Life is short and I have watched survivors that survived the toughest of situations just to lead a life living in the bottom of a bottle, be it pills or alcohol. I know that it is easier to numb the pain however you can, but I promise you the road less traveled is far more rewarding. It is hard to heal and face the issues head on. It is hard reflecting on the past and opening up and letting it out rather it's a little at a time or an all-out explosion. Either way, it has to be faced, processed, worked through and finally accepted that yes this happened to me. Yes, it hurt, and it changed my life forever. Once you take that first step, I promise it gets easier. This is all necessary for the healing to begin. I went to a counselor for one visit. She had me relax on her couch and picture my favorite place in the world, which was the beach for me. Then she asked me to picture myself there. She asked me to tell her once I was there. I did the best I could, but I thought she was an absolute quack because I was in denial that anything or anyone could help me through what I had been through. After I was "there" in "my spot" mentally, she told me to start from the beginning. So, I ran her through it and once I started it all come pouring out of me so fast that I startle myself. I didn't go into broad detail... But I remember it going something like. "Well, my mother was an alcoholic and my father worked all the time and they ended up getting a divorce after I was raped for over a year by my dad's best friend and my mom knew about it but she scared me into keeping it to myself and told me that if I didn't like it don't go back, but then she sent me back over and over again almost like she enjoyed the thought of me suffering. I don't know why she hated me so much. But I know she did because after her and daddy divorced, she told me all the time that I ruined her life and that she hated me for it. She openly hated me for years and years and eventually when she was done pretending to be a mom by doing the least she could possibly do which was allowing me and my brother to come to her house on her days--even though it ended there because she would leave us home to hit the bars-- she finally stop giving a shit about everything including appearances and abandoned us altogether." There was a moment of silence, other than a pen scratching on a piece of paper from the councilor taking notes. I opened my eyes to assess her facial expression and realized tears were streaming down my face and I was so embarrassed and ashamed that I had spilled so hard so fast that I stood up, grabbed my purse and said, "That is enough for today, thanks." And walked right out the door and never returned. I got home and attempted to tuck it and compartmentalize it away again at the deepest darkest depths of my mind. It worked for a bit, but I could not deny how empowering it was to say it all out loud and not have anyone interrupt me and downplay what had happened. It was empowering to be heard. I believe I spilled the way I did because I had yearned for the day that I could get it all out and say everything I wanted to about it without my dad, mom or granny shutting it down and telling me that it had been handled, and I needed to let it go. I had yearned to be heard, and nobody would ever listen. Parts of me wishes I would have been bold and brave enough to make them listen... to tell them, "I am sorry that hearing about this makes you uncomfortable, but I assure you the lack of your comfort is inferior by great margins to the lack of comfort I felt when it was happening to me." Not to mention going from a little girl that loved Barney the dinosaur, Scooby Doo and The Lion King to a girl that knew what a man's penis was, how to properly massage it, receive it and how to "play" all the "adult games." I may not have been bold and brave enough then, but I am now. Have hope, work towards healing and find a way to spread healing! We all need each other! -Feisty Mommy
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