I am at a tenuous place in my recovery. I am being faced with the most difficult realities of my past and my present, and it is incredibly difficult. It would be so much easier to retreat to the comfort of my behaviors, watch the emotions melt away with each pound lost. I refuse to do that, so I am using my voice instead of my body to communicate my pain.
I am far enough along in my process to begin dealing with the real nastiness of my illness. I have trimmed the leaves of destructive behaviors, hedged the branches of relational difficulties, and I now find myself hacking at the real roots of the disease that has threatened my life for far too long. What I am discovering is this: these roots run deep, and they will choke the life out of me if I don't deal with them soon. I am not immune to relapse. On the contrary, I have fallen down over and over and may do so again. What is different this time is that I truly want to live free of my disease. That freedom comes at a price, and the price is facing those menacing roots.
A long time ago, I was hurt. Several times, actually, but one incident in particular has defined my struggle, been the albatross around my neck. Another human being, one I loved and treasured and trusted, betrayed me in the most annihilating way. He took something from me, many years ago, and I will never get it back. He stole my sense of safety, my respect for my body, my idea of humanity. He destroyed what was never his to touch.
I have wreaked havoc on my body in the years since in an attempt to erase, numb, obliterate what was done. Each day I deal with the emotional and physical scars I was left with. Simple things, inconsequential to most, are exceedingly difficult. Being told I am pretty is like being told I asked for what happened to me. Being touched unexpectedly is like being given a one-way ticket back to my worst nightmare. I have learned to navigate the post-traumatic stress, but I have not healed.
I am angry sometimes that one night - just a few hours - condemned me to a lifetime of struggle. It maddens me to know that while I must deal with the repercussions of this event every day, my perpetrator likely has no such burden to carry. For him, it was an expression of power, of rage, that ended when I walked out his door. For me, it was a life sentence for a crime I never committed.
I don't speak of my experience flippantly. I am not sharing to gain attention for myself, to get pity, to get some kind of "survivor glory." This shit hurts, I am terribly ashamed, and I most certainly don't take any of it lightly. My purpose in sharing my story is to highlight a key point: All people, women and children included, have the right to be safe. We have the right to be protected. We have the right to live free of fear, free of persecution, free of oppression, free of violence. We have a right to live a life focused on dreams, hopes, and goals, not on terror and shame.
I have a right to be angry. I have a right to demand change - change to our society, to the way our sons are raised to treat women and to the way our daughters are raised to treat themselves, to the way we react to violence. WE have a right to end our own suffering. WE have a right to be safe. WE have a right to rise. Pain shared is not doubled, but halved. If you have your own story, please be open. I am here for support, for love, for unending compassion. Rise with me. Shake loose your wings and fly above the hurt.
No comments:
Post a Comment