Beginning my healing journey felt monumental like climbing Mount Everest. At the same time, I knew I just had to start, so I filled my life with as many uplifting resources as possible. I wrote positive affirmations and read books like The Power of Positive Thinking, I prayed constantly, and put myself in God's hands. I was no angel. I got mad at God, yelled, and swore, too, but I always kept talking with Him. I think this poem gives you a good overview of my experience.
Climbing Mount Everest
I love mountain tops.
You turn around, and
wherever you look, you see
infinity.
Instinctively, you close your eyes,
and slowly take in a deep,
satisfying breath
as if you’re about to kiss
someone for the first time.
You can feel and smell God in
the air,
and see Him in every cliff,
plant, and animal.
I never remembered how I got
there.
I just remember how exhausted I
always felt.
Barely standing up on my own,
it seemed to take forever
before I realized
we really made it to the top.
The trails were hard enough.
I can’t imagine climbing the
side of a mountain,
let alone the tallest mountain
top in the world.
That’s what I used to think
about being raped.
I couldn’t begin to imagine how
to start healing.
Then, I’d learn hating him was
torturing me.
Killing the goodness in my
already tormented soul.
So, I forgave him for my sake,
not his.
Before I lost my mind and soul,
I let the hate go.
Then, there were the
flashbacks.
Horrific moments that took me
back in time.
His panting face. His hand pulling down the shades.
Or his hands violating my tiny
body.
All happening quicker than the
blink of an eye.
They’d come at work. At school.
At home. Everywhere.
Worst of all. It felt like I was being raped all over
again.
Each flashback was another
violation. Another hideous act.
Another ledge to climb over,
on my already monumental
journey.
Group therapy saved me.
Talking myself through the
flashbacks worked.
Years would pass, and I thought
I was okay, but I was wrong.
Suddenly, one day, I sat
paralyzed.
I felt like my heart had turned
into coal.
A crusty, black blob with sharp,
pointy edges,
slowly tearing me apart from
the inside out.
I felt helpless. I couldn’t handle my grown-up world.
I thought I was going crazy
because just ordering lunch
overwhelmed me.
Somehow, that dark, hideous
blob turned me into that terrified,
eight-year-old, long-haired,
pigtailed girl again.
For years, I denied needing
therapy and help.
Then, I struggled, playing
tug-o-war with myself
and going nowhere.
Finally, I realized it was time
to grow up.
Time to listen to what my
little girl had to say.
Time to hear her side of the
story, and let her have her way.
Time to be there for her the
way no one was ever there for her.
To rescue her one last time
from the evil that destroyed
her innocence.
From the darkness that almost
stole her soul.
Time to carry her up to the
mountain top,
so she could finally be free.
