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
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.
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