Ramblings of a Survivor

Over the last few months of beginning this blog, I have been privileged to have some of the most vulnerable honest conversations over texts with survivors, or those who support those survivors…and it’s caused me to ponder, and remember life changing moments where vulnerability was valued, respected, and encouraged. There haven’t been many of those moments outside of therapy, but there have been several that shifted my view of my recovery.

Recovery.

A word that is reserved for those with addiction – a life transformation that needs bravery, a lack of options or desperation – and an INSANE amount of work and self-instrospection.

Recovery. Unifying fragments.

Recovery….healing….conslidation.

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The hem of her skirt brushed against mine. Tingles went up my spine. Not the good ones.

I’m not safe. No. No. I AM NOT safe.

A young girl, dressed in hand me down jeans and the expected red gingham shirt peeked around a corner.

Her cheek rested against the un-sanded, rough hewn column. She was barefoot, short and young, but stout with quite an ornery expression.

I snuck over to her, leaving my crossed legs and skirt behind.

“Shhhhhh…I’ve got this. It’s about disconnecting…just let me do this, ok?”

I’d known this girl since before I could remember, and boy, oh boy, was she a force to be reckoned with…I was glad I wasn’t her parent.

She grabbed my throat with a strength no child should have…no child COULD have.

‘Hey. hey. Hey. YOu’re gonna get me in trouble, we’re supposed to be in there following protocol, ok? Just shush. Just go back to the grain room, ok? I will get to you later, when i’ve got it all in control, ok?’ I sputtered.

I returned to my seat next to Sister Abbott, back to my skirt and crossed legs in their submissive, proper state.

I felt a tickle on the back of my neck, and adjusted…and glanced behind me, the hand hewn pillar gone, but her face inches from mine.

STOP IT! We are FINE. I’ll get you out of here, I promise!

My spine tingled. The hem of Sister Abbott’s garment again skimmed against the fabric of my skirt, sending electrifying fear through my body. I rotated my legs away from where she sat…

Where am I? Am I in Hungary? At the ranch? Where the heck am I? WHERE AM I?

“God is angry. God is ready to act. Are YOU? You have no choice! YOU ARE THE CHOSEN – FIGHT for the Kingdom! YOU ARE SOLDIERS IN THE ARMY OF GOD!”

Lynn squeaked out an “Amen” as he wrangled his two young boys who had taken to crawling around the room, untying any shoe they saw with laces…their wearers tentatively kicking them off with reserved gestures.

Why do I smell the sweet scent of alfalfa and grain mixed with the stench of my clothes? Why do I feel the sweatiness that had always been such a balm to me. Why do I feel an intense burning on my skin, not inside…outside. Why am I feeling a pitchfork between my hands – the crappy one that no one ever wanted with its bent spines that made the task of piling up the manure higher and higher so much more difficult? Why am I feeling and smelling and seeing Manure? Why can I only see a pile of manure???

We’d been like ants that day – Wasn’t lost on us that the disposal of the crap of 10 or so horses had to be hauled away. This was our task…move the manure pile…some days it was a relief…a place to hide from the tirades of leadership expecting white glove cleanliness of an “A-barn” from a hovel of haphazard stalls…other days it was punishment, a task so large the goal would never be achieved. “It doesn’t matter what you’re doing it for – God doesn’t give reasons! Move in faith! THIS IS GOD’S WORK!”

Sister Abbott looked around, her throat dry – she tried to clear it.

“Someone get me water.” THe sound of her dry tongue begging her body to produce saliva produced a forbidding sound: a slushy, sandpapery sensation whose sound felt like rubbing velvet backwards.

“You have been chosen. We have kept you safe and pure for THIS moment. THIS is your moment”

My hand scrawled across the paper: “You are the chosen ones…..”

I chuckled to myself. I’ve heard “This is the moment” all my life. What’s different now other than I can’t leave?

I AM A CHOSEN ONE. I AM THE HOPE OF AMERICA – OF THE WORLD….

Her crinkly confidence felt abrasive….

“BUT FIRST you must give yourself up.

FIRST you must lay your life on the altar.”

I shifted in my chair, glancing over to my aunt.

I don’t like her. I love her, but I don’t like her. I love her. She’s family – – she’s….she’s…she’s……..

The worst word I could conjure up filled in the blank I was trying to fill…

PERPOSTEROUS!

No, Melissa, get it right. Preposterous is so incredibly outdated….ok, let’s work through this…she’s rigid. Yes. She’s self-righteous. Yes. She’s controlling. Yes. she’s abusi— No. nope. the words before were fine. THOSE are better words…those words are already strong enough…I’ve been too truthful already.

Sister Abbott continueded with her sermon, her accent and cadence dripping with feigned royalty.

My uncle and I caught eyes. Maybe he would listen. Maybe Auntie would give us a moment. Maybe he could get me home….

Had to play my cards right.

How could I have not known? How could I have believed him. How could I have believed that he would hear me???

The little girl in the red gingham shirt postured herself in my direct site.

You aren’t real. I just have to get through this; you don’t understand all the complications. Just give me space. GO AWAY!!!!! I screamed.

She pulled a flower from the ground around her – clutching it close. “Don’t forget me, please. Just protect me, hear me, save me – SAVE US.”

I closed my eyes.

NO. NO. NO. I am fine. I am a fighter. NO one can touch me.

The little girl disappeared behind the trees, petals of the tulip she had held falling behind her.

Quietly she peeked out behind a tree of the transitory forest and in a still and eerily threatening voice she whispered: “I WILL be heard. Just you wait. I won’t stop fighting.”

I opened my eyes, and focused on my notebook…my hand nervously sketching. The bodies of humans I knew around me were breathing more heavily than seemed normal…I’d never noticed their breath before.

Then the sound of a voice, a little girl broke through. I thought I could hear it, a language that I thought I understood echoed in my brain:

“I won’t let you forget. I will MAKE you survive. I will FORCE you to survive.”

“You are me.”

“I am you.”