Infinite Space.
{Photo via Pinterest}
By Jill Dabrowski
“The cure for the pain is in the pain.” ~ Rumi
There are days I collapse in great gasping sobs on the floor.
Exhausted and gutted from memories of things that were never meant to be. I fight and I fight and I fight until they overtake me. A race I can never seem to win, no matter how far or how fast I run.
I am continually dragged back to those times and places — decades ago where things were taken from me before I even knew I possessed them — my dignity, my innocence, and my self-worth among them.
The space between what did happen and what should have is infinite. It is within this expanse that I often find myself lost.
Where I stumble and fall and blindly move around in the dark with arms outstretched hoping to avoid the spider webs and instead find something, anything, to indicate there is a way out.
I am learning to hold myself during these times when I feel as though I am simultaneously drowning and on fire. To acknowledge the pain and distress, the terror and the grief, and to allow it to roll through me. Aching shoulders. Tension in my jaw and a constricted chest.
The short gasping breaths as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. A painful rippling through my bones as the loneliness sets in and the nausea rises.
I lean into these physical reactions. All of the bodily sensations that remind me I am still alive. I have begun clearing a space for these manifestations of the internal torment that almost incessantly aches.
Serving as a continuous reminder that just because something ends does not mean it is even close to over.
This sounds like torture. Because oftentimes it is torture — a torrent of emotions and body memories that I would not wish on anyone.
But the physical distress is often less gut-wrenching than the battles that are fought in my head, as I desperately try to suppress the rising surges of truth and recognition.
The memories and flashbacks leave me rattled and hollowed and breathless. I try to sort through them. Allocate them to a safer place inside of myself. Imbue them with meaning so I do not feel so lost and desperate and overwhelmed.
Allowing myself to not dismiss or diminish whatever I am physically experiencing gives me a modicum of control over what is happening right now — in this moment.
It does not change what happened to me as a child. It does not negate the pain or minimize the suffering or lessen the impact. But it does provide me with the ability to say “Yes, this too” and experience the shifts and swells moment by moment by moment, like waves breaking over me.
Even the highest swell eventually reaches a cresting point.
It has taken years to learn that struggling not to drown as I am tossed about in the current does not make me a more adept swimmer. It only leaves me exhausted and fearful of any rising tide.
Something substantial is shifting within me. There is an undercurrent churning up old patterns and behaviors. Fissures are appearing in long held beliefs providing a toehold, as I continuously grapple and attempt to carve out a new map, with clearer directions leading me to different vantage points.
I am learning to break things down into smaller digestible bits. Things I can see and grab a hold of without having them level me or leave me wrestling alone with demons that I can barely see.
Was I supposed to survive? I will never be certain. More importantly though, I am not sure it matters anymore. Because I did. I am here in spite of the atrocities that were visited upon me and the terror that I felt. I survived abuse and betrayal and evil in myriad forms. I made it out.
Certainly there are moments when my head is held higher than others and that is okay. Everyone deserves a rest from constant internal struggle. Only now can I clearly and unwaveringly say, “I am not my suffering.“
This suffering, however, has awoken a compassion in me that I cannot imagine living without. It is part and parcel of my being — informing who I am and how I relate to the world. If this was the only way to gain that compassion, I willingly accept it and own it. It belongs to me.
I have trudged through high waters and along muddy shores to get here to a place with more stable footing. Yet even with that semblance of stability, there are still some days where the waves knock me down and leave me gasping for air, wondering if this is the time when I will finally drown.
Now I know that even if I am slow to get up, what truly really matters is that I do continue to rise.
Sopping wet and exhausted, yet still being able to see the water for what it is, recognizing both its power and its beauty and continuously seeking to embrace it as I make my way through.
*****
Jill is in a constant state of flux. She spends her days trying to do and to be and to breathe and to experience life and bear witness through words and images. Mom to a mini Dalai Lama and twin ninja monkeys, much of her time is spend chasing dogs, children, chickens, and the occasional cat. She writes, laughs, and climbs as she embarks on the continual process of learning how to appreciate her scars, breathe deeply, perfect a few random yoga poses, and be comfortable in her own skin. Her house is never really clean, but a great deal of time has been spent making it feel like a home. Jill tries to strike a balance of being satisfied with life as it is in this moment, while continuously striving and actively working for it to be even better tomorrow.
#MemoriesBuildLife
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