Mine started before I even realized I’d need it…
Each piece weaved its way in, joining the others as they waited.
A little girl, crying in the middle of the night since she was caught, and beaten again, for stealing from the pantry… becomes a woman who holds two babies, one inside her womb, one on her hip, as she is beaten by her drunk husband one last time. Courage drove her to escape.
Her courage ran deep.
The escape route lead to more pain… another abusive man, words that cut deep, striking her young girls as well.
Breaking free once again, the path lead to freedom, finally. She released her past into an empty room, locked the door, buried the key. She thought.
As the baby inside her womb, a challenging journey was laid out for me. As much as my mom tried to keep that room locked, our memories lined its walls.
The physical and verbal abuse attempted to program her identity as ashamed, unimportant, fearful, and powerless. In her weakest moments, these identities won. She never allowed them to define her. Her courage, like magma that reaches its maximum pressure inside a volcano, welled up, exploded, and covered her. It conquered the false identities.
Unfortunately, the depth of my mom’s courage did not mirror my own. The identities were my enemies that attached themselves daily. Every time I tried to peel them off, they jumped back on.
I’ve grown tired of living this way. I’m seeking a better life, one that offers freedom, courage, strength, and ultimately, true healing.
My angst for true healing has led me to the locked room. The key is in my clenched fist, its teeth piercing my skin, longing to set me free.
I am ready to enter the room, and uncover the memories that lined those walls.