No one else will do it for you. This is what I have learned after 38 years of looking for answers anywhere but here. And by here I mean here. In me. My roots. The foundation of my being. The core of what I know to be true. But when the core of what you know to be true is in fact, false, it’s easy to get lost and wind up searching for answers in all the wrong places. But sometimes all of those “wrong places”, lead you home.
I’m traumatized. It clicked last Monday. I’m, fucking, traumatized. (huh???)
I have been learning more about trauma over the last year or so, but now it had become less of a question and more of a revelation. I was traumatized. I could see how it had been and still is showing up in my life today.
The idea that traumatic events have happened to me was never a consideration because “nothing really happened”. But, it did. Then I tell myself, convincingly, “oh, but it wasn’t that bad…” I would compare it to what I perceived to be “worse”. I feel embarrassed to admit this way of thinking because if it matters to us on any level, it fucking matters. If, almost 30 years later it’s still on your mind, it matters. I had minimized it, swept it under the rug, “no big deal’d” it since it happened.
I started to notice that this was the same mental process I had when I was drinking. You take yourself into this fake-belief reality instead, denial maybe that you “have a problem” because it’s “not that bad compared to…” but then you still hurt everyday and drink even more to numb it away all the while convincing yourself you don’t have a problem.
I had convinced myself that I was not good enough and I was never going to be good enough. But why? Was it because of certain experiences I had that shaped my perception to be different of that which may actually be true? My lenses were tinted in a unique way, in a way that has caused me to put barricades up which have left me blind. I could see this now. So, instead of burying those gross, very angry feelings in my gut every time they emerged, or taking them out on someone in an angry rage, or shutting myself off completely to shit that doesn’t feel warm and fuzzy, I accept them. I accept the gross feelings because they mean something. Something is not okay, something needs your attention, something needs to be healed. It’s like “oh shit girl, this DID happen and you HAVE been affected by it. Bring it in now for a hug. I got you.”
I was grabbed while on a run when I lived in Mexico. But it too (eventually) “wasn’t that bad” because he bolted after I cussed him out in Spanish and threw my water at him. The cop who had offered to help me find him just walked with me and chatted me up instead. I was furious. So, I went home, told my Mexican mum, called my actual parents and boyfriend, then went to sleep and woke up like it never happened. I mean, I didn’t get hurt, right?
Truth is, I did. And as “miniscule” as I made out these experiences to be, I remember each and every one so vividly to this day…
I remember being in a room filled with magazines, records and loads of other dusty treasures just waiting to be discovered. The mildly worn gloss coating of the red oak desk was chipping off next to the rotary telephone where a man was on the other line telling me where to touch myself and what to do. I remember the noises, the words, the instructions and the “thank you” at the end before he hung up to (thankfully) never call again. I felt disgusting. Still do. Sick to my stomach disgusting. I had given him the number on a chat not knowing what to expect. I was 12. I never told a soul.
I remember seeing a shadow rapidly approaching behind me when I was jogging one time in Mexico. At first I thought it was another runner but then remembered there was no one behind me. I remember the feeling of adrenaline rushing through me when I felt his hand between my legs and I jumped around cussing him and asking him what the eff he was doing. I remember the beads of sweat on his forehead dripping onto the pavement and the position he held is hands up in front of his chest to protect himself the moment I spun and threw my water at him. It was in a “please don’t hurt me” way while repeating “lo siento” (sorry) over and over while looking down with his head hung. He waited there then ran. That’s when I went for the cops and found Rico Suave instead.
Add other “minute” instances throughout my life, or emotional/psychological abuse I wrote off because it wasn’t physical, neglect and other “small stuff” that I’m realizing ain’t that small. And when you put these “tiny” things all together, they create something much bigger. This is what I’m aware of now, here is my work.
All of these little light bulbs keep going off. It is awesome! Why? Because I’m learning. About me. And with that comes awareness, and with that the ability to let go, and with that the ability to cultivate peace within. Bit by bit, minute detail after minute detail I will trudge through the trenches of trauma as long as it takes.
Thank you for reading,
xomo
