There is no forgiving -- Survivor PTSD.

I've been here before. I'm sick. I have come down with bronchitis once again. Just a bug? For me it's a sign that my PTSD is active. This is what the Stanford rape is bringing up.

Trauma at work
weakens my defenses as I take my eyes off
As I tell myself I am ok,
and I am, but I am not
not ok.
 I am ok now.
I am ok today.
Mantra, keeps me sane.
I am safe, today.

There is no present danger,
except inside my head.
I move through daily life,
take the car into the shop,
cry in the car before I go into work
put on a smile and think,
if I make no fuss,
if I give them no power,
the feelings will go away.
But they stay.

Underneath it all,
I'm operating on alert
fight or flight,
thankful to go to sleep at night,
tiring my body
day in and day out.
Sometimes I can't tell,
if I'm trying to foget,
or staying busy not to
recreate the scenes again.

Tell no one.
Tell not.one.
kiss the children good morning,
go on, have a  good day,
tuck them to bed under stars,
tell them they are safe,
though mom is in pain,
remembering
what happened on that day.
Keep on moving.
You'll be ok.

The news of Brock has unearthed a storm of feelings about my own rape 18 years ago. One, that like many, I swept under the rug in shame and fear of more judgement and rejection and pain. I read her letter and wept. Wished I had that kind of healing, that fast. I am only now in therapy, breaking patterns of abuse and here is, this.  Rape, dysfunction, self-esteem, worth. Poster kid am I? Part of my birth to consciousness, my teacher says. I know, he's right, my story is mine to tell.

I went to marry
I went to college,
I ran obstacle races
accrued trainings and degrees
badass I wanted to be.
I wanted to be the best
to be loved,
to be cared for,
to care for others,
to show everyone,
I was success.
Look! at what I can do.
Love me,
I've earned it.
When the truth is,
I don't know,
didn't know,
how to love me
just for me,
and not judge me
and not be afraid,
of me and you
and rejection and regret.

So in my own narrative I hear myself, my own worst critic. "I could have helped it," I could have made different choices. I could have chosen not to naively go out that night. I could have I should have, I shouldn't have. I could have fought, though I had been date-drugged, I wish I had...

I wish I had,
superhuman strenght
to say outloud what my head
screamed at that moment.
To say:
No!, stop! I don't want to be here.
Take me home.

I wish I had,
pushed him of,
told the cop, who did come,
and did nothing,
that I wasn't his girlfriend,
that he was 23,
that I was only,
15.
That it was dark,
and I was scared,
and I didn't feel like myself.
That I was ashamed.

That I only had 1 drink,
something wasn't right,
I went to the bathroom
I didn't feel well
and then
like I zombie, that's all,
out of body, I was there.

"Oh, I didn' think it was your first time"
He said,
and he dropped me off,
at home, in shock,
parents mad because I was late.
Shower, blood, bed.

Truth? I have more anger towards myself. I try to place it somewhere else. I want to own that speech, that says "No, it wasn't my fault, I didn't ask for it."

So yesterday, coughing, with a fever from stuffing all the feelings that are coming up, in therapy I was frozen when I was asked to talk to my 15 year old self. What would I say?

-I love you. Yes. It wasn't your fault.
       My voice cracks. I can almost believe it. Almost.
-You are still a beatiful soul.
--Stupid bitch-my head interjects- Why didn't you stay home that day? Why did you have to be a rebellious teenager who thought she'd go have drinks and play pool for a couple of hours? Why didn't you listen. It is your fault. You are dirty. You will always be dirty. That's why you feel unworthy. Stupid stupid young girl. It's your mother's fault, she taught you how to act like a lose woman, like a whore. Libertinaje. Estupida. Eres una estupida. Te lo dije. Pero no.... On it can go. That voice, that litany of unworth.

The voice of my father. Still now, in me, just as cruel, just as cutting, just as judgemental. The voice of catholicism. The voice of all the unlearning I chose to do today.

I fight on. I cry. I muster out loud:
-No. I am a beautiful soul. You've worked so hard to forgive yourself. You can forgive yourself.

-There is no forgiving
 He interjects, after I am quiet. Not my father this time. My therapist, my teacher, my guide.
The thing is Marcy, you don't earn forgiveness, and you didn't do anything that needs forgiving.

That's the crux. Right now. There's no forgiveness needed. My brain can't wrapt itself around it.

But I must grieve. I must grieve what I never did. I must grieve what I was too busy hiding from everyone then. Too afraid of judgement, too caught up judging myself.

To let go
I must grieve
what happened then
to that kid
who had barely
given a first kiss,
who had never
been touched tenderly.
Who didn't get to say yes.
Who didn't get to chose
how she
a woman became.
Who hurt,
and didn't have parents
who could help her
too caught up in their
addiction,
drama and codependency
the cycle
repeats itself.

It wasn't my fault. I need not forgive me. I need to, let go, to be well. I chose to, feel, and release.
One day.
Today,
One night,
Tonight.
Permission to feel,
now,
with all the fear
and all the doubt,
onto uncharted territory
slowly walking
sometimes crawling
the misery otherwise
to great to bear.
The road to healing,
sometimes,
is born of desperation.
One day,
if I keep soaking
in forgivness without regret
in forgiveness without judgement
in forgiveness without
condition
or consequence,
I hope that feeling
will stay.

Enough. I owe love to myself. I owe kindness to myself.  I owe distance from those harsh patterns devoid of compassion and love and embrace. Enough. So, if you find yourself being angered, regressing or getting triggered, you are not alone. In bringing light to hard issues, perhaps we can come together as a village to bring eachother healing, to face the challenges that come before us, as they pop up. I'm often reminded I don't pick my own healing agenda, and avoiding it, or sidestepping it -if I am paying attention- gets me all twisted, and even physically sick.

In love and light,
May you feel the warmth and embrace that it is often easier for me to extend to you, than it is to me. We are not alone.
Namaste.