The Girl Who Jumps Fences.
I’ve always been an angry person. I’ve always had a temper. When I was young, it was bad.
I didn’t know how to express it. I slammed shit, broke shit, tried to break myself. Repeatedly.
I had plenty of reasons to be angry, but even I was shocked at the level of rage that erupted from me sometimes. I went through my entire life trying to channel that rage. I started writing at a very young age. I also took a lot of art classes. I was constantly immersed in both.
I firmly believe that’s why I’m still here.
It wasn’t until I started rededicating myself to writing, just over four years ago, that the reasons for my rage began to surface.
I’m not going into details. You don’t need to read them and I don’t need to relive them. But that’s when the flashbacks came, the nightmares morphed, the memories… made sense. That’s when the shadows disintegrated and the spotlight clicked on. That’s also when I began to truly understand myself.
As insane as this might sound, the revelation was validating. All my life, I’ve struggled. Now wait — this isn’t whiny victim talk. Let’s be legit here — I know we’ve all struggled. Every single one of us. But somehow, with this… and I can’t even think of a single word to aptly describe it… there isn’t one.
Suffice it to say, with this mind-and-heart-and-world-and-life-shattering realization, the first thought other than murder (I’m sorry — there will be no bullshitting or pussyfooting around in this piece. It deserves far, far more than that) that came to mind was validation.
A reason, finally, behind all the rage I carried that I had no idea how to handle. Emotions that had been orphans in the sense that I didn’t have anything to attach them to; well, I had plenty to attach them to, but more pointedly, nothing to match their level of often crippling intensity.
Dropping to my knees after stress and anxiety and blinding rage would rip my stomach to shreds. My emotions were my life, and I was always a slave to them.
A slave to anger. A slave to rage on tap. A slave to instant heartbreak at the faintest sign of rejection. And you know what — the edges of that one have rounded over time. But the points are still there, and sometimes still stab me. But I’m working on it.
That’s all we can do. Work on it. The work. Whatever our personal work is, and this happens to be mine. And so many others. And that’s an awful, awful atrocity. One of the worst, as far as I’m concerned.
… it’s not my fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not our fault. We’re not victims. We’re not survivors. We’re human beings who’ve been through some fucking awful shit. Some of the worst. We experienced some of the most obscene acts of depravation one human being is capable of inflicting upon another.
I still wake up crying. I still wake up feeling a presence. I still wake up afraid of the dark. That might never go away.
But I go on. We all do, no matter what. We live to see another day. And another. And another. We’re still walking. One foot in front of the other. One pitfall, one shadow, one flashback. One word, one trigger.
And we continue to walk, through each hazy memory, each slicing moment we fought so hard to suppress.
These things we see — these things we relive and live and relive — color the way we approach and lead our lives. The horrors dance on the periphery of our vision, adding a tint of darkness to our view.
That changes us. In a way, it enhances us.
We become our own light. We shine our own lanterns through the darkness. That’s our responsibility, and the further and wider we shine our light, the more we ensure that everything wasn’t in vain.
We give meaning — positive meaning — to our traumas, and by doing that, we breathe life into the parts of us that died in those flashbacks. We turn scars into strength. We become living proof of the endurance of the soul. And the heart.
We become proof that no matter how much our bodies and minds may have been broken, our hearts and souls shine on, in spite of it all. Maybe even brighter, because we’ve learned to touch and share our light, even after the most repulsive fucking despicable attempts to snuff it out.
Of course I’m still angry, and no, I’m not at forgiveness yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be. I know it’s only hurting me to hold on to all of this, and I’m sure I’ll write all about it, if and when I do arrive at that magical, mystical crossroads, but I’m not even remotely there yet. Which is fine.
This is where I am, and this is my voice and message, today, right now. Which is exactly what and where it’s supposed to be.
I once worked with a life coach who said we all do the best we can with what we have. We do the best we can in each moment. Including the people who hurt us. The people who destroy us.
The people who violate every ounce of innocence out of every pore of our petrified skin until there’s nothing left to bleed.
While I see some truth in that, I also feel like she can go fuck herself for saying that to me, in that moment. She also made me repeat, over and over again, that there’s something wrong with me, and that it’s okay that there’s something wrong with me.
That is one thing I’ll never, ever forget. Or forgive.
Because there’s nothing wrong with me. There’s everything right with me, because I’m still here. I still open my eyes every morning. I’m still breathing, still putting one foot in front of the other. And I still haven’t killed the person who killed so much of me.
I reiterate. There’s nothing wrong with me and everything right with me, and I’m going to use what’s right with me to let others know that there’s plenty right with them as well, even when they feel broken beyond repair.
Even when they feel lost in isolation, lost in a sea of eyes that give them the look — that look. The look of fear and uneasiness and wanting to run away because they have no idea how to react or what to say when the blackness comes spilling out.
But it’s got to spill out, and everyone comes to it in their own time, whatever their it is. There will come a day when the dams we’ve painstakingly constructed can no longer hold back the tidal waves of pitch black. The day when the sludge will pour through. And pour through it must.
That’s the cleansing. That’s the healing. That’s the way we all start over and step into ourselves. Our real selves. Our new, raw, dripping, naked selves.
That’s the day we step into our truth. Our pure, vulnerable, terrifying, fucking beautiful truth. The day we find the strength to say what we’ve got to say.
And I’ve finally got something to say.
I write this for those who are afraid to write it themselves.
I write this for those who need to read these words.
I write this for those who think they’re the only ones.
I write this for those who need a boost over the fence. Who need to know there are five fingers waiting for them, always, to give them the support and extra push they need to say Goodbye to victimhood and Hello to strength and rebirth and power.
I write this for those who are alone in the dark, knees pulled tightly to their chest, hair hiding their eyes. Those who have been paralyzed through no fault of their own. Those who are stuck and suffering in that stuckness.
Those who just need a sign that it’s not only okay, but absolutely time to move on and reclaim themselves. All of themselves. Their sex, their strength, their power. Those who need to hear that it’s not only alright, but essential to be seen and heard.
Because what you have to say and express is so, so, so needed. By me. By us. By those who can unfortunately relate to our words and those who will fortunately never be able to understand what we have to say, but need to hear it anyway.
For expansion, for awareness, for healing. For breaking the cycle.The more we reach out and rise up and speak our truth, the more pain we’ll alleviate. The more suffering we’ll ease. The more connected we’ll feel. The more we’ll realize we’re not alone.
And that’s what we all need — to know that we are in no way — no way — ever alone in this. Ever.