May I Make A Suggestion? Sit with your trauma.

Sit with your trauma.

I conjured up a story that I have been carrying on top of my soul since I was nine years old. It has been sitting in the dark corner of my self where I discard memories that do not serve me. This corner has gotten crowded over the years, but the events that I experienced when I was nine gave birth to all the others. The story that I weaved from those circumstances was standing in front of my possibilities, blocking my view of my wildest dreams and turning me around each time I tried to remember who I wanted to become. It is my trauma.

An event. A tragedy. A crime. A headline. It was an unfortunate happening, but it did not hold me back from successful assimilation in American society. It didn’t haunt me or silence me. I didn’t stop living because of what happened. What happened? What happened to me? I hadn’t told the story, the detailed story, to anyone, not even my self, so with much trepidation, I sat down with my trauma to understand my rage that reveals itself in biting remarks, persistent harassment, and unending questions. I enjoy being right and proving others wrong. Though unbecoming, it is not uncommon for people to behave this way, however, there are times when I discard grace even when others have surrendered. I know how to torment people, especially men. I believe that I’m standing up for justice in these instances, but I now know that I’m standing up for a child who didn’t have a voice. My trauma is sexual abuse and I recalled the story in choppy scenes, and threatening whispers. I watched my nine-year-old self awaken to enjoy hot summer days that led to dread as the sun began its descent and finally the nervous anticipation of the nighttime ritual. I sat with my trauma and examined the origins of my limitations, doubts, lowliness, apathy and indignation as they took root and drew nourishment from the story. I thought that my trauma was safely tucked away in a corner, but I discovered that it has been my constant companion and has framed my view of my self.

For thirty-eight years a story that I thought I hid away controlled who I saw in the mirror, and how I walked in the world.

I know that I have more work to do. I do not believe that I have unraveled the mystery of my life by sitting down with that one story, but healing is taking place and a weight was released because I’m writing and before I sat down with my trauma, I believed that my desire to explore my gift was also safely tucked away in the corner of my discarded memories.