This post I won’t add a positive thing for the day, because the whole post is about positive change. While I’m still weary about not recovering as fast as I’d wish to, I do have 2 pretty big realizations this week.
Sometimes in life, we have to work towards realizations, but sometimes they just fall upon us. So these 2, just came to me. Ok, no, I would like to think I have earned them. I have spend 4 months going over details of my past, I would rather not relive. I relived them, thought over them, and fried in my own special hell in efforts to reinvent my life.
So here I am today, with some good progress on the horizon, finally.
The first comes as I remember of a forum where I used to write when I first returned home, and didn’t know how to deal with what happened. Even pronouncing the word rape seemed like an impossible thing to do. It’s a forum for abuse and other such issues, and it helps a lot at the time. But as I get to a point where I can lie well to myself and deny what happened, I move away from it, without a word. I have been there when I needed it, and figured it was time I moved on.
Now, as I return there, I reread all that I wrote- all the messy, confused messages and PMs. I read it, and I am surprised. All this time I have thought that the summer away from home, that being raped and all that happened there has been what made me grow up, and I hate it. I’m more than familiar with the concept of good things coming from bad things, but I still hate it. I didn’t want to grow up from that. And now I see.
I see it, in all the messy, confusing posts. This isn’t when I have grown. I haven’t grown because of what happened. I have grown in the past 2 years, because of the efforts I have taken to move away from it, and making different choices. I have grown up not from what happened, but because of how I have chosen to handle it. That feels a lot better. I’m not sure why, but it makes HUGE difference.
“I feel broken” I say to my friend- the one whom I went to, to make amends for breaking my promise. I have just opened up and told him how I got to here and why. I have cried for about an hour while he asked the obvious questions around what happened. He has been warm and supportive, and calmed me down. We then proceeded to talk about art and dreams and books. It’s been a nice evening, and now I am venting by telling him how I have felt lately.
“You’re not broken” he insists softly, just like my boyfriend does every time I say it. I keep thinking it. They just can’t see.
I sleep in very little chunks, waking from too vivid dreams, and laying awake, rethinking all that we talked about. There is something new in me. I have gained a friend, but it’s more than that. There is something more, new information, that is going in my head, information I don’t understand yet. I almost feel like…drawing. I haven’t felt that urge in quite a while.
I think again. And then it hits me. I AM broken. I FEEL broken. He didn’t break me. I broke me. I broke me, because the world in which I draw and dream and I love- it can’t be the world in which I wake up in the middle of the night screaming. So I broke myself, and left behind all that made me myself, so that I would be able to live with what happened. I broke myself into pieces and stomped over them. But now that I know that it was me and not what he did to me, it’s better. It’s better because I broke myself. So I can put myself together again. Not at once. Slowly. Piece by piece. But it’s a choice, choice I can make.
And I think I may start by trying to draw.:)