A wise person once said, “There are three things you should never share; your relationship, your finances and your next move.”
It has become a mantra for my life. Years of being both vulnerable and held back at the wrong times have left me speculating my own judgment. Being alone is safer, away from the possibility of re-victimization.
I learned harsh lessons as I grew up. With no boundaries to define danger or relationships I was tossed out of a childhood that had been riddled with abuse straight into the very society I had been trained to fear, hate and one day even war against in the name of God.
With blinders on, I ran towards everything I’d been taught was sin. I bathed in it. I dove inside of it like it was a swimming pool. I became prey, a seal pup in an ocean full of sharks.
A couple of nights ago, while working on “Rise of Sila“, the sequel to “Cult Child“, I had to write a trauma memory. I had to get into the details of it, part of them being a time my sister wore long sleeves to hide the bruises her rapist left on her upper arms. When I was finished with the section, nausea swept through me quickly, suddenly and filled my mouth with water to the point I had to curl up on my bed and do focus breathing until it passed.
“Fuck.” I thought. “It’s starting.”
This is what happened while I was writing “Cult Child“. The trauma surfaced in waves, and with it came years of sporadic vomiting, night terrors, migraines, days in bed weeping, high peaks of anxiety and agoraphobia and a lot of deep isolation.
I smiled in selfies to post on the Internet. I spun on the positivity pole as if I was the poster child of survival, and I hid the reality of how crippling writing trauma is for me.
I thought I would feel some kind of relief after getting “Cult Child” out. Yet, I didn’t. I felt incredibly proud of myself that I had accomplished the project. I also felt an extreme exhaustion that still lingers as I continue on. I feel weakened. I feel that I have only spilled out a sliver of the truth about the reality that was my childhood.
Last night I had a dream which rocked me. When I woke up this morning, the emotions of the dream came hazily with it bringing short, flash images of children milling about, a lot of confusion and an inability to grasp the rest of the images. There are no worse dreams for me to have, than the ones which involve children. They take the longest to shake from my eyes and the hardest to re-balance my heart from. [Click here to visit my Dreamscape category where I document them.]
I am pushing myself, because this story must be told. It has to be left behind so my sons and lineage will have documentation of their ancestral life. I have to tell the truth for myself, hoping that maybe, just maybe, after I am finished, there will be some reprieve.
But, right now, in this moment, I just feel like avoiding.