Monday, November 5, 2012
The Rosary of Truths
The Rosary of Truths
I have been puzzling through something. While writing this down, I have met so many new people. I have been added to groups all over the world. I am humbled and honored that someone would read my words and think enough of them and by extension me, well...it is awesome. I had been invited into some wonderful groups for survivors of every kind. And I had witnessed people in all stages of healing. I had talked to some who are still in the shadows. Afraid to be seen. Believing they were no better than they had been treated. I had talk to those who believed somehow they caused their abuse. That they were bad. That they deserve to be treated poorly. It breaks my heart. I tried so hard to coax them. I would say all the things. The truths I knew. Like a rosary of beads made of my words. One round, smooth orb for faith, one for innocence. Another for love, for hope. I ran my hands over my keyboard. It was almost a ritual by now. I knew what I would saw without thinking. I had it down to rote. A never ending message of absolution. I issue no Hail Marys. No, I stuck to "You are good, you deserve to be loved. To be protected. You are not alone. You were a child. You had no control and always, always, it was not your fault." It wrung me out sometimes. Trying to reach through space to a broken soul. I wished I could hold their faces in my hands. pull them close, so they could see my eyes. Until they believed. Until all the hurt and pain and lies had been blotted out.
I, as always, am going to have to find a balance. Some live so far away. On other continents. In other time zones. My days are their nights. They wake to message me, as I am thinking that it is past my bed time. I cannot ignore them though. If I hear that tell tell sound of a private message coming in, I reach for the phone and then the laptop and so another morning is ushered in. With me squinting at a glowing screen washing over my living room. I sneak upstairs so as to not wake up Peng. And I ponder. How do I say it differently? How do I switch it up? What combination of words will hit home for this lost child. In the beginning I would just post a link to my blog. One that fit their needs. And I realized just how many entrees I have created. How many words I have sent out. It has been such a blur. I look for one and am reminded of three others. But as much as I plead, as often as I try. They want more. They want my personal words just for them. And they don't realize I set them down here for them to find. I left a map. But they want a GPS. Turn by turn directions on their very own journey. I fell for it at first. I became the navigator on so many boats. Hopping one to the other and back again. it became dizzying. To try to remember, the who and the what. Was it their stepfather? An Uncle? A boyfriend? Frantically I would page through their messages. Trying to fix in my brain what were their circumstances. Balancing on a tightrope. Over a large body of water, teaming with sharks, looking to make a meal of my misspoken words. I feared I would be called out. That they would remember what I had told some other sailor drifting too far astray.
I became frustrated. And at times slightly annoyed. It was not their fault. They were exactly where they had been abandoned. Like a derelict vessel, waiting to be scuttled. I would spy their flare in the dark. I am just one. I handed out life vests and extra lines. Read this. Repeat that. I was becoming an encyclopedia of survival. A living "How to" manual of the art of the rescue. I went from my own little boat to a Coast Guard vessel. Trying to cut through waves and gales. To break sheets of ice that where deep as their years were long. I knew I was missing some. I would glide by so quickly. Trying to scoop them out of the surf and place them back in their own boat. To get them to remember that they were the captain. That this was their journey. I tried to mend sails as they cut the rigging loose behind me. I handed out paddles. Oars. Some would not move. They were crashing on the jagged rocks near the shore and they would not be saved. What could I do. I would leave little missives. That seemed to all start the same way..."Listen....Please LISTEN" Laying out the case to set sail. Thinking that they had agreed. They said that they had. But no, in a day or two I would spot the red light slowly arcing in the ether. And double back again. Pull out that strand of knowledge that had become my manta.
I must accept that some will not be moved. They are stuck too firmly in their own conviction of the child who will not heal. So blinded by the certainty that they are not worth saving. Condemned in a world of no hope. It breaks my heart. As much as I believe that it will get better. It can always get better. We can all move on from self loathing and blame. Erase them from the map. And hate, vengeance, self abuse and despair. As much as I try, bargain, beg...I cannot hasten them along. So, what have I learned from this? How am I going to sail forward while still helping others? I am still grappling with this. I will keep sending out messages in bottles. They will float here. Waiting for you. For the others. Reach out and take what you need. Pass on those that you suspect are destined for another. I must reconcile this truth. I can only rescue me. I will try to leave the right provisions. The ones to see them through. I will try and make this into something more. Accessible to anyone who might send out an S.O.S. But in the end, you must find your own sea legs. Take your own wheel and set sail to your own destiny. Come sail away.....
Posted by Chele at 9:38 PM