever). I’ll think, “oh, come on, I have worked on this so much in therapy, what’s the big deal?” But it still is a big deal, and it still brings a surprising amount of discomfort and shame. Less than before, probably, but still a lot.
I appreciate the way you write about how this is common and the severity of it might depend on the extent of the abuse, the amount of support we’ve received (probably also the quality of that support), and “our overall stamina to give a damn,” ha, yes! Sometimes when I say I still carry a lot of shame or discomfort, I feel like I have “failed” at therapy. But the way you write about it, it just seems like, sure, of course, there are reasons that some of us might not be “over it” even after a long time.
Your comments make so much sense to me…you haven’t failed at all, in fact, it sounds like you’ve done a lot of work. Oh and the phrase, “over it” has so many connotations to judge our progress. Glad you stopped by and commented, I appreciate it so much. Keep up the great self awareness 🙂
This is a beautiful portrayal of how we keep healing, so many layers. Much love to you, my dear friend. 🥰
And much love to you, my sister friend. Together we are moving mountains ❤
You don’t and I am glad you only peak at it! Its so hard, to go back there. I agree. xo
It is hard…I find that the support of good people make it do-able…Blessings to you!