confessions after a blue moon

confession: there are helpful reasons why a mind would repress violent memories. there are healing reasons for a mind to allow repressed memories to surface when there are resources to support the remembering.

confession: this week in therapy i remembered rituals that explain why i’ve dreaded my birthday every year. my psyche feels icky, nauseated, and stomachless when those scenes flash past my mental movie screen.

confession: i can’t be sure of what i want or why i want it. my beliefs about who i am, what love is, what i deserve, what i have to give in order to get my needs met, and what is safe are not to be trusted. i’m rewiring those beliefs as quickly as i can remember and understand why i developed the beliefs i believed, why i concluded the thoughts that i thought, why i felt what i felt, and why i became the way i am. the good news–i’ve been wrong about most shameful and guilty things i believed about myself. the bad news–the reasons i came up believing, thinking, feeling, and becoming how i am have twisted shame and guilt around other strong, resourceful, and resilient qualities i possess. the other good news–my life is miraculous, proven by the fact that i’ve survived this well thus far. the other bad news–my coping skills for survival have been shredding my insides all these years.

confession: according to native american healing mythology, if i can heal what is mine to heal (and i optimistically believe that i can), then my healing clears seven generations forward and back. if i can heal what is mine to heal, then the secret disgracing shameful legacy of sexual abuse ends with me after beginning countless generations ago.

confession: i alternate between feeling powerful and feeling pathetic for what i have to greet in the mirror each day.

confession: i alternate between wanting to have a child and wanting to be celibate now that i’m healing this sexual abuse legacy.

confession: i alternate between sleeping and waking myself just before the next nightmare begins.

confession: i alternate between reading great fiction and writing mediocre autobiographical fiction.

confession: i alternate between wanting to be near him and leaving him every other day.

confession: i alternate between telling myself a new story and repeating the old stories, but i’m doing my best to repeat the new story.

confession: i am working hard, well, productively on the inside. i’m doing little on the outside.

confession: i’ve been afraid of what i might write and what i might feel, which is why i haven’t posted a blog for a week and a half. writing this blog post wasn’t scary once i sat and began. that’s how most things shake out when we do whatever we fear; usually the fear steps quietly aside after a short prattling tantrum.



About angel joy

love is an action verb. i live love in action.
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