I wrote the following words last August, when I was finally brave enough to face my fear and look at my trauma head on. It took an entire day for the words to pour out of me. I couldn’t keep them inside me anymore. I have not gone back and read them since, so this is very raw and unedited, but I think it’s better this way, because these words hold bravery and truth, and it would be a disservice to the healing process to go back and polish them. My story isn’t polished, but it needs to be told. It’s finally time to be open about my trauma experiences, because even though I’m not feeling very brave right now, I know it is impactful and it will bring healing and hope to others who have gone through similar experiences.

TW: childhood trauma, sexual trauma

*****

I was 19, recently back from a cold camping trip at the Oregon Coast with a small group of friends. I’m not sure if it was the exhaustion of attempting to sleep in a tent in March, rushing back to drop another friend off at the airport, or if my grief had just grown too large for my body to contain. All I knew was this gut wrenching, soul deep grief was threatening to consume me. It was the scariest decision of my life to trust God and allow it to flow through me. It was also the best decision I have ever made.

There have been three other landmark moments when the deep weight of grief became too much and demanded release. At summer camp before 7^th grade, after months of uncertainty if the court case against my abuser would ever go to trial and the worry that when it did, I would have to relive my worst experiences in front of my family, complete strangers, and him. Last year, after reading The Myth of Normal by Dr. Gabor Mate, because my body was so exhausted from a burnt-out nervous system, and I was finally equipped with the compassion needed to allow my body to speak. This morning, as I welcomed my four-year-old heart back into my chest, 38 years after it had completely shattered when I was sexually assaulted by a neighbor.

Each time it hurt like hell, but there was purpose in the pain, and it was always followed by times where I have felt the most love, peace, and freedom to be me. How can the deepest pain bring the deepest joy?

I recognize now that this grief has always been with me. I know now that when my heart shattered, my soul had to dissociate to protect me from completely shattering. A four-year-old brain is not equipped to process trauma, so it did what it had to do to keep me safe. Dissociation wiped the traumatic assault from the forefront of my brain so I could keep experiencing life. It stored everything in the survival part of my brain and only made itself known when it was triggered, like the primal fear I felt just by walking past the house where it happened.

Dissociation kept doing its job until a different neighbor used grooming techniques to gain my trust so he could get his hands on my developing pre-teen chest. My underdeveloped and permanently active nervous system rooted my feet to the spot while all the alarms screamed in warning. I carried shame for many years that I “let it happen” because I was frozen and unable to say no. I know now that an eleven-year-old doesn’t need to say no. A four-year-old doesn’t need to say no.

I avoided him as much as possible and made sure I was never alone with him, though it didn’t stop his roving hands from inappropriately “tickling” me before giving me an underdog push on the swings by our house.

It was a group that came to our school and acted out different abusive scenarios that finally gave me the words to understand what had happened and that it was wrong. I don’t know where my bravery came from, but I grabbed my friend for moral support and I told the school counselor what had happened. This began the long process of telling my parents, then telling a police officer they knew from our church who had a daughter my age that I went to school with. I was absolutely mortified that he knew my darkest and dirtiest secret. After the police officer talked to the other girls in the neighborhood, there was one other girl who admitted to being abused as well. There wasn’t enough to press charges when it was just me. Now the case could move forward.

As much as I didn’t want to keep reliving my pain, I didn’t want other girls to be hurt by him like I had been. As much as it hurt and was awkward as fuck for me at the time, I am so thankful that my parents listened and trusted me and advocated for me. Even when the neighborhood was split because he was a “nice guy” and took us out for ice cream and video games, his grandson was fighting leukemia, the other girl was a pathological liar, these things aren’t talked about and should be swept under the rug, my parents stood up for me.

I was in counseling for a little while when I started getting flashbacks from when I was four. Suddenly why I feared that house made sense. I still didn’t know exactly what happened, but I remembered just enough to know it was bad.

I told my therapist, who told my parents. I asked if we were going to press charges and was secretly relieved that the statute of limitations had run out. I didn’t stay in counseling for very long. I don’t remember whose decision it was to stop. Life just went on. Life HAD to keep going. It was still too much to process. I may have been eleven but my coping skills were stuck at four. I was still dissociated, but without the brain wipe.

I remember starting my period that summer and not telling my mom because of the shame I held for my body. I can still see the sadness in her eyes when she found out and realized I hadn’t told her.

I remember the multiple trips downtown to the courthouse. I remember having to tell what happened to me to the grand jury, a room full of strange adults sitting in a circle. They provided a teddy bear for us to hold onto during the interview. I remember waiting in dread of having to testify before the court, before my abuser, and the relief when it was delayed yet again.

It took several years before he finally took a plea bargain, and we sat in the courtroom for the pomp and ceremony of sentencing. Up until that point he had been under house arrest. I don’t remember any details. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be in the same room as him. I was glad it was over. I guess it provided closure.

Time distanced the pain. Like I said, life keeps going. I found new ways to keep myself safe. I was extra vigilant around older men. I only gave side hugs. I distracted myself with normal pre-teen activities. My dissociation kept me from feeling that overwhelming pain, unless it became too much to contain and demanded release. Like at that fateful summer camp. All I can remember is being part of a group hug of other youth and crying harder than I ever had before. This was a soul level grief that was pouring out of me. Maybe it was the communal grief and not being alone that was so magical, or maybe it was the simple act of freeing some of my pain, but life changed after that.

I became more comfortable and happier about who I was. I embraced my weirdness, before Portland admitted its weirdness. I still had moments of sadness and depression, but for the most part, I was a cheerful person, and I enjoyed life.

I tried therapy again in high school, during one of those seasons of sadness, but even though my teenage brain knew something wasn’t right, my four-year-old nervous system wasn’t ready. The only thing I remember learning is I would pull my hands into the arms of my sweater and “turtle” when I felt uncomfortable. I still love holding the ends of my sleeves in the palms of my hands and wrapping myself up in blankets.

The season passed, I excelled in high school and in life. I moved out. Got a job. Started college. Had fun with my friends. I was okay. I was thriving.

Until I wasn’t.

Until the grief came bubbling back and demanded release. It felt like my soul was splitting in two when I finally allowed it space.

I cried for the teenager that was plagued with sadness but didn’t know how to process it.

I cried for the eleven-year-old whose innocence had been robbed with one touch.

I cried for the four-year-old who didn’t know what had happened to her, that was still too scared to find the truth.

I cried tears from the deepest part of my being, painful, healing tears. My grief was so heavy, that I remember just laying down on a pew and crying through our College Age group at church. I took an incomplete in my Writing 123 class because I didn’t have it in me to finish the last paper. I peed a lot because the tears I couldn’t cry would fill my bladder. I cried when my coworkers filed a harassment complaint against another coworker, and I had to give a witness statement to HR. I took the rest of the day off.

I was finally facing all my pain. It hurt like hell. But just like that time at summer camp, there was a peace that came with releasing those soul wounds. In choosing to be vulnerable, I felt a deeper sense of love and being loved. I was healing.

I started dating. Got married. Started a family. Life was pretty good. Sure, there were ups and downs, stressors and joys, but that’s life, right?

In 2017 I started developing the first symptoms of a burnt-out nervous system, though I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time. I just knew that certain foods caused physical and psychological distress. I removed the offending foods from my diet after ruling out Celiac disease and eventually went through several rounds of treatment for SIBO (Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth).

As the #metoo movement gained traction in late 2017, early 2018, it triggered my PTSD when I thought about sharing my own story.

I sought out a therapist. It was super awkward in the beginning. I overshared, wanting to get my story out of me as quickly as possible. I learned to treat myself with kindness instead of criticism. I learned I could put my overwhelming thoughts in a box to think about later, at a time when I was ready to process them. I learned to physically move through my emotions.

I didn’t learn that my dissociated four year old was REALLY GOOD at people pleasing and telling people what they wanted to hear, doing the things they wanted me to do, rather than what I needed to do for myself.

Therapy eventually tapered off and I stopped going. I was better adjusted. I had a promotion at work, a new start.

My health continued to plague me, ribs kept slipping out, my SI (sacroiliac) joint kept shearing. I learned I had hypermobility, which is a connective tissue disorder. A year later I developed POTS (postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome) and MCAS (mast cell activation syndrome). My diet became even more limited. I wore compression garments to help my blood come back to my heart. I always had water and salt on me. I used umbrellas and fans and cooling towels to help mitigate the effects of the sun from dilating my veins, or my heart rate would jump over 120 bpm and trigger fight or flight. My hands and feet would turn bright red and start burning if I ate the wrong food, exercised, or from stress.

I did all that I could to take care of myself, but it only muted the symptoms a little.

I was blessed to have a group of doctors that believed me and didn’t give up trying to help me get better.

I went to Physical Therapy (still do!), had routine osteopathic manipulation to keep my joints in place, acupuncture, myofascial release, and saw countless specialists in my quest to get better.

I had blood drawn, x-rays, endoscopies, MRIs, CTs, so many tests that told me that I wasn’t normal, but not bad enough for more invasive interventions.

I was exhausted trying to manage my health and all the appointments required for the treatment needed to manage my health.

But I kept going. I kept a positive attitude. I wasn’t a quitter. I gave 110% in everything I did, because I am a stubborn and enthusiastic individual.

I found humor in the pain, and solace in trying to understand all my conditions.

I read The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk and I knew that’s what my body was experiencing. My early childhood trauma was yelling at me through the pain in my body. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. But I didn’t know how to UNDO it.

Yet.

A year later I watched an episode of Mayim Bialik’s Breakdown where she interviewed Dr. Gabor Maté. They talked about his book, The Myth of Normal, and discussed at length the effects of trauma on the body. He was insightful and full of so much wisdom. I knew I needed to read his book.

As I devoured The Myth of Normal, I was finally able to recognize that my traumatic response that was so helpful when I was four had gotten locked in place and was still trying to keep me safe. He explained the science on why this happens (I shall not attempt to translate it here. I highly encourage you to READ THIS BOOK!!) and I finally understood why I had never been able to “think” my way better, or “make” my self better.

The programming in my brain designed to process trauma was still running on Windows 95 and never knew to upgrade. Technically, since the trauma happened in 1985, it was probably running on DOS.

Dr. Gabor Maté’s book provided hope that it was possible to get better, and the steps to take to get better, which centered around compassionate curiosity.

In the spring of 2023, I put what I had learned into practice. I thanked my dissociation for loving me and for keeping me safe all these years. I gave it permission to let go. I would be okay.

That was the beginning of another season of healing deep, painful grief. This time, however, I didn’t need to understand what was behind each painful emotion. I only needed to allow it the space to speak and release.

I didn’t realize the tension my body always held, until I felt each body part release. I was amazed at how soft my neck was. I could actually recognize when I was holding stress in my body, because I was finally actively present in my body.

My nervous system was finally healing, though it would take a while for the health conditions to follow and would require me to quit my job.

My body was healing, my soul was back, but I was still afraid to face the trauma I experienced when I was four. It was shockingly painful. Couldn’t I keep employing the “don’t need to understand, just need to feel” technique?

Apparently not.

Earlier this summer I was working on a writing prompt to write about a time when I was caught in the act, or discovered to have done something bad, and disappointed someone. Everything in me still screamed not to, but I knew I had to write about that day when I was four. I needed to see it in black and white. I needed to sit with it instead of continuing to run away.

This summer has been sprinkled with moments of revelation, clarity, grief, and healing as I have allowed the processing of the traumatic experience to naturally ebb and flow, rather than pound it all out at once.

It was too much to be able to deal with all at once.

This morning it was finally time to put the part of my heart that broke off when I was four and has been living in such abject terror, back into place.

My heart still hurts, and once again I cried those gut-wrenching tears, but it’s beautifully whole.

The abject terror is still there, and presents as all consuming panic, but I’m allowing it to feel and release, like I did at 19.

Like I did at 41.

I can already see the first signs of peace, it’s tiny green blades poking out of the soil of my heart.