Well, I’m still writing like crazy. People tell me it’s cathartic to write out the painful experiences. Sometimes it is. Sometimes I feel so disconnected to the past abuse that it’s hard to believe it happened to me. Other times I can barely get the words out, and the story sounds stilted and proper. I can always tell what memories hurt the most. Usually they are the shortest on paper, written with broad strokes with hardly any detail.
The lovely thing about writing them down, the truly cathartic part, is seeing the puzzle pieces come together. For so long I wondered, is it just me? Was I wrong? Maybe my parents were just having a hard time. Was I who they said I was?
I’ve heard abuse stories in the media, truly horrific stories that grabbed me by my heart and I couldn’t stand to hear more. In some ways it confused me and made me think of my own past with thoughts like, “It wasn’t that bad.”
Seeing my story written down validates me that, yes, it was that bad. I’m finally giving myself permission to feel the emotions I had as a little girl that I wasn’t allowed to have then. I don’t want to live there, in those emotions. But it was so good for me to acknowledge the pain I went through alone. The pain I had to hide from everyone. The pain I was taught by my parents to accept as due punishment.
I can see how when I finally acknowledged it, the feeling of “No one understands,” started to dissipate. I wasn’t searching for someone to validate the abuse anymore.
I don’t know if you are searching for that yourself. I’m here to tell you that pain isn’t measure by the events. If you felt neglected, unloved, or hurt, those feelings are valid. I can’t fix it for you because we all have our own journey from ashes to beauty. But I care.
Just think of all you have accomplished still with a little bit of ashes in your life! *Sappy Alert* You really are amazing!