Clouds of self-doubt that burdened throughout my life left by the scars of brothers who chose to use my body for their own devices, slowly melted away. But it took years. Decades. Age 8 it began. Not till 50 years later did true healing begin with the telling of all that no one wanted telling. The black tar of others was scourged out. Chapter by chapter, week after week, it all came up.
The nasty, awful things done to a child, that child was me. The things I lived with inside were like snakes biting, and the bleeding never stopped. No child should carry those wounds, that filth, as if it were her own.
It came up. Sipping coffee all morning, the tears slipped down freely. Good tears, healing tears, tears that were welcomed every morning for weeks until done. The internal pain stored up was finally being released bit by bit. And it was freeing.
The release set me free as a person without clouds of shame…red hot shame. Shame in every interaction since age 8, along with a feeling that I never should have born. Hence death looking inviting.
Also tears of joy. Because when things get stuffed, it all gets stuffed. And there was joy. The joy of my ponies and horse. Ice skating on the pond, night time bon-fires on the island in the middle of the pond while snow fell, sledding down the hill behind it, buckets of hot, home-made cocoa when all eight of us trekked back inside, accompanied with platters of toast dripping with butter…
The good with the horrible. It isn’t usually such a chore to find balance in life. But when you must hold such traumas inside with the good, it can feel and be impossible. And many times anxiety rules instead of peace. The beginning of true healing began once was the black tarry ooze floated up and out.
My mother’s death was the impetus. With her gone, the truth could be told. I no longer had to protect her fantasy of a happy family.