For as long as I’ve been alive, I’ve been my worst enemy. Yes, even when the man I loved tried to kill me on numerous occasions, I was so hard on myself I thought I deserved whatever poison he felt like tossing at me. Day after day, sometimes in never ending, torturous minutes, I shamed myself into believing something I’d done made his behavior logical (on some level) and mine reprehensible (on every level).
Until I remembered even my darkest places were never the color of midnight. My soul was golden and reflected magic onto others, seeing the best in them without ever questioning their decisions.
Why couldn’t I do the same for myself?
That’s when I found trauma therapy, a therapist into Brene Brown’s work, and a truck-load of reading that would ultimately save my life.
Here’s what I learned:
I’m one of the lucky ones who likes to share my faults, because those who try to hide them away inside end up carrying baggage far too heavy for one person to manage. They’re ashamed, they blame, invisible wounds weep internally.
Regrets? I have them, but where have they gotten me?
Mistakes? Far too many to remember or try to recall.
What I do have, though, is a voice to share imperfect moments so someone else might not find themselves on the basement of a house like the one where I crashed into concrete walls a few hours before I escaped.
I have a desire to help other people overcome demons who suck lungs bone dry.
Bit by bit, ashes of a shattered life strewn across my kitchen’s linoleum floor were released of their semi-permanent placement simply because I chose to shake out the area rugs and throw open the curtains.
I said goodbye to shame and perfection, and I accepted my abuse story for exactly what it was:
A time in my life when my heart got me into a deadly relationship even though I’d always been the girl who said, “If I man ever hit me he would be lucky to walk out of my house alive.”
Why then, would this one scenario where I said I’d never do something have to be so different than all of the other times in my life I was proven wrong? Why did it have to have such a strong hold on my brain and emotions?
Simply put, it didn’t (and doesn’t).
Writing the scariest, darkest, most embarrassing parts of your heart might seem like a backwards way of healing. Digging up the memories you’ve tried to suppress and save yourself from could seem insane. On the contrary, it’s been the most liberating, rewarding and rehabilitating experience of my life.
I don’t have to be perfect anymore.
I can just be.
That’s what writing gives to me.
Lindsay Fischer graduated from Missouri State University with a Bachelor of Science in secondary education, English. An avid reader and learner, Lindsay took her passion for words into a classroom before starting a writing career. Life pulled her from the classroom, providing an opportunity to use her voice against domestic violence, blogging under the pseudonym, Sarafina Bianco, since 2009.
You can find her words at survivorswillbeheard.com and speak directly to her when she hosts #domesticviolencechat on Twitter. Lindsay hopes to be an advocate for women, men and children who still live inside the nightmare of their abuse. She currently lives with her husband and three dogs, including Watson, in St. Louis, Missouri.
Author Site: survivorswillbeheard.com