This entry comes directly after I wrote and then posted the memory blog “What Goes on in This Family” from the Unhealed series.

I was surprised by how little I felt afterward. Creating the blog itself was difficult; I had a field of emotions running through me.
What if I hurt someone?
What if I trigger someone?
What will people who know me think if they eventually connect the dots?
Will they see me differently?
Am I doing something wrong?

The mantra burned into my brain was always, “What goes on in this family stays in this family.” Because of that, sharing even this story, mild by comparison, would have been strictly prohibited. I would have expected a fierce beating, or worse. More psychological torture, I still can’t bring myself to fully describe. Even typing that last line made my fingers go cold, as if my body is warning me that the closer I get to the truth, the closer I will get to meeting God.

Once it was written, I saved the document. I couldn’t bring myself to review it, I was ashamed. I barely edited it for more than two minutes before it just sat there, watching the clock with me until I finally hit “post.” I expected to feel something; some rush of emotion, anger, sadness. Yet when I clicked publish, I felt absolutely nothing. I was numb to the world. How can that be?
Well, aside from the excruciating headache I have right now. There’s a bottle of Excedrin next to me, but I’m still gathering the energy to reach for it.

I originally wanted to wait until Sunday to post, but I couldn’t make myself wait any longer. The truth is, when I wrote the post, I was angry, furious. I remember how scared I was, how beaten down I felt. Yet, that memory of being in the car was a happy one. I knew I would be arriving somewhere safe soon. I would get to play, sleep, and not worry or hide in small corners. I couldn’t tell you exactly how old I was in that specific memory because the scenario replayed like a broken record for 18 years. It was just one of many duplicative memories I have.

Writing this now, I feel more vulnerable than I have felt in years. Every cell in my memory bank, every feeling I can’t yet fully convey to you, dear reader, is stirring to the surface.

And for that reason, my posts will be glimpses into memories and events, not the whole story all at once. If I’m honest, I’m still struggling. I’m still scared. I still have nights where I wake up paralyzed with fear. I say I’m done hiding but that doesn’t mean I have the energy or the ability to just word vomit and run. This is a process and I thank you for being here.

And this is only the beginning.

Uplifted,

Sis