Ramblings of a Survivor

“When ya gotta go, ya gotta go,” as they say. So it is with the dissemination of pent up stories, emotions, laughter and tears. So it is with love, and hate and anger.

“When you’re ready, it’ll come out,” as they say. So it is with letting out the thing within you that has beleaguered you, healed you, hurt you, held you . So it is with truth, and perception, and liberty.

There is something pure about what is happening within my soul and mind and body: something more authentic than I ever knew existed: a flow of ugly, of hilarious, of joy and of sorrow. There’s an unleashing of wild, unabashed honesty all while steadfast, healthy boundaries are securing their positions and limits.

As I have begun to untether the passion I have to share the path to healing I have experienced, an incredibly clear foundation has emerged: I have started to notice the stalwart structure of trust, of love, of loyalty that I historically have felt was so so far away from me, nudging me in familiar places…places I didn’t think it existed…hidden places it couldn’t know unless it had always been there. I am growing in my understanding that safety and grounded existence were always present – that the pieces of my body and humanity have only clouded my understanding of my essence..of my existence as part of a whole.

Speaking out about uncomfortable experiences can create an identity that isn’t what we dream to be; speaking of their impact to our reality can be upending. Stating our truth, exposing details, telling the story as it was without putting filters or completely changing the storyline is frightening. But…it’s scarier to hear responses, to hear what people think – to dread the criticism and the that’s-not-what-I-remember or everyone-has-traumas can cause us to shut down, to change the story, to create entire false existences that are more relatable but still hold the weight of our experience. Or maybe that was just me. And I found that speaking into the void – to my diaries – to my computer – was just as hard….or harder.

For years, my survival depended on creating a new persona, a new story – a palatable one for the “normals” I saw around me every day. I used the skills i had learned while in my trauma to build the life I thought I needed. It isn’t that this is the first time I’ve written about my journey – I have countless notebooks full of stories and emotional rants. It was that when I saw the words — when I saw my emotions and experiences on paper, they became real, and their etherial, this-happened-to-a-character-in-a-novel solidified in the form of written word — I couldn’t navigate through. I couldn’t see a way through. And so, I edited them to be more palatable for my reader…..

but who was my reader?

Who was my reader?

My reader was ME.

How often throughout my life have I edited my story for my own sake?
How often have I adjusted my story so that I could make it to tomorrow?

A little girl, clad in a white smocked dress creeped out of the dark: Crawling, really. Her eyes peered out around the semi-circle surrounding us.

Janet’s hands were on my knees. My eyes were clenched shut, streaming with tears.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!!”

“DO NOT TOUCH ME!”

My fists clenched and I stuffed them under each thigh. The coarseness of the couch ripped my knuckles.

“Ok, Melissa. Will not touch you. Can I sit close to you?”

My body shook. My hands unclenched and reached, trembling to cover my face.

A timid, girlish voice answered, without eye contact: “Yes, please.”

A half sob came out, caught in my palms that pressed to the front of my mouth.

I couldn’t open my eyes, but I could still see her silver hair falling over her shoulders as she leaned from her chair to be close to me. The scarf she had draped around her neck fell in unison with the flowy white blouse she wore. I could almost see her smile. Her kindness. Her soft stubbornness. Her assurance that she knew what she was doing.

Her chair was scooting closer to me, and she was in it. I could feel her. I pulled back…then impulsively put my elbows on my knees, face in my hands.

“I’m FINE.” I blurted out, my eyes popping open, sitting up – hands suddenly crossing in my lap.

The light pummeling in from the half open blinds of the window to my left burnt my eyes.
“I’m FINE!” I spurted out, blinking desperately.

Silence.

Then just when I was about to scream again, her sultry voice said calmly: “Yes. Yes you are.”

Oh My GOD. I’m seriously paying this woman money to tell me I’m fine???? I’m seriously spending an hour of my time just for her to get close to me– to TOUCH MY KNEES???? This is ridiculous.

But there has to be something right here. I’m crying. I’m feeling. I”m seeing little girls. WHAT THE F????

“Would you be ok putting with putting one of your hands on your heart and the other on your stomach?”

My eyes rolled. More hippy shit. This is what got me kidnapped in the first place…but…

Ok. If I’m paying her $180 on the recommendation of my neurosurgeon, what can it hurt?

Left hand on heart. Right hand on stomach. Eyes closed.

Silence.

A slow knot began to form in my stomach — in a place I didn’t know had nerves: right at the top. Phsyical. Not pit of your stomach….no….RIGHT at the top….then I felt a movement, skipping my chest entirely: pressure at the base of my throat. My hands reached up and pushed.

“What are you doing to me? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“Melissa. You’re safe.”

A flood of tears exploded. Sobs I had never ever ever experienced came from my knee caps. Not my toes. that was the only place I didn’t feel this constriction…FROM. MY. KNEES.

“Would you be willing to put your arms around yourself and hug yourself? I know I’m not welcome, and that’s ok, but you have everything you need. We don’t need to introduce new people into your space right now. But you need a physical acceptance and love.”

Out of a half sob, I glanced up at this face. The most neutral, non-judging face I’d ever experienced. Not love, not hate, not judgment, not expectation, not pejorative “my way will work for you.” Just a face existing in my space, and I put my arms around myself….the image of a little girl in a little white pinafore the only thing I could see….and I wrapped my arms around myself.

“Let’s come back.” she said with her raspy, silky voice. “You touched your essence today, and that’s all you need right now. That’s it.”

I tried to take a breath. It caught.

Her iPad dinged that the 50 minutes session was about to be up.

She sat back in her chair.

“That was a lot. A LOT. Be kind to yourself and remember that you deserve love. That each part of you deserves love. And just go back to being who you are right now…if she comes to visit, just say hi – and maybe hug yourself.”

Stunned with what I had just experienced, I stammered, “So what am I working on this week.”

“With where we are right now…there is no ‘homework’. Go back to your life. Go back to living. We will explore more next week if you would like. Or we can talk about the weather. That works too.”

” You’re the guide. “