Come Out from Behind That Rock!


Letting go is a HARD thing to do. We say we really want to, but when the rubber hits the road, our desire to leave the past behind us and move forward is usually found wanting.

I think we become so accustomed to our pain and suffering that we are terrified of embracing the foreign and unknown future; although it promises unthinkable peace, joy, freedom.

I’m learning that in order to move forward and become the ME that God has created me to be, I need to shake off some things. Some of these things are experiences that have happened to me through no fault of my own, but some are my own mistakes and stupid actions. But whether I was at fault or not, these experiences have caused a sense of shame and self-preservation that has held me back from living fully and boldly.

Some of the struggles and shortcomings we encounter as adults are usually linked to some deeply entrenched fears from our childhoods. I have some specific, vivid memories that have held me prisoner for so long and gnaw at my mind ever so often…

So, I spent the first four years of my primary school life in the South Coast, living with my mom’s younger sister, her husband, and kids, while my mom went off to Durban looking for better work opportunities. As grateful as I am to my family for all they’ve done for me, life in Sheppie wasn’t without its pitfalls. My uncle, like so many black fathers and uncles, had an excessive drinking problem, and would often get violent after a few drinks. So, I, to my detriment, witnessed my fair share of domestic violence during those years.

Now, if you’ve grown up in a family riddled with alcoholism and abuse, you learn to shut out some things in order to cope with the trauma you experience. For a long time, my recollection of events that took place during that time in my life were few and far between.

Only in recent years, I’ve begun remembering and dealing, in the best way I can, with some of the memories from those days. One such recollection entrenched in my mind is of the six-year-old me, my aunt (mom’s sister) and my two-year-old cousin, hiding behind some rocks in the middle of the night, with my uncle shouting out foul words at his wife, whom he’d proceeded to beat up before we ran from the house. I can still remember the paralyzing fear and confusion I felt in those moments. This incapacitating feeling has followed me throughout my life, replicating itself in various situations, keeping me stuck in my six-year-old confused mind.

I seldom get emotional when I talk about those experiences. It’s as if they happened to someone else and I just watched. I think my coping mechanism was to be numb and block it all out, until I probably stopped feeling some of the things. Which is why it was so traumatic when I started having flash backs of those events; it felt like I was watching a horror movie starring someone that resembled me but wasn’t quite me.

I still sometimes feel divorced from the feelings that that little girl experienced, but I see them so often, resurfacing in the adult me. And I’m forced to admit, if I truly want to heal and leave it all behind, that these things actually happened to me, but they don’t define my future.

You know what the hardest thing about those years is? Not the memories, trauma, or the abuse. It’s the fact that my aunt and I haven’t spoken a single word about ANYTHING that happened back then. It’s as if it never happened. Years of violence, abuse, fear, pain, and not a single word to acknowledge that we went through any of it. It’s become the gigantic, pink elephant in the “room” of our relationship. We both know that there’s an unaddressed issue; a shared wound that we refuse to admit exists, and has no doubt festered over the years.

I don’t know if it’s a black thing, but we just tend to sweep uncomfortable things under the carpet and bury them so deep inside of us that we even start believing the lies we tell ourselves. The lies that we’re sooo over it, and that it actually doesn’t matter anymore. But it does matter! It matters when you’re crying alone at night. It matters when you can’t seem to trust men. It matters when you replicate the same destructive behaviour that you swore you would never repeat.

It matters when I see a father hugging and kissing his daughter and something inside of me shudders. It matters when I’m having nightmares of being abused by people who should’ve protected me.

My uncle is no more, so the memories only remain with me and my aunt. Where does one even begin to uncover such deep shame, such deep pain, and allow healing and freedom to come in?

I’ve been hearing God calling out to the 6-year-old me, calling out to the 31-year-old me, “Come out from behind that rock! Come out from the things you hide behind. It’s time to be set free.” And everything in me wants to come running but something in me is still paralyzed. 

The voice continues daily, without ceasing, “Come out from behind that rock!” And everyday I attempt to convince myself that today is the day of freedom, that it’s finally safe to come out and live fearlessly.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Testimony Time | The Reason for my Glow - The Girl's in Love y'all! 😍

Kinks and Quirks - Part 1 😅

Yummy Stranger in My Bed

What’s Your Story?

Breaking the status quo: Celebrating the Women who pulled me up!