The Journey Back to Me

My mind has done a great job of disconnecting in an effort to keep me sane, but how could I ever forget?

Readers, please note: this story includes mentions of suicidal thoughts and child and sexual abuse.

I didn’t even notice when I lost her. When I lost Me. I thought everything was fine, but then I turned around, and she was gone, nowhere to be found. I touched my body as if to seek certainty in my flesh. Yes, skin, muscle, and bones were still there.

Me? No…I was busy planning my trip to the Valley of Death. I dreamed of visiting and then planting my flag to claim it as my forever home, the one place where I would be safe. I couldn’t live in myself anymore. That woman was a weak excuse for a human being.

I did not love her. I did not want her. Between her disgusting body and her rotten mind, she made me sick to my stomach. I thought I needed to escape her.

So I did.

The Body Always Knows

I have lost whole years of my life. Puff — they are gone. Places, names, and faces evade me, no matter how hard I try. That is why it always astonishes me when people talk about their best friends in kindergarten or how great their second-grade teacher was.

They remember conversations with their buddies, what it felt like to be kissed for the first time, and what their bedrooms looked like.

Don’t get me wrong; of course, I remember a bit of it all…but it always feels like a movie I watched only once, images that keep on fading, no matter how much I try to preserve them. And I know why.

I don’t really want to retrieve those places. Or those names…or those faces. I want to forget, to purge them away and pretend they never existed. Maybe, if it turns out they were never real, what they did to me will also cease to exist.

The joke is on me — my body will always remember.

Storing Too Many Memories

The body has funny ways to memorize our emotions. The loving ones tend to go straight to the chest—a mix of excitement and happiness that morphs into greediness to always keep them inside. We know we can’t, but who can blame us for trying?

I have had a few of those; that’s how I know joy and delight are much more than a myth. Trust me, people; they are real, and they can be yours, should you persist in your endeavor.

However, I developed a talent to store the memories and feelings terror brings. Part of them goes to my chest too, but, above all, I keep them in my gut. Sometimes they cause me to go down on my knees in pain; they knock the air out of me and stop me in the middle of my tasks because they demand to be felt again, in all of their detail.

It takes no effort at all to go back to every single time my father hit me with his belt and the sound of every nasty name I was ever called. In just the blink of an eye, I revisit all the days I have ended up alone in a room full of people because I don’t know how to be a typical person. I’m the weird one that always talks funny and says unusual things. Why does my brain function like this? How do I force it to make sense and behave like a human one?

Then, I revert to all the instances when I found people who couldn’t love me and set it upon myself to change their minds. Maybe if I said the right thing or gave them enough of me, they would tell me the words I wanted to hear. The more unavailable, the more appealing — I just needed someone to tell me I was special to them because I could not be special to myself. Maybe then I would get to know what it’s like to be home. To feel safe and loved.

If I’m not careful, I get transported to every time I was raped by a man who claimed to love me and whom I convinced myself I loved back, someone with whom I thought I could be happy. How did I manage that? Funnily enough, I don’t obsess about the acts themselves but rather about how, after each time, I used to go to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror in disgust. See what you have allowed? What are you?

And, to bring everything full circle, the final punch comes in the form of my father’s voice reminding me not to play victim and mocking the feeble attempts of 8-year-old Me to establish boundaries. You are so ridiculous!

Can you understand why so many times I thought it would have been better just to die? Why I still keep those detailed plans in my back pocket? I didn’t know how to play the game and kept on getting my heart slashed. My designs might have been foolish, but I meant well.

The Gifts Pain Has Brought Me

I have been called oversensitive. Did you know it is a defect? It means you feel too much, especially the sort of things you should forget about. That’s what I’ve been told.

I have been informed that I should learn to let go of everything, find the goodness in people, and discern the gifts pain has brought me.

It’s all in my head…

I know there’s a portion of truth to those ideas and that I shouldn’t let sadness live rent-free in my head. I need to forgive so I can be free. I must find moments of gratitude. I know, I know; I have read the same pamphlets.

I am trying. Would you give me a bit of your patience if I told you I’m completely out of practice? In fact, I cannot remember a single time when I drew a firm line on the sand and didn’t end up being mocked, hurt, or abandoned.

And now, I’m scared. There, I said it.

Because the truth is, everything that was done to me, and the decisions I made in fear are not just in my head. They were real. It all happened. My mind has done a great job of disconnecting in an effort to keep me sane, but how could I ever forget? After all, I was there…and it terrifies me to go back and not be able to leave again.

On Learning Self-Compassion

What I need is to find Me, wherever it is I am. And, let me tell you, this task is proving most difficult.

All of those people who hurt me? Yes, I do hold a grudge against them. Still, no one makes me angrier than Me, the woman who let it all happen. What will I do when it comes the time to face her? Will I embrace her or, once again, give her all of my hatred?

It is silly, isn’t it? Why am I blaming an 8-year-old for not being able to keep her father from hitting her? Why am I judging her for taking so long to get away from her parents' abusive control and for still needing them? Why am I so cruel to a person who didn’t know how to establish healthy boundaries because, as she grew up, she was punished every time she tried?

If we were talking about someone else, I would pour all of my compassion on this person. I would give her my loving support in acquiring the necessary learnings to rebuilt herself. However, since I’m talking about Me, it’s hard to keep myself from spewing all of my bitterness and contempt.

A New Narrative

And yet, the days keep on passing, and so does my life. There won’t be a pause for me to figure the whole thing out.

I am to hit the ground running. I know I’ll trip quite a few times.

To keep going, I am writing new stories for myself. They are brief and simple, removed from any sort of adventurous excitement. Still, they are about what it means to go back into your own life, especially when you have been absent for most of it.

They usually begin with a woman who wakes up at 5:00 am and then can’t fall back asleep, no matter how hard she tries. Then, she exercises, makes her son some breakfast, and then does some work or cleans the house.

When she is alone, sometimes she listens to music or goes for a walk. However, at moments she craves silence, so she sits on a chair in the middle of the kitchen and devotes a few minutes to feel all of the emotions she was told it was wrong to carry.

She cries, and now there’s no one around to tell her she shouldn’t. She curses and allows herself to be angry as hell. Sometimes she screams; others, she curls up in pain.

She weeps…she’s trying to learn to laugh.

Most days, she goes to a keyboard and writes about life…not a new one, because there’s no such thing. This is the same old life she had. There is just one difference: She has now returned to herself.

I don’t know how those tales end, but I hope she will be okay. And, through those humble stories, I have embarked on the journey back to me.