"Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us." Oscar Wilde.
Last night my friend told me she saw a movie. A movie about a woman whose story is similiar to mine. She told me she understands me better. She said she couldn't have survived what I did. She said she's glad I survived.
Hearing her say that, knowing she watched that movie and related it to me made me feel scared. Vulnerable. I couldn't talk. She's read my book. Edited it. Believes God wants to use me to help others. So why do I feel afraid? Listening to her talk about that show brought up painful memories of what happened. The memories hurt. They hurt really bad.
I talked to Maury Blair, author of Child of Woe. He said everytime he shares his story it hurts. The memories surface and it feels like it's happening all over again. But he said he won't stop telling. He does it because God touched him. Healed him. He talks to give hope to others and to help them find some freedom.
I didn't think it would be like this. I didn't think writing what happened would be so hard. When I remember it feels like I'm back there fighting to survive. The anger is there too. Anger at the people who hurt me and anger at myelf for being so powerless.
Why did God let it happen? Why did He allow it? I think of my friends who committed suicide or died by accident. He let me live. He redeemed my life. Why me and not them? I have to tell. Like Maury, I feel compelled to tell even if it's going to hurt everytime I do.
The Old Fashion Way, Victorian Times.
6 months ago