I started this blog for personal reasons, personal expressions–a means of making sense of the chaos in my body. As I’ve said many times, I don’t know what I’m feeling until I write it down. But there are people reading my writing here that are effected. There are people thanking me for my courage, for my ability to share and to put the pain into words without pitying. I’ve met so many people through this blog (via twitter, WordPress, Facebook)–amazing, compassionate people; some that are suffering as I am or was and some that suffer much, much more. Some have cried while reading certain posts, and they share that with me. And the crying and compassion initially sort of shocks me because, as I’m learning, I feel no compassion for myself, and seeing others feel that way towards me is…foreign. But it teaches me something–that our hearts and pains and sufferings and survivals and compassions extend to others so easily, but not so much to ourselves. I’m my worst critic, I see no worth in who I am most the time, I think it’s weak if I feel fragile. The truth is, especially for those of us who have endured child abuse, we were never fragile and worthless and weak–our abusers were. And though we suffer in our PTSD, Dissociative disorders, BPD, and so on–we suffer because we loved. We loved. I think that survivors of abuse are the most compassionate, compelling, loving souls who are tough as nails and they don’t even believe that. Their (our) survival techniques were just…something we did…a way we found a way–not an act of bravery. I talk myself down all the time, but when I think about it, it was brave. We stowed our minds away and put our souls on hold while “it” all happened, because some part of us–be it our instincts or untouchable spirit–knew that the only way to save our minds and hearts (our bodies left for prey) was to hide them, deep inside. And hiding it for so long became habit, and then soon it was forgotten about, until our bodies grew older and began to remember, and as adults–who are “supposed to be” blooming and growing and changing and living anew–we stumble and fall under the weight of all that was hidden, all that we saved. It’s enough to know we saved those things because we loved ourselves enough to know our minds and hearts were worth saving. We were hurt because we loved and trusted our abuser. It’s not that we did not love. We loved so much. And it’s a trick to learn how to love like that again with trust. As it all catches up with you and you’re panicking, manic, psychotic, having flashbacks, dissociating, derealizing, depersonalizing, hyper-vigilant, hyper-aroused, terrified, small as a child–our faith and beliefs crumble, because they were never truly taught to us. We begin to build new systems and beliefs and faiths, being Buddhist, Christian, Atheist and so on. We have to, as adults, re-raise our inner child and guide them into a secure world we have to believe we’re building. And we won’t guide them into this world until we believe it’s safe, and that can take a long time. It’s a long, grueling process. It’s exhausting. It’s war, flat-out war, between our heads and our hearts. Between our chemistry and our spirit. We join the ranks of the silent army–the millions of victims abused when they were helpless. And we take that helplessness and chew on it like bullets in our teeth–resolving self-reliance and determination–leaving ourselves no other alternative but to survive. To strive. And what we strive for changes too, doesn’t it? Life’s materials and matters become trivial in the grand scheme of things, and we look inside. We look at the suffering of humanity, but not just that–we truly learn to see the resilience and healing that happens as well. I think the last person we see heal is ourselves, I think we’re in a constant state of healing–always will be. So we can’t seek an end to our journey–it is constant and proliferating new breath into us each day or with each trial. Do we ever heal? I think so, but I think the healing never ends, there is no outcome, no answer, no result. We bloom more and more as we go along. We learn to have a voice, to give a voice to that little child surrendered in our minds and bodies. When, when, when will this army no longer be silent? How many more have to join the ranks? We outnumber the abusers and the ignorant and the scared. And for that reason alone we should be tearing down walls of silence. What’s it gonna take??
**If any of you have information on advocating and speaking for the abused, please let me know. A fire’s lit under my ass and I want to see what I can do.
- What Is Dissociative Amnesia? (thekellies.wordpress.com)
- Emotionally-Focused Therapy (EFT) as a Primary Intervention of Change for a Survivor of Sexual Abuse with Co-Occurring Alcohol Abuse (udini.proquest.com)