In the busyness of life, I nearly forgot my own. I nearly forgot my past – who I was, where I was, what life was like while I was there.
I nearly forgot the tears, the heartache, and the traumas. I nearly forgot that I was such a young girl dealing with such developed problems. I was such a child, scared, and hiding, yet mandated to make mature decisions.
I was 14 the first time I witnessed someone lose his mind to the brink of insanity.
Summer 2012
What a child.
I was so young, enduring too much beyond my own comprehension.
Even now, colleagues marvel at what I went through, and yet I expect myself to be normal – to act like a person unacquainted with loss and torment.
Torment. Absolute torment. It was hell and I didn’t even know it, because hell had become normal.
Normal was hiding, wrapping clothes around me as a shelter to cry in peace. So much hiding. So much crying.
And I never could have imagined how much worse it could get. Oh, so much worse.
I can’t believe that was my normal. I can’t believe how much I hid from the world. Hide and hide and hide.
No wonder I have such difficulty grasping out of hiding.
I lived in Sheol. Abaddon was my home. I can’t believe I lived through it.
In some ways, I think I always knew someone would die. Maybe I knew, somehow, that something else would destroy me. Maybe. Maybe I knew that I needed to be destroyed. Maybe it was always there in the back of my mind, hiding safely behind the clothes of denial.
I loved. That is the crime that caused me so much pain. That’s the face I saw in the grave. A man so wounded, he forced gravity to take the life out of him. I was 21 years old when my brother stole his life from my arms, and I’m still trying to come to terms with that reality.
Just when I think I’m going to be
okay, the Pain materializes, reeling me backwards. He grips me by the waist and drags me back,
viciously ripping through the cavern between my lungs. I attempt to remain calm, strong, and
steady, but the horror engulfs my helpless body, robbing my mind of the ability
to fight; so I let Pain do what he must until
I’m numb and lifeless. Sometimes there
are tears, more often it’s a silent defeat.
The ambush renders me vulnerable and knocked down: my fears and my
weakness keep me pinned to the floor. He
hijacks me of all breath, and I halt: If I process
enough now, maybe he won’t attack me for a little while longer.
If
I stay here long enough, maybe I’ll learn how to get up again.
With new crevices carved into the cavern between my lungs, I’m weak, I’m
alone, and it it’s dark. Oh so very dark.
I’m weary. My eyes year to rest and the gloom tempts me
to surrender. Alone, this Pain attacked
me. Pain contends to conquer as tears
swallow my widening pupils, and, for a moment, he does win.
He comes haphazardly, begging for
me to release him—Pain reminds me to feel.
He reminds me to heal. He reminds
me to rest. He humiliates me.
When I’m hapless in his grasp and
I think that all is lost, Pain flees. My
pupils dilate to a soothing light—the Father.
As suddenly as Pain assaulted, Christ enters, picking me up and tenderly
drawing me into him. He pierces through
my shame, in my sorrow, and amidst my pain and becomes my strength. While I am oh so weak, he carries my burden
in exchange for his own. He liberates me
from my despair, calming all my fears, and restores me in his presence and with
his community. He reminds me of his
faithfulness amidst a world prone to abandonment.
While I lie bruised and bleeding,
he cleanses me of the wounds and addresses each trauma as it arises, assault after
assault, revealing the the stripes he paid for my ransom.
I crumble before him, grateful, humble,
and in awe of this loving Father. He
dresses my wounds and sends me back to my safe community—his church, his
nurses—who see my lacerations and come along my side to help me heal.
No, they weren’t assaulted by Pain
this time, but their pasts preserve the stories of their own scars. This time, they’re stronger and they’re
waiting to help change my wounds. They
don’t have my PTSD, they don’t live with my the memories, and they don’t know my
horrors, but they see the manifestations of my fresh injuies.
With God guiding us all, they
come along my side and teach me how to walk again. I’m nimble and uncoordinated, requiring
tenderness and patience. I’m more
sensitive than before. I’m afraid, but I
don’t want to be paralyzed forever, so I continue learning to walk by pressing
into God and into his church.
I’m a survivor. I survived the initial assault. I live in the aftershock. The horror has ceased, but its affects linger
on.
— — —
I am healing—slowly, messily,
gracefully, and dutifully—healing.
The days fluctuate: some are
easier than others, some I cannot seem to concentrate and conceal the
tears. Others follow the pattern detailed
above; sometimes the emotions surprise me and I feel like I should be “over it”
by now, holding myself to a nearly impossible standard that, in turn, prompts
me to feel failure, inadequacy, and guilt.
Grief is love that has lost its object of affection, and one cannot
simply terminate one’s love, even if that love has been stripped from him or her.
So, I take “one step forward, and
five steps behind,” and my healing progresses.
In the first three months after
Patrick died, absolutely nothing made sense anymore. All of my hopes and dreams and understandings
collapsed within those months, and I was terribly afraid to live and to breathe
and to know and to be known by others. I
was angry with God and angry with myself.
Disillusioned and then disappointed, I thwarted any intrusive thoughts
of hope and of goodness. Life couldn’t be
good, I
thought. But, realistically, I was [am?]
afraid to hope that life could be good again.
My hopes had been so violently stolen from me that I dreaded the thought
of hoping again. How can one continue to
hope when someone else continuously takes everything she’s hoped for? No, I won’t reduce myself to hoping again, I bitterly resolved.
Hope is a terrifying thing. While alive, she helps us receive joy and
cherish moments of mundanity, but if she perishes, we’re left behind with the
trauma and disappointment of “hope deferred” (Proverbs 13:12).
Nothing made sense anymore, and I did not want
to make sense of anything my family and I were left behind with. I harbored so much pain that I became too
terrified to face it alone. Most people
I live near hardly knew Patrick—I cannot emphasize how isolated that can make
one feel—and yet those nearest to me continue to graciously love, support, and
encourage me despite my inability to pour myself out at this time. God’s kindness and mercy broke through my
“shelter” of self-preservation and He’s teaching me how to breathe in this new
rhythm of life.
Perhaps we search for depth in
others because it helps us process the depth of ourselves; we need one another
and speaking helps more than I can explain.
At first, I was so afraid to voice my pain. I was afraid that those around me would not
be able to “handle” the truth of where my heart resides and would invalidate my
feelings and my questionings, but, nonetheless, those in my life persisted to
investigate my heart despite my protests.
God has opened my eyes and continuously opens them to see his mercy, and
my dear friends continuously pursue me to show me how much they care about
me.
In this season, I don’t have much
to give. I’m overflowing with questions
and slowly coming to a new understanding of life itself. I am inquisitive and I am learning.
I have to remind myself that the
worst has already passed, and now I can enjoy a season of disciplined healing:
one cannot heal if he or she lacks the willingness to do so. Every day is new, every moment is precious. I
see and feel new growth and new life all around me as I rest in God and I
pursue healing in the shelter of his love. God has been so kind to remove my fears and to
reveal new truths to me.
I am hurting, and this will always hurt, but I am happy and I am abiding in peace.
Exposed 