“We tell ourselves lies to bear the truth.”
Dr. Dan Allender
“Daughter of Eve from the far land of Spare Oom where eternal summer reigns around the bright city of War Drobe, how would it be if you came and had tea with me?”
The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis
Once upon a time, in a land that now seems far, far away, I lived a life of eternal summer—a fairytale that was true. At least, I believed it to be true, and I believed with such sincerity that if belief alone could make something true, it would have become real. If only…My real life was more like The Truman Show. The mirage shattered when memories of complex trauma returned, and my entire world view crumbled to my feet.
Looking at the rubble around me, my head spins with vertigo. I feel bewildered and disoriented. Dust hangs in the air so thickly I put a scarf over my nose and mouth as my lungs begin to reject it with wracking coughs. I fear I might vomit, and indeed, I might. The memories bear such horror and devastation. The very foundation beneath me was false, and it feels as though I no longer know what’s true. Perpetually I feel like I need to sit down, put my head between my knees, and bring the blood back. I wish I could take a leave of absence.
Broken turrets, shattered French crystalline windows, peach silken curtains in shreds, cracked Italian marble patios, the earth beneath convulsing… a life in flames. I sink to my knees in wracking sobs, and cry out my surrender, “Uncle…uncle…uncle…” I long for the earthquake to stop. To find my footing. For comfort. For life to go back to how it was. Yet, I know I cannot unsee the truth. My fairytale must crumble, and I must learn what was true—my path of healing is through the rubble.
Both fairytale and trauma cannot be true–I must let one go–and in that there’s deep mourning. Either my childhood was Disneyland, or a genocide of heart, body, mind, and spirit. It’s been an excruciating wilderness, a journey through the Sahara. Intense culture shock pummels my body, as if my whole life I was a European baroness, only to uncover I’m an orphan on the streets of Rio whose eyes tell a story that haunts you.
The price tag of the truth, for me, is everything and I waver on the edge of sacrificing myself for a semblance of normality.
Over time, I’ve come to understand my fairytale was an extreme to counter the extremity of my real childhood—like two weights in an old-fashioned scale—my childhood so unbearable that my mind hid the memories. I dissociated from the terror by living in my books. I was the 5th Pevensie in the Chronicles of Narnia, and felt the sea spray as the Dawn Treader sailed to the utter East. I dreamed of rescue by my own knight in shining armor, and my own happily ever after.
My childhood was not the Enchanted Forest. It was a Siberian winter without coat, mittens, boots, hat, or scarf. A land that was “always winter and never Christmas,” as C.S. Lewis puts it. I was sent there by people I loved. In my hypothermia, the fairytale gave me a false warmth to cope with the death of my heart and soul as I was trafficked, tortured, and endured unspeakable atrocities. Yet, Father Christmas sometimes made it into Siberia. Sometimes, there were good things in my childhood, and they make my struggle harder than if it had only been darkness. My desire to hold onto the good, and deny the dark, is overwhelming.
Yet, in all of this, there have been blessings. Blessings I would lose if I denied the horror. For the first time the puzzle pieces of my life have fitted, and much I’ve not understood about myself, and my life, now make sense. My intense self-hatred begins to lessen, as I accept I was not to blame. The seeds of kindness begin to sprout as I accept there’s nothing a small child could have done to rescue herself from such violent, heinous crimes. My muscles begin to lessen their iron grip as I grieve how vulnerable and unprotected I was. Gradually, I let go of the noose around my neck that my perpetrators placed in my hands…
The cost of my healing is unspeakably high. The future looks grim, and so alone. But for the first time, the sun is beginning to rise on the far horizon, and as it’s pale rays touch my skin, the shackles begin to fall, and I taste freedom.
Marín has begun a long journey toward healing from complex trauma, and invites you to be a part of her archaeological pilgrimage through the truths she’s only beginning to know herself. Through tears she’s starting to find beauty again in life, writing, artistic expression, adventure, curiosity, community, spirituality, and bringing goodness to her body. More than anything, she treasures her time with her husband and their adored four-footed friend. Marín cherishes being part of the Red Tent community and to free her to share the rawness of her soul with you, she requests anonymity.
Marin – Our families of origin, into which we were born, were supposed to be a solid foundation for us to grow upon – to learn how to maneuver the complexities of life – to feel safe upon. For many, that foundation was rubble that shifted and swayed and threatened to fall out from under us constantly and repeatedly. If we never learned to walk upon a steady foundation, we always walk with a wobbly gate as we anticipate the coming shifts.
I hope that as time goes on, that you will find a steady foundation upon which to walk and place your trust. You are precious in God’s eyes and worth saving. Blessings to you this day, Marin.
Dear Barbara,
Thank you for suck kind encouragement. For taking a bit of your morning to hold a bit of my story in your heart.
There was a technical glitch, so if you want to read the last half, there’s a bit more after the quotation marks.
I can relate so much. The way we survive is often by creating our own reality and it is so disorienting when it shatters. I felt like my whole world was upside down and backwards for quite some time. How could I have possibly forgotten or minimized it? It’s so hard to understand how the body and brain work to help us survive. Leaning in to the story my body was screaming at me was a guide out of the wilderness. Even when I doubted what was true, it was (and is) a faithful witness. I used to resent it. If it wasn’t for my body, I could just move on! But I am learning to be grateful for the clues and that I have been spared the explicit memory of some of my past.
Dear Annelise,
Thank you for taking the time out of your day to write a note—I am heart broken you understand, and yet also find relief in your company. It is such a lonely path. You name so well the war to believe what our bodies and minds return to us. It is a constant battle. I’m grateful for my body keeping the score, and yet angry that health is one more thing that was stolen.
There was a technical glitch, the last half Is posted now after the quotation marks.
Blessings on your own journey, and thank you for understanding.
Marín
As I’m writing a book, based in part on my past life, I re-read journal entries with shock and renewed grief for that woman who didn’t comprehend how bad daily life had become. From my redeemed and transformed life now, I can hold that other woman with compassion and gratitude. There is hope. Breaking through the frosted glass wall may bring cuts and deep pain, but there is clarity, freedom and a place to breathe on the other side. Praying for God’s arms to hold you through your brave journey.
Thank you Laura. It’s truly amazing how our mind copes with trauma. A frosted glass wall is a beautiful description of how we can shield ourselves from the full reality of trauma.
I can’t comment. My comment would involve too many other people, and I don’t have permission to share their (part in the) story. Thank you for making clear what someone very special to me is probably going through. It humbles and encourages me to be more supportive.
Keep writing.
Bess, your words touched me that my story of such pain could be helpful to you. Your friend needs you more than you can imagine. To be able to sit beside and be a witness where likely no one else other than a counselor will go, to step into the dark and hold aloft the light of kindness, grief, and companionship on an excruciating journey. Your friend is lucky to have you.
There was a technical glitch, so just half my piece was published—I hope the last half (after the quotation marks) that is now posted will help you, too.
Thank you
I’m 67 & still discovering healing for childhood abuse. It’s been a painful journey opening my heart, but God has been so very faithful.
It’s a lifelong journey, isn’t it… I admire you for making the commitment few make, despite the pain.
You have written the reality of awakening to the reality of trauma so so well. I lived this awakening where my perfect childhood story was shattered forever. It is terrifyingly shattering and the beginning of an unknown reality. 💜
Thank you… I wish very much you had not lived this, too, yet it is comforting to not be alone. As you said, it is terrifyingly shattering—and the unknown ahead. Did you come to a point where you stopped trying to find a way to make the fairytale resurrect, or is it a daily battle?
There are moments when I just tell a portion of the story to a stranger like “my dad was a pastor” or “I grew up near here”. And the simplicity of it can feel so enticing. But you know, having tasted truth, I can’t ever yo back. It’s so real, and I am alive to it. Courage!!
This. Beautifully expressed and written I’m not seeing a glimmer of light yet…but everything else I can relate to. I too was tortured in ways that you experienced and more and it breaks my heart to hear you have too. Peace to you as you continue your journey towards healing.
Dear Secret Keeper,
I wish I had seen your comment before now. I hope you will see it. It brings anguish to my heart that you too suffered on the level that passes into the unsayable. It is my hope, and wish that you have a counselor to walk beside you through the darkness you suffered–who is immensely kind, fiercely courageous, and seasoned in caring for those of us who have suffered in this way. The untangling you are doing now, will lead to the glimmers you have yet to see. It feels like it will never come–but it will, if you persist in your healing journey–and you know well how to persist, or else you wouldn’t be here today. I wish you much comfort on your journey.