I rode the vehicle of a writer’s challenge group to delve deep into the wounds that held me back, to challenge the inner demons that took most of their cues from this one troubled relationship and set of unfortunate circumstances.
At one point the transformation accelerated to the point that I wanted professional help to navigate emerging ptsd-style memories, so I hired a therapist whose vehement advice was to sever all ties with that person, forever, and never look back...
In the past twelve months another story has unfurled, which has ripened now to the point that it is only fair to give it voice.
After receiving the recommendation to sever ties, I recognized something inside was very unhappy with the idea. Not a shred of good work could come from that tactic! I was on a roll, I was feeling mighty, and I had two objectives: I was going to do myself the favor of saying, face-to-face, exactly what happened to “wee me” as a result of their actions, choices, and neglectfulnesses; and they were going to get the opportunity to rise to the challenge of hearing it full-on, and possibly make the jump to transformation.
It was a colossal risk, and the whole thing could have blown up in my face. But here I had these inner demons nattering away at me, at the same time that I had this burgeoning force moving me forward- Having reclaimed all the energy I’d been giving away through the damage itself, the time came to take the risk that was creating all the fear.
So. I did not sever ties. I made a coffee date.
I arrived with a set of notes because this person is my single greatest ptsd trigger and the notes serve as an anchor to be sure I don’t miss anything I wanted to say, and I can also jot responses so they don’t get whirled away in the intensity of the moment.
I walked to the cafe- tall, strong, confident. I chose the seat and sat calmly, waiting... within two minutes my stomach was turning flips, my hands were shaking, and my breath was all over the place. I had to hit on my asthma inhaler. A little baby panic attack.
And then my “date” arrived. We exchanged what pleasantries we could, then got down to business. Whomever said, “Speak your truth, even if your voice shakes”, totally had my back right then. I was standing on a towering cliff while perched on a stool in a trendy little cafe.
I was about to take an irrevocable leap, and all the tumultuous scenes from the past were spooling to replay themselves indefinitely if I missed my footing.
But I started. I started, and I kept going, and I was a river of anger and frustration and loss of innocence. I explained everything that was wrong way back when, what it did to the tiny person I was, who had no tools to cope with it and who then responded by storing it all in hidden pockets of her being that occasionally rupture when current-time too closely resembles “back-when”. I was bitter, I was caustic, I was on fire.
... and I was heard.
I had expected vehement denials, half-assed explanations, a violent eruption like the ones that resulted from past efforts to stand up for myself, and that were the hallmark of the original trauma.
But no. On the other side of the table I saw a person holding themselves wide open, unflinching, to receive whatever I had to put forward. No arguments, no denials, just a willing container for the outpouring of bile, venom, and tears I was churning out.
When I was emptied, I was told that I was right, that the past was indeed regrettable, and that I should not have been made to bear what I did. Redemption as a verb goes two ways. A person can redeem themselves, by taking responsibility for the things of which they are guilty (which, last summer I did not believe was possible for this person).
A person can also redeem another, by confirming that the penance they’ve undertaken has been sufficient in accordance with the wrongs they’ve done. We began this two-way process that day, perhaps to our mutual surprise.
At the very end, I was asked if there were any, any memories from childhood that were of brighter days. At the time there were none I could access- they were still buried under the rest that I’d just begun to express. This brought sadness to us both, but I said I’d keep an eye out as I continued clearing useless baggage.
The scene described above has been repeated a number of times since last summer, and by now I’ve said all I needed to. Last time we got together it was just to have lunch.
This is not to say things are suddenly rosy and uncomplicated. But so much of the mess has been cleared away that we can sit together in present time without first confronting the spectre of yesteryear.
Recently I began a course of bodywork that assists in releasing stored trauma. During the first session I came up against a strong emotion from childhood which caught me off guard. It was the simple, uncomplicated love of a young child, before anything awful happened to taint it. It swept into/through/over me with a surge of such tenderness that I wept.
This must be my own small redemption.
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