Ew.
I seriously hate staring at those five words. I hate feeling the weight of their curves press against my heart. The point at which they meet feels wrong… unsettling really. When they rest at the top of a blank page they appear even more threatening; like it’s me versus the appellation, with no body to defend me.
The truth of the matter is that there is so much history behind those five small, simple words.
I’ve been trying to think of how this has become a reality in my life and the only thing that comes to mind is this: most of the pain I’ve experienced in my life stems from men.
At a young age I was very aware of my body. During the years that I was sexually abused, I can recall covering my undeveloped body up, hiding behind different forms of veils. I hid because I knew something wasn’t right. I hid because I was insecure. I believed I was doing something wrong.
I didn’t voice what happened to me for 10 years. The only word I ever released to anyone was, “yes” after they asked me if it was true. I knew what the tears were for, I saw the destruction of our family, I felt the magnitude of the pain.
The only thing I could muster up was a yes.
Fast-forward a few years and we’ve entered the most awkward phase of my life: middle school. There was one particular boy who constantly made fun of my appearance. My hair was too curly and crazy, my teeth were too small, my gums too big, my nose too large. Already incredibly aware of my body, now I began questioning details of myself I had never noticed before. This boy picked me apart for nearly 3 years and I began hating the very things he hated.
I spent years dissecting my body. Hating my appearance. Desiring something else. I wanted the opposite of all the things I had.
I wished I was anything, but me.
Right around the time my dad passed away I got involved in my first serious relationship. I was broken and sloppy and messy. I had no business being in a relationship, nor did I understand the severity of getting involved with someone in such a state of mind. Needless to say, he quickly became my savior. I grew dependent on him.
Our “love” was so broken. What I took from this relationship was that love hurts. Love hits. Love drags me by the hair and slams me to the ground. Love cheats. It makes me feel small. It destructs. It destroys. It makes me feel worthless.
Shortly after saying no to that love, I began to numb the pain by abusing alcohol. I would drink until I was incoherent.
The night I realized alcohol was no longer numbing my pain was the night I was too inebriated to defend myself. The night I realized alcohol was no longer numbing my pain was the night I was raped.
I dealt with years worth of relationships where men’s feelings for me were fleeting, uncertain, selfish, fickle, dysfunctional, unhealthy, and inappropriate.
I thought I healed from these instances. Truly, I felt like the wounds that were once exposed and swollen with infection had scabbed over and healed. Living at the orphanage this past month has shown me that my heart has not received appropriate attention. I am still wounded from my past.
I’ve spent plenty of late nights revisiting my past and questioning myself. Am I not doing enough? What could I be doing differently? How can I prove myself? How can I show that they’re wrong about me?
Where my mind is right now is comparable to a messy room. I look around and everything is unorganized. My drawers have been pulled out, my make-up is scattered about, clothes are everywhere… It’s overwhelming. All I can do is plop down and stare. The mess is too much to handle for my exhausted mind to facilitate a plan.
So I sit in my mess with no plan of how to start clearing things out.
I’ve learned that it’s okay to sit in my mess. I’ve been sitting in it for the past 2 weeks, realizing there is more pain that needs to be dealt with, but not knowing how to deal with it. I’ve realized I have wounds from years ago that I have forgotten about, but the Lord keeps bringing them back to me in order to completely cleanse my soul.
This blog has no clean, beautiful ending. This is where I rest right now. I’m sure of one thing; That God is in my mess, working it all together for my good. He takes the wound that spills over into other areas of my life, and He cleans it out. He loves me in my mess, but He loves me enough to put everything in the room back where it belongs… even if it means digging some junk out of the closet.
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