“quickly i turned on the light and saw him sitting there.”

there’s a nightmare in my closet, mercer mayer

a child’s first seven years of life are spent absorbing the world and sorting it into blissful categories of good and bad. faces smiling (good), graffiti on a school (bad), bike rides through a preserved forest (good), welts in the shape of a looped extension cord on my friend’s back (bad)…a bed with handmade quilts, stories of survival from refugees shrouded in disguise, homemade yogurt, children shamed for calling for their mothers, a weeping willow with vine like branches to swing from, fried processed meat and stale smoke wafting from down the street, a child falling down and every adult around laughing at him, a bird mimicking my voice, smoke from things i didn’t recognize, a ditch serving as a pool after rainstorms, neighbors’ homes still asleep even though the sun had been up for hours, marigolds in our yard serving as the only flowers on the block, men laughing at my visible fear of walking past them, dirt paths in place of sidewalks, snow like blankets with the smells of toast and coffee and mint close, people eating out of garbage cans, being found when lost at preschool, being taunted for wearing a dress because of the mystery of “what’s under there, little girl,” experiencing genuine love, and knowing the universal instinct to survive.

i like to wonder how i would have embraced the next stage of childhood: the next seven years that invite discernment and action. how would i have used all that i saw? how would i have advocated for my friends? how would i have followed my intuition? how would i have negotiated with neighbors and strangers? how would i have navigated the world around me? how would i have recategorized beyond the stark good and bad?

all my wonderings, my smile provoking images, my vivid daydreams are interrupted by remembering the moment my world imploded.

the moments when time warped: faster than the speed of light and slower than still all at the same time. every second giving with too much time to think while reality was moving too fast to grasp. fear barreling through and lingering too long all at the same time. a mind frozen and racing all at the same time. a body still on the outside and flailing on the inside. eyes looking through the doorway’s crack at everyone and seeing no one. all at the same time.

the moments when bad was renamed worse, redeeming renamed illusion, safe renamed threat.

here’s the deal:

in december i got a letter from a family friend admitting to sexually abusing me as a child. i’ve held the memory at the front of my mind and in the cells of my body since the moment it happened. it’s woven through community, church and secrets many times over.

i imagine my wide eyed, sensitive child self was already walking a little cautiously with a plate full of all i absorbed before any of this happened. and that first moment when i knew something “wrong” was happening, so much was heaped on the plate, it cracked. i stumbled to keep it from breaking apart. i imagine me carrying it with balance and precise pressure, keeping it together. every time more piled on, it took more diligence, alertness, caution and strength. the determination to avoid adding any more weight became my life’s work.

it was like a ever changing dance that i didn’t know the moves to. trying to dance with partners that i denied the existence of while experiencing over and over. trying to learn the dances before they even started. trying to dance with limb drained fear. trying to avoid a dance i was already doing.

so. the cryptic photos on facebook? the longer pauses when talking? the swollen eyes? the cliches i spout with child-like enthusiasm? the hearty laughter? the healthy body? the intensifying sailor mouth? the labor-like distance? the craved closeness? ah ha.

the passionate preschool teacher? ah ha. the great enthusiast? the compassionate stranger? the wild imagination? the rock solid faith in the mystery of god? the ability to find an analogy for anything? the love of small things? the keen eyed photographer? the desire for external beauty? the owner of rosiest colored glasses in the room? the clever idea girl? the quick fixer? the creator of safe spaces draped in rainbows? the white knuckle grip on saving a child’s dignity? ah ha. it makes sense, right?

how about the extreme sensitivity? the girl with hair cut like a boy’s? the rebellious teenage years? the all or nothing thinking? the lonely faith in a predetermined life? the rotating phobias? the deep depression after miscarriage? the boundaries that seem to come out of nowhere? the exaggerated startle response (kristin aka “jumpy jane”)? the thrill of bringing happiness to others? the fear of imperfection? or the recent uncoverings of shame and guilt and worthlessness?

and while they all may “make sense,” it doesn’t matter if i am who i am because of or in spite of my experiences.

now

i just am.

and i’m a grown up.

and i have choices.

and i have responsibility.

and this isn’t just about me.

by shining a light in the closets, the corners and under the bed, i can see what’s there.

by digging through it, i can see all of what’s there…the good and bad.

by telling, i am opening the door to what’s been lit.

by opening, i’m sharing the light, which belongs to us all anyway.

 

“it’s not about slaying the monster, it’s about learning to lead the dance.”

-dennis merritt jones