photo by Patricia
Gratefulness seeps in with my senses coming back. Aromas not detected all week now permeate my being; the lilac scented candle on the warmer, the freshness of pouring rain so sorely needed, and strawberries boiling in the pot loaded with sugar for the jam. Gentleness with ‘self’ returns too, along with work necessary to sustain it.
It has taken the entire week to come down from the agitated place of being around others who are my family. How could that be? Samuel is unencumbered by such ongoing disruptions. My brain, injured by early childhood sexual abuse that went unprocessed, poses great challenges.
An articulate, expert writer commented on my post Fears, “Being sexually abused as a child is like being a bird whose wings have been cut short and can never fly. Seeing normal birds whose strong wings take them high in the air over trees, almost seeming to touch the clouds is a painful reminder of what we have lost, what was taken from us. We grieve for who we might have been.”
She is so right. Drowning in sadness over what is will not be my way. Gratefulness for finally coming home to my senses is uppermost. The achievement came with help, a friend, along with blog friends.
To not own your being and its workings is a devastating loss, especially after decades living that way, then coming home internally. To lose that is to lose wholeness in all its diversity, the good, bad and ugly. I want it all. What can’t be survived is being apart from my being once finding it.
The early dissociative survival modes take over despite all my hard work and efforts. It hurts. It is hard to accept or acknowledge. There is much resistance to the truth of my existence. Yet running will not help me it. I must stay until the parts return absorbed with gentle open arms and time.