I am fine. Now.
It happened 38 years ago, 36 years ago... 33 years ago... and in the fuzzy, weird times in between. I made myself forget.
So then there was the silence... Then there was angst and struggle in my young adult life. I broke apart.
I tried to do therapy about concrete things in the present tense, and then uncomfortable things bubbled up. I ignored them.
Finally, after much angst and acting out, I found good teachers and therapists who helped me see that the way out of the pain was through the pain.
I did that. And I did that. And I did that. I have beautiful, sad journals stretching back twenty years. I was so brave in those journals. Just seeing the pictures I made splits me: I am the sad person who created the journals, and I am the editor/creative-coach who is stunned by the real journey being shared (by me).
I have made a beautiful journey, but it has not brought me freedom.
I think I need to torch it all. Every time I find these boxes that hold pictures, journals, correspondence, I feel re-injured by what happened to me.
It's time to move forward -- all around. I can't let E find these journals. She's starting to read. In fact, just tonight we sounded out the word "hit."