Thoughts from year 4 (March 7, 2017)
March 7 came and went and I didn't say anything. I realized I didn't want to say anything. I stayed off facebook the whole day after scrolling bleary eyed through my newsfeed that morning and colliding into a post made by someone I love talking about the memories, the good times, the loss. Things I don't understand how they could write about knowing my side of the story too. For my own self care, to respect my story and the stories of others, I decided to unplug.
I've been writing a lot about the memories that surround that day for me, in my journal and on pieces of colored paper with crayon in the break room at work, in the back seat of my car and in tiny fragments on my instagram feed. But for the most part I've stayed silent, not because I don't want to say anything or because I think my truth doesn't deserve to be heard but because I don't know what to say in a way that is still kind and honors both my truth and the truth of so many others.
I wrote today, on a piece of purple paper with red crayon, about how I used to think his death ripped a hole in me I would never recover from. He was the first person to know me in a way that no one else did. He put inside me all these feelings I didn't know how to understand then, and still don't. feelings of divorce and abandonment and feeling like you have to be strong enough to do it all on your own and anger and sadness. I didn't know then that those feelings he put inside me weren't meant for me. I didn't have to simply absorb them. But I did. And I made excuses for him and I justified and I told myself that there had to be something sacred about this, that this had to just all be some giant lesson in forgiveness and mercy, a misunderstanding. I told myself all these things because if I didn't I couldn't keep the bandage on this wound that threatened to split open and bleed out everywhere.
His death ripped the bandage off for me. For a while I tried to hide behind "forgive and forget." I tried to impress people with how fine I was. And then I couldn't pretend anymore. And I hurt, for a really long time. I bled and bled until I thought I couldn't bleed anymore. And then the wound started healing. I started realizing all these things I had never gotten before: that it wasn't my fault, that I had been strong enough to survive it, that maybe it had started out as a game but it turned into something that couldn't be washed away by claiming child's play, that my truth is powerful beyond measure, that I could forgive and still feel all my feelings, that I could love again and let myself be loved. And that became the foundation on which I rebuilt my life.
His death made me realize I wasn't going to die. Not from these feelings, not from the guilt and shame I was carrying around that was never mine to carry, not from the overwhelming heaviness of the exchange that happened between 2 broken people, not from this thing that for years I couldn't even name but now have words for. I remember the exact moment when it clued in for me - that this abuse was not going to kill me. Because it felt like it would. It felt like it was the final page in the story and everything else I ever did would be prefaced by the fact that I was an abuse victim.
His death did a lot of things but I think it healed me. It gave me space to start exploring my story, and to find my voice.
On March 7, 2017 I felt a lot of things but I felt grateful. Grateful for how far I've come, for the person I am now, for the healing journey I am walking. Grateful for the love of my co-workers and my yoga tribe and my husband and the space they all held for me to feel all the feelings. Grateful that I'm still here, and for the space given to me to figure this all out.
I wasn't sure I was going to write about this here, partly because I don't know how to speak my truth in a way that is still respectful of others and partly because I didn't want to give any further glorification to this day, to him, to what happened. But the truth is that day did affect me. What happened is with me every single day. When I created this blog I knew I wanted it to be a space of honesty, a place where I could share my truth and my healing journey while still holding space for others on their journeys. And this story, this day, this lived experience is a huge part of my healing journey.
I'm not claiming to have it all figured out yet. I'm not saying that what I say today will be what I want to say a year from now, or 5 years from now. I'm not saying that the place I'm at on my healing journey now and the things I'm feeling now will always be there (In fact I hope I'm not at the same place a year from now as I am today.) All I want to do is document where I'm at today, where my healing journey is taking me and what I'm feeling right now.
I've been writing a lot about the memories that surround that day for me, in my journal and on pieces of colored paper with crayon in the break room at work, in the back seat of my car and in tiny fragments on my instagram feed. But for the most part I've stayed silent, not because I don't want to say anything or because I think my truth doesn't deserve to be heard but because I don't know what to say in a way that is still kind and honors both my truth and the truth of so many others.
I wrote today, on a piece of purple paper with red crayon, about how I used to think his death ripped a hole in me I would never recover from. He was the first person to know me in a way that no one else did. He put inside me all these feelings I didn't know how to understand then, and still don't. feelings of divorce and abandonment and feeling like you have to be strong enough to do it all on your own and anger and sadness. I didn't know then that those feelings he put inside me weren't meant for me. I didn't have to simply absorb them. But I did. And I made excuses for him and I justified and I told myself that there had to be something sacred about this, that this had to just all be some giant lesson in forgiveness and mercy, a misunderstanding. I told myself all these things because if I didn't I couldn't keep the bandage on this wound that threatened to split open and bleed out everywhere.
His death ripped the bandage off for me. For a while I tried to hide behind "forgive and forget." I tried to impress people with how fine I was. And then I couldn't pretend anymore. And I hurt, for a really long time. I bled and bled until I thought I couldn't bleed anymore. And then the wound started healing. I started realizing all these things I had never gotten before: that it wasn't my fault, that I had been strong enough to survive it, that maybe it had started out as a game but it turned into something that couldn't be washed away by claiming child's play, that my truth is powerful beyond measure, that I could forgive and still feel all my feelings, that I could love again and let myself be loved. And that became the foundation on which I rebuilt my life.
His death made me realize I wasn't going to die. Not from these feelings, not from the guilt and shame I was carrying around that was never mine to carry, not from the overwhelming heaviness of the exchange that happened between 2 broken people, not from this thing that for years I couldn't even name but now have words for. I remember the exact moment when it clued in for me - that this abuse was not going to kill me. Because it felt like it would. It felt like it was the final page in the story and everything else I ever did would be prefaced by the fact that I was an abuse victim.
His death did a lot of things but I think it healed me. It gave me space to start exploring my story, and to find my voice.
On March 7, 2017 I felt a lot of things but I felt grateful. Grateful for how far I've come, for the person I am now, for the healing journey I am walking. Grateful for the love of my co-workers and my yoga tribe and my husband and the space they all held for me to feel all the feelings. Grateful that I'm still here, and for the space given to me to figure this all out.
I wasn't sure I was going to write about this here, partly because I don't know how to speak my truth in a way that is still respectful of others and partly because I didn't want to give any further glorification to this day, to him, to what happened. But the truth is that day did affect me. What happened is with me every single day. When I created this blog I knew I wanted it to be a space of honesty, a place where I could share my truth and my healing journey while still holding space for others on their journeys. And this story, this day, this lived experience is a huge part of my healing journey.
I'm not claiming to have it all figured out yet. I'm not saying that what I say today will be what I want to say a year from now, or 5 years from now. I'm not saying that the place I'm at on my healing journey now and the things I'm feeling now will always be there (In fact I hope I'm not at the same place a year from now as I am today.) All I want to do is document where I'm at today, where my healing journey is taking me and what I'm feeling right now.
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