Surviving

I am a survivor of childhood abuse.  I was raised to never speak of it, to remember the good and let the bad go.  I was to love him, understand him, be kind, patient, grateful...

How does one do this in actuality?  How do you lick your wounds alone and in silence? For me...I ate.  I ate away the disappointment, the lack of support.  I stuffed in the certain knowledge that indeed perhaps my father was right, I could never be smart enough, pretty enough, strong enough, basically that no matter what I ever did, said, believed or felt, I would never be enough.

Recently the pain of memories long repressed have reared their ugly head again. In my adult life I have sought out counselling about a half dozen times.  Each time I leave stronger, more confident, part of my perpetual tape recording of unworthiness cut.  But like an onion the effects of abuse are layered, one can not wish away a layer prematurely.  Our wonderful minds sometimes don't allow us to peal away more than we can handle at a time.  Rather we peal away to the raw nerve of our innermost pain until we can no longer peal away for that time.

With my weight loss surgery I am forced to deal with my actual issues as stuffing them away conveniently with donuts and soda just is no longer in the cards.  I have tried!  Not a good idea post surgical weight loss.

I went back to my counselor in the past two weeks and since my first time there with her was for an issue with my children we never got to delve into my own past.  I was asked to write down a few items from my childhood that I felt might have left an impact in my life and to quantitate each event.   I sat down and within minutes I had three pages of memories but was unable to place an order of importance on each event.

Which is worse, being beaten until blood dripped from your back and legs or seeing your sibling similarly  beaten? Which has a greater impact, your brother being murdered or not eating day after day until you no longer felt hunger? Never knowing what might set him off, a look, a spilled glass of milk, constantly being on your toes to remember your manners for it wasn't just yourself you could endanger but the beating of your sibling or mother.

What we wouldn't have done to have a place to go, a bed to sleep in without the fear of being found. But sadly for us that was not to be. Today I attended a luncheon for a local shelter, I sat and listened as one after the other spoke of the good that came out of their stay in the shelter. How do we mend?  Where do we mend?  To whom do you turn?

This I know, we must never stop trying.  We can't begin to know the pain and suffering of another individual. Happy well adjusted people do not over eat to the point of morbid obesity, alcoholics aren't thirsty...we are all searching for what ever is missing.

My greatest fear is that my father was right.  I will work everyday to prove that he was mistaken, that I am pretty enough, strong enough, able enough.  I am enough.