Brené Brown writes that in order to be vulnerable, we need to first find safety, both physical and emotional, and that we need to share our stories with those who have earned the right to hear them.
I’ve been sharing my stories for many years with fellow survivors of childhood abuse and sexual violence. These women in the groups I’ve facilitated, in person and more recently online, have certainly earned the right to hear my stories. It is through the tentative sharing of those stories that they first reached out to me with theirs, as relieved as I was that they were not alone.
I have helped facilitate them through the halting process of post therapy healing – it’s a lifelong journey, much like sober living – and we have been there for one another as we slowed down enough to reconnect with our feelings by reconnecting to our bodies.
Ironic isn’t it, that the one act that provides safety through the experience of trauma, the stifling of our vulnerability, is the same thing that impedes our healing. Vulnerability is an ESSENTIAL component of healing.
It’s only relatively recently that I’ve been able to be vulnerable as an expression of who I am. That doesn’t mean I “let it all hang out”. I’m still discerning in my vulnerability with others. What I mean by vulnerability as an expression of who I am, is that I am able to remain vulnerable to my feelings – feel all the things – because the alternative is numbing, and we cannot selectively numb our feelings. Bypassing pain means bypassing joy, and I have spent enough years without joy!
When I first expressed the fact that it was only post therapy that I was able to find ways of reconnecting to my body, and that it was in that reconnection that I felt safe enough to access my feelings and open myself to the possibility of joy, I was amazed at how many women reached out, asking me to share with them. That while therapy had provided a space for them to explore their experience, there was very little re-connection or integration. They felt just as wounded, just as numb. They were still just going through the motions, feeling “outside of themselves” not fully connected to themselves or to others.
Because this was such an excruciating and confusing process for me and there really was no blueprint, I’ve made it my mission to help women who feel the same way. It’s been an incredibly rewarding experience.
As a child and a young woman, I never imagined that there were others like me, that there were women who shared those dark, unspeakable secrets. I was so shut down from my feelings, I was pretty much sleep walking through life. Going though the motions. Much like a sociopath, I had learned to fake feelings, so my lack of emotion went largely unnoticed.
We all deserve to find joy. Pain has been so much a part of my life and my identity, never completely numbed, the edges just hidden by all the different things I used in order to hide from it. Now, having reconnected with the full range of emotions, joy is not only possible, but an authentic experience and I am able to connect with ALL my emotions, both the joy and the pain, and fully FEEL my life.
It’s still a journey, a decision I make each morning when I wake. It’s all too easy to slip into old patterns. The world would have us believe that happiness is the only valid way to experience life, to measure success. But pain and grief and amazement and contentment and boredom and overwhelm and peace and pride and so many more emotions are a part of this amazing life we live. We can live from a place of hope and joy even through the fear and the sadness that life brings. We just need to open up, to tune in, to allow ourselves to feel. Everything.
I’ve thought about forgiveness a lot over the years.
I was raised Catholic, and the confessional was a big part of my life, especially around the age of twelve, when weekly trips to the darkened cubicle at the back of the church formed a part of my regular routine. This ritual also wove it’s way through my closest friendship at the time. Wendy and I spent a good portion of “confession day” discussing our sins and transgressions, comparing our darkest secrets, and making lists to recite to the priest.
At twelve, I confessed to adultery. Having run out of sins – how much sinning could a twelve year old do in the space of seven days? – Wendy and I had split the ten commandments, each taking five. The priest asked my age after I rattled off the list, assuring me that I couldn’t possibly have committed adultery, but acquiescing when I insisted. He instructed me to say one decade of the rosary and granted me absolution.
This memory sticks with me, one of many that are etched into my very being. When understanding finally came, many years later, I reflected on the irony of this moment. By age twelve, “adultery”, in the form of abuse, had been a part of my life for ten years already.
Wherever I turn, people are espousing the benefits, the necessity, of forgiveness to enable us to move forward and heal from abuse, from the wrongs that have been inflicted upon us by others.
I have a problem with this, other than the fact that I was absolved of the sin of adultery at age twelve.
Historically, forgiveness means to grant pardon, it’s a transaction between two people, one who is the offender and the one who has been offended. Forgiveness assumes that the perpetrator will in some way atone for their actions, there is retribution of some sort. The meaning may have evolved somewhat over time, but the synonyms remain: pardon, excuse, exonerate, absolve, acquit, disregard, ignore….
In the case of those of us who have experienced abuse, we are told that we will never be whole, never begin to heal, never move on, until we have forgiven the perpetrator/s. The perpetrator is not a part of this equation, need not so much as acknowledge any wrongdoing. Having to forgive, makes the victim responsible, not only for the harm that was inflicted upon them, but also, if we want to get back to the biblical, the soul of the person who is culpable.
That’s an awful lot for society to ask. That’s a steep price to demand for “healing”.
Too much, I say. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that it is yet another form of abuse.
If a victim is expected to forgive, without any acknowledgement of wrongdoing by their abuser, what is the message we are giving?
You are responsible, forgive them.
You will never move on, forgive them
Your pain is not valid, forgive them.
You will only everbe whole if youforgive them.
You will burn in hell if you don’t forgive them.
You will never find peace if you don’t forgive them.
Your abuse was not that bad, forgive them.
Let me be clear, the implication is that the victim, who has already had untold pain and misery heaped upon them, will continue to suffer for all eternity if they do not actively forgive the person who is responsible for this pain and suffering, while the perpetrator does….
…..n o t h i n g;
goes on with their life.
I think it’s time mental health professionals, religious leaders and society in general rethink the “advice” they’re giving to abuse and sexual violence survivors. Words are important. They frame our experience of the world, and the word forgiveness is too weighted. Too heavy a burden to carry.
I have moved on, without forgiveness. I have found peace, without forgiveness. Forgiveness is between those who abused me and their god. It has nothing to do with me, or with my healing journey.
The truth is, your healing has nothing at all to do with any other person, including those who have harmed you. And that’s liberating.
I sit back on the sofa, sinking in deep, pulling the rug up to my chest. I can hear the rain outside the window. Resting my head against the cushions and closing my eyes, I try to look back through the years… but one of the things about childhood trauma is that it strips you of the first times.
It’s something no one really talks about, at least not that I’ve heard. Except once, sitting around a bonfire with a group of women who have never gathered in that same configuration again…
I remember the cold, and the dark, and the stars. I see their faces in the firelight, flushed with the warmth spread by the tongues of orange and warmth of the wine. l can hear from the fire, and looking down through the years, I see too the blush of youth on those smooth cheeks.
We were burning clothing, dresses as large as tents, in a ceremony in celebration of one of us having lost two entire people in weight – her description, not mine. It had taken her a few years and this was a milestone we were celebrating with her. The conversation turned to sex, and experimentation and first times as it often does when young women gather in sisterhood. I squirmed inwardly, swigging back another gulp of whiskey, not the wine the others were drinking. Johnny Walker was my drink of choice in those years, far too much of it.
My silence was noticed, I was mouthy in those days, a “life of the party” kinda gal. “You’re a real dark horse Michelle,” said a friend, “you never spill the beans.”
Caroline, who’s ceremony this was, looked at me, and in that look, I could see all my dark horse secrets. Her eyes told me that she knew, and that she was a dark horse too.
Somehow the cathartic, hypnotic pull of the fire drew the words from my mouth, and from hers. I don’t remember exactly what I said or what she said, but we were two dark horses speaking the unspeakable, out loud, in front of the uninitiated.
“So, there’s never really been a first time,” I said. We all stared into the fire, and then Caroline stood and shrugged out of the dress she was wearing, much smaller in size than the ones we were burning. I stood too, pulling my t-shirt over my head and letting my jeans drop to my ankles. I never was one for dresses. Almost as if we’d rehearsed it, we gathered up out clothes and threw them onto the fire.
The others applauded and toasted us, then they were all stripping and burning their clothing. We were all left standing in our underwear. Someone reached out a hand to the girl next to her and then we were forming a circle around the fire, hands clasped tightly.
There were no words spoken, no empty platitudes, just a group of half drunk young women standing together in silence, holding space for their sisters.
It was a strange and wonderful night, and when the conversation turns to first times, that is the time I think of, the time I choose to remember.
There are days when things are just more difficult. Days when I am bone tired. The kind of tired that is not accounted for by lack of sleep or busyness. It’s the kind of exhaustion you can only really understand if you live with a chronic illness.
I take care of myself well, and I try to do the things I’m supposed to do, and for the most part, I’m good. I’m fortunate enough to have conquered the feelings of hopelessness, and certainly don’t consider myself to be depressed. But some days are hard…
Today is one of those days. The pain and exhaustion have caught up. I count myself lucky when these flare ups fall on a weekend and I don’t have to force myself to perform. I don’t have to struggle to lift my leaden limbs and force my clouded brain to clarity. I don’t have to smile and respond with, “I’m fine.”
Sunday’s are good. I can kick back and let my body rest. I can stay in my pyjamas, although, to be perfectly honest, I don’t really need an excuse to stay in PJs.
This listening to my body is not something I’ve always done. To my detriment, it turned out. If you don’t listen to your body, it eventually forces you to do so; and mine did. Several times. So now I try to honour the not so subtle nudges. I ignore the guilt of chores not done. I ignore the, possibly in my own head, judgements of “laziness”. I tune out the “should be’s”. I try to rest, knowing that resting is not restorative. That this is something I just have to ride out. Today is a hard day, coming at the end of a pretty good week, so I’m not complaining. I’m listening to my body. I’m taking it easy, which may not seem any different to an outsider since I am not overtly active at the best of times. What it means is that I am disengaging mentally too… not thinking, not planning, just being. Waiting for this particular wave to pass, and hoping it does so before Monday arrives.
Well, the website is finally live! My online presence has gone through many iterations over the years, just as my life has followed many different story lines. What I have learned is that everything is connected. Perhaps it hasn’t been a learning as such, but rather an uncovering, as so much of life’s learnings really are; a pealing back of the layers.
I will share a lot of my journey hear on these pages. As always, the written word is what I return to time and time again.
I first began sharing in the online space in the nineties when I threw myself into online forums. This was in the very early days of the (public) internet and way before blogging. I went on to learn coding and built my first website, One Small Voice, to provide support and information on childhood sexual abuse. Through this site I raised funds for various organisations involved in assisting victims of abuse and began receiving emails from women who wanted to tell their stories. Although blogging was not yet a thing, I used the site as a place to share these stories and my my own experiences, carefully coding each page without the convenience of word processing formatting options.
When blogging became the trend, and with the development of WordPress, I started a new site called Tactile Soul. This took over where One Small Voice had left off, and it was a much more personal space, without the need for careful coding every time I wanted to publish anything new. With this new site it was much easier to connect with women and I began running voluntary writing circles. Some of these circles were attended by my students, I was lecturing on Web Design at the time. The balance were women who I had met through various non-profit organisations I offered voluntary support to, and later, women I met through my learning and development company, Virago Consulting.
Most of you now know me through I Love Edenvale and the digital media services I offered over last several years before I moved to Ireland in May 2017.
The seeds for this business were planted in 2016, when I was planning the move. I knew loosely what I wanted to do – continue my work with women who had experienced trauma, incorporating writing and storytelling. I set up a Facebook Page called Over the Cusp (because I was on the cusp of something new and the women I wanted to work with were moving over the cusp into a space of healing). Now that I am expanding into this space, things are so much clearer, and the essence of what I am doing, what these women are doing, is shifting and settling.
We are healing, she and I, as we tell the stories of our experiences and re-frame the stories we have told ourselves about our experiences. We are healing as we find, and use, our voices. We are examining the past and learning from it. In essence we are looking at our history and healing through the telling of it. Healing HERstory.
And so here we are, at a new beginning, which is not really a beginning, but a continuation of the work that I most love; following the thread that has been woven into my life across all these decades. I would love you to accompany me on this journey, we have so much to learn from one another.
I am in the process of changing the Facebook Page from Over the Cusp to Healing HERstory – it’s quite a process and it looks as though I have to do it one word at a time, so please bear with the arbitrary name change notifications. The URL is correct, so you should be able to find it.
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