The sun came out invitingly. My boots crunched on the icy snowy path, round and round. Looking up from my usual reverie it is bright aqua skies and sparkles glittering atop the snow meeting my gaze. Coming out of my thoughts it is brilliant to be alive, this is living, not in the past, future, or that other zone visited from time to time when things get bad.
Being in the now, investigating my body and its workings, being present, that is the gift of Christmas and all year round. Most of my life it couldn’t be done.
Survival meant being elsewhere because the people here will hurt. My psyche learned to escape from my body at age 8 never to return. Though finally this late in life, the ability to be present, and be safe, is a miracle occurring.
It could be due to 3 out of 4 attackers being dead. My mother would shame me for admitting that. Part of me felt relieved as each ‘monster’ died. No shame need be attached to real feelings, feelings don’t kill, and I never wished them dead, yet relief occurred quietly when they were gone. Brothers loved and trusted. I felt felt sorry for them, except Tom who continues to thrive and be included as part of what is left of the origin family more than I.
I do not feel safe with people. My life now isn’t much different than pre-pandemic. The isolation is usual for me. Discovering the deep wells of character, strength, and generosity residing within cured the gnawing loneliness once plaquing me for most of my lifetime. A gnawing so intense it was hard to breathe.
Risking to reach out attachments were made to make the journey doable. But it isn’t like others who easily interact daily. Like a buoy bouncing side to side in the chaotic ocean of life, my being felt lost touching on others to prop me up.
After each one died, more honesty surfaced about just what they had done and how much was irrevocably taken. The damage permanent no matter how young they were, the memories inescapable.
To finally live in my body, reclaiming my own self— is freedom