Chapter 15: Digging Deep
A new day and a new year. When I revisited where I’d been the year prior and pondered who I wanted to be moving forward, I thought about that perplexing moment in the hotel restroom. I wondered if recognizing my unfamiliar reflection had been a nod from my soul; an unexpected glimpse of who I was underneath the façade and beyond my conscious understanding of self. Maybe it was a sign that I was coming into my own…
Further contemplation led me to subtle confidence about the persona I thought I’d created out of thin air. It wasn’t confidence that I knew how to be her, but that I had other authentic facets of self buried deep within that deserved to see the light of day. What I feared might look like a costume ended up revealing hidden truths. I was curious about that. So I decided the time had come to venture into the depths and take a look at all that was inside me: the good, the bad, and the ugly. Inviting my shadows to the surface should have terrified me, but I was too naive to know that at the time.
The first step forward was actually to face my past again. I guess Broderick was right about that— “In order to know where you’re headed, you need to remember where you’ve been.” The last time I’d evicted skeletons from my closet, one had been left behind and it got undeniably stronger during confinement.
I’d emptied the woes of my childhood and early twenties into my first book in an effort to heal myself and help others in the process. I was as open as I could be about the trials experienced and lessons learned along the way, but it wasn’t all-inclusive. There were some things I didn’t mention whatsoever—mainly, abortion. Since then, the string of miscarriages and reoccurring physical symptoms had made it painfully unavoidable that it was begging my attention. It seemed the new year was the time to sit with it.
Nate and Broderick were the only ones who knew about the abortion, and the reason it was needed, so I never talked about it. They were as mindful to sidestep both land mines as I was. They were also among the few who knew about the miscarriages, so I could only discuss them to an extent. Years of such unhealthy avoidance had created unstable internal pressures. Whether through indulgence in alcohol, self-sabotage, or a stupid accident, the pain would inevitably find a way to take me out if I didn’t slowly diffuse it.
I needed a safe place to release all that had been festering. I considered a support group, but for what exactly? There weren’t enough hours in a week to connect with all of the communities I needed help from, then piece together their separate lessons to form a cohesive roadmap to my own healing. I also feared I wasn’t ready. I had no experience expressing trauma, so I had no idea where to start. It seemed a better outlet might be writing as I could bare my soul privately, at any time of day, and in any state of well-being. So I chose to start a personal journal.
I poured every detail of my darkest moments into an innocent notebook. The newly tainted pages were filled with agonizing accounts of: being dehumanized; the crushing weight of my shadows; the taser-like electricity that grabbed hold of my uterus on a whim; constant fear, anxiety, and paranoia; grief-stricken thoughts of my children; the burning hellfire I associated with “Divinity”; and everything else I felt up to confronting.
At first, the only satisfaction came from the freedom to express the torment from different vantage points. Pain. Guilt. Shame. Terror. Self-loathing. Disgrace. Regret. Disbelief. I wrote repeatedly, furiously, and as nonsensically as I needed in order to release it. Unlike a book or public blog, journaling offered me that luxury of being thoroughly messy.
Some days the mere act of recalling the experiences was enough to drain me. But most days it was accompanied by visceral surges that felt like waves of boiling lava coursing through me. Those days were unbearable.
But there were other days that felt rewarding. Thankfully. They acted as carrots dangling in front of me to keep me moving forward. The process was still exhausting but, at least, those days ended with a sense of relief- freedom, even. A gut feeling that I’d made progress with letting go. Those were the days that reassured me I was doing exactly what I needed to. The once-stagnant energy of the unspeakable wasn’t just flowing from my pen in some abstract way, it was being surrendered. A vulnerable offering of my mind, body, and soul to the physical word for cleansing and purification. It was perhaps the most spiritual thing I’d ever done in my life and, yet, I had no idea of its power.
I learned the healing journey can be an intense rollercoaster. Right after I’d embraced the uplifting highs of my purging, I found myself bracing for another scary descent. I never would’ve had the fortitude to push through had I not noticed that pattern fairly early on.
My descents usually started with nightmares. I’d had nightmares about the assault for ages, but these had grown in number, breadth, and intensity. They also took place in an unknown setting, which made me suspect they were trying to convey a different message than simply reliving past trauma. They were often some variation of the following:
I’m walking outdoors in a grassy, Autumn field with colorful trees surrounding me in the distance. It’s quiet and deserted, with a log cabin in the distance. I can’t see whether anyone is inside. As I’m walking through the grass, I feel warm in the afternoon sun and think to remove the long coat I’m wearing. When I do, the static between it and my wool schoolgirl dress causes it to ride up on me. I place my hand at the back of my thigh to check if my dress is down because I’m suddenly aware I’m no longer alone. There’s someone walking behind me. I try to appear calm, but I’m panicking inside because my skirt has ridden up and is revealing me to whoever is behind. My hand moves furiously as it tries to cover myself, when I hear an eerie voice say, “Don’t bother, it won’t matter.” I feel the distance between us close, and before I can do anything, the stranger viciously engulfs me from behind as I scream for help to no avail.
Each time I had that nightmare, I woke up with my heart racing and fought to catch my breath. Sometimes I also heard my screams as I was coming to.
After I’d relived that particular horror for the third time in a row, I vowed to do whatever was necessary to get to the root of it. Of course, I knew what it stemmed from, but I couldn’t change that- so what was I supposed to do? What was the action step? What was the purpose of it? Why the different setting? Then it hit me. I wasn’t reliving the trauma of having been someone’s prey in the past, I was fearing becoming someone’s prey again. Anywhere. At any time.
That was the most sickening realization.
I took some time off from writing to mull over what I’d uncovered about myself, then read through my journal to see if the answers to my healing were hiding in plain sight. I noticed a pattern of unhealthy behavior that had long since been set in motion- dissociation. Trauma had separated my consciousness from my physical being in unimaginable ways, with each new pain reinforcing the protective barrier between my mind and body. Reconnecting them would be necessary to regaining the sense of control I’d lost a long, long time ago.
It had become clear that my next step would be to get reacquainted with my body.