"Courage is not the absense of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear." Ambrose Redmoon
The other day I took my kids walking along the water. A snake slithered in front of us - I screamed. My youngest jumped in my arms. My oldest cracked up laughing.
To her it was 'just' a harmless garter snake. To me and my youngest - it was huge, disgusting - terrifying. For the rest of the walk my youngest and I moved cautiously - terrified of meeting another slimy snake. My oldest kept laughing and trying to convince us we were just being goofy.
I got home and thought about my fears. I've been so afraid to tell anyone about the stuff that happened to me. I've been afraid to speak. Afraid to be seen. Afraid of the memories. Some days I want to scream at myself - 'who cares. It's over. I survived.' Other times, I'm convinced people will look at me differently and think something's wrong with me to have been where I've been.
I kept silent for a long time. Afraid. Worrying what others would think. Living in shame. Not wanting anyone to know. Not wanting to admit it was bad - lying even to myself.
This year I felt God shaking me....... shaking me into reality. Things happened. I connected with people. People who knew. Some said they were shocked I had survived the drugs, the streets - living life on the edge. God forced me to face the truth. The truth of what happened. The truth of how bad it had gotten - the truth of where I had been .....how far down He had reached to pull me out.
I started writing. Mostly to get rid of the images in my head. I had minimized it - kept telling myself it was no big deal. But the shame....the shame consumed me. I couldn't be with people long. I couldn't let anyone look in my eyes.
I went to talk to a physician friend. I told her everything....in the dark...my words faltering...hesitating....broken. I couldn't look at her. Worse - I couldn't have her look at me. You should be dead she told me. You need to tell your story. Her words shocked me. For so long I didn't believe it even happened....I thought I made it up.
Listening to her ....and writing - I started feeling selfish, selfish that I never told.....
God had touched me. He had broken chains that I couldn't get free of. Nothing had worked, not jail, not hospitals, not rehab.......Then He touched me.....in a hospital...under oxygen.... He freed me from the drugs. Just like that.
I promised Him I would tell whoever He wants - so others can have hope - to know there's a way - But.....
I'm still afraid to be seen, to speak in front of people. I keep thinking about that snake....my daughter's persepective versus mine.
I don't know how I'm going to tell.....but I will. He gave me life. I owe Him.
"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.
"Words are the voice of the heart." Confucious
I never talked. I never told. I never said the things that happened. Instead I hid - overwhelmed with shame, wondering if all those awful things even happened at all. I used to talk in the third person - almost as if I was speaking for someone else and not for myself. I lived as if I wasn't a part of myself - Separate. Detached.
This blog has become my voice. It's given me the freedom to write what I can't say - to put a 'voice' to the memories that play in my head like old reruns that have kept me cowering in shame, - terrified to be seen.
When I sit at my computer and type - I feel free. It kind of feels like running in the woods. I can say what I want. I can say the truth. I can be honest. No one's looking at me.
My book is finished. My writer friend edited the whole thing. She said she was entralled. She said I'll touch many lives. She told me she's proud of me for writing it. My other friend, my best friend, gave my name to some local churches to speak at in the fall. The fall is too far away for me to worry about right now, but I hope I can stand up and have people look at me and tell the truth of what happened.
This morning I went for a run. I listened for God's voice. His voice gives me courage. This morning, I heard, 'trust.' One word. One powerful word. I believe He led me to write. He brought some amazing people to help me including some of you on the blog. I'm grateful, really grateful.
I want my voice to be heard. I don't want to be silent anymore. I want to help other people find peace and freedom. Maybe my story will give them that.
