The liberation I personally experienced with the #MeToo movement is beyond comparison. I was able to share as much or as little as I felt comfortable with and still make it known, "Hey- I was abused."
But I'm ready to talk now. I'm ready to open my bleeding heart and weep, with a naked soul in front of the world.
I'm in counseling- because 16 years later, I still haven't processed so much of it. Did you know that your mind can essentially blot out memories? Whole years actually? It's a form of self-protection- but it's also kind of terrifying: instead of just blocking out the bad parts of childhood, I don't remember almost the first entire 9 years of my life. Some memories stand out, but most of those are recallable because of pictures that happened to catch those moments.
Unfortunately, 9 was too old to be able to forget. And so many details of that wretched afternoon stand out, creep down my spine, grip my throat, and make my stomach lurch. The panic, the desperation, the hopelessness, the dirtiness, the shame...the secrecy. It comes back in a rush and all the sudden, I'm that lonely, broken little girl again, stripped of all that made me who I was. And I haven't been her since. I'm huddled in a dark corner, knees pulled to my chest, hallowly watching the walls of who I am, crumble. I can't stop them. I can't understand it. I can't change it. I feel betrayed. I feel empty. I feel alone. I feel dark. That moment comes back and taps me on the shoulder and I feel so vulnerable- like if someone stares too much, I'll shatter under the weight of it.
I remember the day my mom looked at 10 year old me, and asked me, "where did my happy girl go?" And empty, confused, 10 year old me didn't have a clue what to say. Because at this point, that moment was locked up. And it wasn't until I was 14 years old, I experienced a trigger that was the key to unlocking that moment. So at 10, I was completely lost. I was drowning and I didn't even know what under. I just knew who I was had been ripped away, and I was suffocating.
When I was 14, and that moment was opened up, the truth came gushing out like a waterfall, and the process began, but still hasn't ended. The correlation between how happy of a child I was, and how depressed I became wasn't made until adulthood when someone explained that the earth-shattering childhood I had, had created patterns of self-sabotaging behavior. And when I experienced grief after grief, I finally shattered again. The pieces of myself I had reconstructed, the person I thought I had built- she was so shallow, still so empty. She didn't know who she was either. I'm still that broken little girl. Nothing has changed, the hurt has just changed shape.
I still don't know who I am. One day I woke up and looked around, and everything in my life felt like something I couldn't touch. People held no warmth. Moments joy didn't last. And Jesus felt so far away. Every day that passed by, He feels further and further away. Like He was the only happy childhood memory I had. Jesus, Sweet Jesus, my Saviour, my God...the only light in my childhood. The only light in my life now.
I still believe at the very core of who I am that I cannot exist without Him, but I cannot find Him in myself. I search and I beg and I plead- but my life still feels like the same shallow hole that it has for so long. Is this just how it is? A passionless, dry, dull, empty life? Where is the fullness of joy? My heart aches for it.
I have chased the feeling of being alive. I have sought for the wind in my hair passion for life: I have tried the nights of endless lovemaking, the ecstasy of drunkenness, the laugh of a child, the high of a run, and delight of decadent chocolate....it doesn't matter. Nothing fills me. When I wake up, I'm still alone. I'm still broken. Around me still lay the fading pieces of a childhood I can't make sense of. I grasp for anything that promotes the promise of fulfillment or love. I have sought until the soles of my heart's feet are bleeding raw from the endless seeking and running and chasing.
I wish I could leave this with "but here's how I have healed and how I'm doing better" but I can't. I can tell you this: I have a village of loving, amazing Jesus people who clear away the cobwebs of my passion-chasing mistakes and hug the broken little girl huddled in the corner. I have a man who reminds me of my self worth every time some pig downtown rolls his window down to yell obscenities. I have a community that spurs me on, that keeps me in church, that points me constantly to Christ- even when I can't see Him anywhere but in their faces. I have a beautiful family, that is so precious to me- all I want to do is protect them, and keep their hearts innocent to how dark my own has become.
And I have only one last thing I can say: I still feel dark. I still feel shattered. Absolutely gutted and empty. But I am not alone. And I have one thing: I. have. hope.
One day, it all ends. One day the sun rises on that little girl- the bruises heal, the heart mends, the shattered pieces create something beautiful and touchale. One day she dances. One day her hair flows in the wind. One day her lover spins her around a field of flowers and one day the dark first 25 years become a chapter, instead of the whole story.
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