The healing journey fucking sucks! I’m saying that with my whole chest. And I’m saying that while still making the choice to continue on this journey. It’s a declaration I make, not with resignation, but with a fierce determination to persist. My life, a series of experiences woven together by the imagination only Creator could have. I often find myself contemplating the very essence of “normal.” I guess the truth of it is, is anyone actually normal? A concept as fluid and subjective as the ocean’s tides. I’ve crossed paths with those whose pasts seem to cast a lighter shadow than mine, and others who walk under a much heavier cloud. In this spectrum of experiences, I’m left to define my own version of normality.
In sessions with my therapist, I often comment, laced with heavy sarcasm, on the ‘joyous’ nature of this healing process. She understands the irony, acknowledging the arduous reality of this journey. My frustration with this non-linear healing journey resembling a relentless roller coaster effect. There are days when I feel a semblance of peace, only to be engulfed by an ocean of sorrow, a grief so profound that it defies understanding.
Other times, my body reacts with alarm to a threat that doesn’t exist, my heart racing in a nonsensical search for unseen danger. My nightmares are a journey into realms I only encounter in the depths of my subconscious. Sometimes I want to get off the ride, if only for a moment. But I want my healing more. So I stay on, white-knuckling the handlebars because another loop is coming. I know it. I don’t know when, or how twisted or windy, but I know it’s coming. The sickening feeling of your organs dropping as life hands you another twist. And you loop de loop de loop until you can catch your breath. Until you can pull back into the station and this portion of the ride is over. And you get tired of screaming.
At some point, I made an unconscious choice to become invisible, to mute my voice in the hope of avoiding trouble. Much like a child believes if they close their eyes, you can’t see them. It was a misguided belief that being invisible and silent would shield me from harm. Yet, the silence brought no solace, no empowerment. There’s nothing edifying that silence gives power to. So I chose to speak instead.
In speaking my truth, I’ve watched many people and things fall away from my life. As painful as it may have been, none of these were instrumental to my growth. Amazingly enough, those losses made space for women who arrived with lessons to impart, guidance to offer, and a willingness to hold space for my journey. We get to choose the witnesses along our healing journey. I’m grateful for the lessons I’ve gained, as I don’t think I would’ve gotten them otherwise.
These women challenge me on my stuck points and teach me the strength of vulnerability and the ability to learn to trust. Their presence in my life, even if just for a season, confronts my deep-seated belief that trust is an unattainable luxury I could never reach. I think trauma puts blinders on you and it takes people who are special and even more, equipped to walk through that space with you along your journey. Sometimes they walk with you for a season, and sometimes for a lifetime.
So I’m learning to become visible again. With the support of my tribe, I’m learning to allow myself to feel my way through even though the feels aren’t always so pleasant. I’m learning how the brain works and how parts connect to make the whole person. I am challenging beliefs born from traumatic experiences and discovering, little by little, the capacity to trust. There are people in my life who stand as true witnesses, who hold space without causing harm. This, in and of itself, disproves the “no one is trustworthy” theory I once held. I’m learning to lower my defenses, very cautiously. It’s far from easy, and the path to unraveling is long, but I find encouragement in small moments. Moments that once would have rocked me now only cause a stumble. I find strength in being able to help others from my own learning and experiences.
Initially, I thought my fight for healing was primarily for my children. I wanted to show them the importance of fighting for their own healing. I’ve realized that’s only a part of it. My primary battle is for my own wholeness. It’s only in being whole myself that I can be everything they need. Invisibility serves no one; it empowers nothing. So, I choose to heal in the open, with the hope that my journey might light the way for someone else in need. I fight on…
