Where I’m at always seems to sit in the shadow of where I’ve been. My past has been the unwelcome guest who refuses to take my polite attempts at showing him the door. It’s unclear if he is socially clumsy and unaware or just dense and unable to take a hint. For many years, journaling freed me by providing context to my understanding of the seemingly unrelated events that stippled my memory. Now, the past is quick sand. I’m stuck, sinking slowly into what is no longer there. I’ve been through therapy, in-patient treatment, out-patient treatment, acceptance and denial but I haven’t addressed my past directly. The time has come to say what I mean, mean what I say and not say it mean.
Mr. Past, it’s time for you to go. You’re no longer helping me. You’ve become a crutch that keeps me dependent, a daily reminder that from my earliest years I struggled to stand up for myself for fear of the consequences. Whatever was true then, I am no longer that frightened, ashamed child who was taught by frightened, ashamed adults that the world is a dangerous, dark forest where might makes right and bullies are brave. The fears are now right-sized and powerless, occasional projections of misplaced insecurities. I’m ready to “live as if I was dying and today was the last day, I’m going sky diving and singing all the way.”
So, Mr. Past, thank you. When my journey seemed nothing more than a carnival tour of shattered images and distorted mirrors, you shined a light on the talents and the skills hiding deep inside me. When all I heard was silence, you showed me the sweet spot where the divine lives wrapped in hope. I see now that I can do so many things right because I did so many things wrong.
My dear Past, I see now that I’m the one who’s held you as a hostage, an old, gray ghost of gloom and doom when, in truth, you have always been a wise guide, bold and beautiful who made me strong enough to send roots down deep into the earth, brave enough to bloom where I’m planted and confident enough to explore the hard to reach places. As I move on, I will look for your light and be grateful for the time we spend together.
Childhood abuse is traumatic. It crept through me like ivy on brick. Inevitably its tiny tentacles fused to the mortar of my being. Overtime it damaged just about anything it touched leaving little or nothing to hold me together. When left alone too long, it leaves skeleton-like marks where its tendrils have been stuck causing a rot that is nearly impossible to remove. Although the process would be painstaking, I knew that if I was patient and persistent that just like brick can be cleaned of the ivy, I could become whole. In the case of ivy, the key was that the leafy top layer must be dead awhile before it comes off easily allowing the stubborn layer of new under growth still deeply embedded in the wall to be scrubbed away. In the case of my abuse, the key was that I needed to remove myself from my abusers. I needed to step away from family situations before my wounds could be cleaned out and scab over.
