Creating Peace From the Pieces

Trauma memories have a way of reappearing, regardless of suppression, regardless of therapy, regardless of what I thought were successful coping mechanisms. The dark, vivid mental recordings feel like thick and sticky tar, leaking their way in to suffocate and overtake my dreams. They morph them into different, equally dark stories, but not without clear tells of their origin. I overcome and begin to emerge from sleep, but my victory is contained to dreams. This nighttime awakening is the true victory for my most hated memories. They play over and over in my head, delighting in my sleepy captivity. I again feel my childhood vulnerability, confusion, fear, and guilt. My mouth is dry, but I’m too frozen under catatonic rememberance to reach for water. Only after I awake enough to begin to remember through adult eyes and emotions, can I move. I can move because now I’m angry. So angry. I hate that I was forced to experience fear no little girl should face. I’m angry that I felt I was to blame. I’m so, so angry that I felt I couldn’t go to anyone for help, because I would get into trouble. I’m angry, because the one person that little girl thought she could trust, was the one person she needed to get away from. I’m angry, because family loyalty instilled in me and my siblings prompted a culture of secrecy and mistrust. I’m angry that even years later, religious beliefs kept me from reaching outside the church for help. I’m angry for my younger self. I’m saddened, and I’m angry.