This is what my insides feel like every time I try to write my story. Gut-wrenched. I describe that feeling to my husband as killer moths flapping around in my tummy.
Every time I tell a portion of my story it feels like someone reached inside of me and yanked a piece of me out.
I wasn’t supposed to tell. But I did, and cops were called. I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone about it, but I did. I had to. It was destroying me from the inside-out to not try to get someone to hear me. Then the worry and fear of having told would try to destroy me from the inside-out. I told someone, and then the one who hurt me, who tried to intimidate me to stay silent, tried to take his own life. Part of me grieved and blamed myself. Part of me wouldn’t miss him, would be relieved.. Which then kicked-off a worry-guilt-hatred cycle.
All that turmoil I felt for years, so many years ago, comes right back when I am writing my story. It’s agonizing and spirit-crushing to remember, to admit it all in writing.
I was molested as a child.
I was raped as an adult.
I was emotionally and verbally beat-up both as a child and as an adult.
But I’m not anymore.
I’m not anymore…
The feelings, as I recall things and relive them in my memories, they are tumultuous.
I’ve convinced myself what has happened in my life, all I have survived, is nothing special. Everyone goes through traumatic things at some point. And then as I tell someone something I realize– I have a unique story to tell because so many things have happened to me. And I lived through them, and passed through to the other side where things are instead normal.
It will take me awhile to write my story, because there is so much to it, and very little is easy to pass on to others. Part of me goes in to all I write and share.
Please be patient. Please stay with me, even if it takes awhile. What God has done through every experience is nothing short of miraculous.