Finding My Voice

I’m not going to chronicle every experience I ever had. That’s not the point. The point is to help me to heal. And to show you that it’s possible. To write what I need to write, not what you want to know. This isn’t an extensive explanation of how all survivors feel or act. This is only my experience and my feelings. In any case, this isn’t the journal of a survivor. It’s the journal of a woman. Just me. Just an everyday woman. Who lived through a personal holocaust.

I am not a victim. Please don’t think of me like that. And I’m not a monster. I’m just a woman. I have had good and bad experiences. I have a few really good friends. I’ve experienced a great love. Or so I thought. I am the woman sitting at the table next to you at the restaurant. I’m just like you. Except.….

Except as a child someone shattered my trust. Maybe that’s something you can’t understand. Something that makes you draw back in horror and makes you try to put me in a safe pigeonhole. Or maybe this is something that you can understand only too well.

I have been a lot of things. I’ve leaned towards fanaticism in my need for perfection. The need to atone for the sins forced upon me. I’m no saint. I’m only human. I have been the Christian homeschool mom who unwittingly intimidated my own friends with my perceived competence and perfectionism. And I have been the divorced mom, the fallen woman.

Most people who know me, don’t. They think they know me. But I hide. Now you see me, now you don’t. Don’t get too close. I can’t stand the pain of another betrayal. So I don’t let you really know me. I divulge information you really didn’t want to know. Terribly personal information. But you can’t touch me inside. Because I can’t risk you really getting to know me and then rejecting me. Haven’t you noticed yet that this is anonymous? I’m hiding from you, too. You may learn more about me than you know about your best friend. But you won’t recognize me on the street. How’s that for a disappearing act? I don’t sound very trusting, do I? Well, I’m not. How can I be? Too many people I’ve trusted have turned on me. So I protect myself. It’s survival. That’s why I’m known as a survivor.

Can you read this without judging me? Can you read it without forgiving me? Can you read through it at all without setting it aside and saying, “I can’t handle this”? It might shock you. Or it might help you to realize that you’re not crazy. You’re not bad. You’re not alone. You’re just like me. Maybe you’re a survivor, too.