Last night, I found myself lying awake… remembering. Bits and pieces, flashes peaking around the corners of my mind. There was not a big emotional hit, but some silent tears did eventually slip down my cheek. Not many… just enough to know there is something in there, something in the bits and pieces sliding in from the ragged edges. There is, once again, confirmation.
What was the trigger? I think I know, but it really does not matter. Life is full of triggers. What is important to me is how I handle them when they come. Sometimes, I try to redirect my thoughts to something else. When that does not work, or if the bits and pieces persist in floating through and grabbing my attention, I just allow my mind to look at them and see what is going to happen.
I am so successful at dissociating my emotions from the images it is automatic. It’s always been that way. The times when the emotions connect with the images, has been pretty rough. But it is rare. On the one hand, it does allow me a certain amount of freedom to “explore”. On the other hand, it tells me there is a dam holding it all back. I don’t only have traumatic amnesia regarding the memories as a whole, I also have a wall of “amnesia” when it comes to the emotions associated with the memories I do have.
Sometimes, the emotions slip out and I have no context for them. Thankfully, that is not often, just as the visual flashes are not often. There are times when it is more frequent. It could happen around dates, events or just seeing/hearing something that reminds me of my history… whether consciously or unconsciously.
At some point, I fully expect some things to come together and gel into something coherent. That coherency may rock me in the moment as it sometimes has in the past. Or I may dissociate it away. But dissociation, while helpful in the moment, only puts off the inevitable.
I am real. My history is real. I own it all… the horror, the pain, the suffering, all the actions done to me and by me, all of it. I own it, but it is not who I am. And I refuse to feel guilt for things I was forced, trained or programmed to do. The perps own the guilt for that. Sadly, in the world in which I grew up (if you can even call it “growing up”), the perps were victims, too. And their victims often become perps of some kind. And so it goes, generation after generation until someone gets the help to be strong enough to say it is the end of the line.
One of the saddest things is when children are forced to be perpetrators. Even though they are forced, whether physically or with threat of serious harm to themselves or someone they love, they grow up feeling like they are perpetrators. It takes a lot to heal from such things and I am not sure we ever completely do in this life.
So, I remind myself this is NOT my true Home. Do I long to go Home? Sure… often. Do I long to go Home now? At times. But that is not a decision for me to make. So long as I have breath, I have a reason to be here, even if I cannot see it in the moment. I know from experience, the reason will become known. I just have to wait for it.