My hand trembles as I place the key in the door.  As it opens, the memories flood my mind.  Overwhelmed, bracing myself, my body enters as my mind remains at the door.  My legs move in, placing themselves on the floor – criss cross applesauce.  My eyes glance  around the room.  My hands reach for the box of memories closest to me.  Fingers, still trembling, take off the lid…

Our Dalmatian is sitting in the orange chair by the window, crying. My mom is frantic.  “The dog is choking! Help the dog! He is dying! He can’t breathe!”

There is a red velvet picture of an angry bull on the wall, glaring at me.

The blanket with the wild animals on it that covered me as a child wraps itself around me.  The animals come alive, racing toward my face, just as they did in my dreams.  They reach my face yet something is holding them back.

Easter baskets in the pantry, friends’ laughter, Rudolph’s nose flashing in the sky on Christmas Eve.

A dead frog under the bucket.  Flooded basement. The rancid smell of Miller Lite fills the room. I hear my mom crying. Sobbing.

The door to the room opens.  Someone enters.  I feel a presence, but my mind does not register his face.  My mind finally joins me.  He picks me up and holds me.  The pain fades.

Raging waters rush into the room.

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.