I've spent most of the day stitching a gift for my niece. Stitching burns my arm, so stitch projects are only completed for special circumstances, of which this is. This sweet baby's shower is next weekend so I'm cruising through rows of single crochet stitches so I am done my first gift to her in time.
Stitch projects create space for reflection.
Which is essential in trauma recovery.
So much of the wisdom I have gained on my healing path has been about the essentiality in sharing my story to receive liberation from it; a lesson that has taken substantial time to sink into my marrow.
A few days ago I wrote in a social media post on my personal page that November is packed full of trauma anniversaries. I say something to this sentiment yearly but rarely share particular stories. Truth is, the details are all so enmeshed with each other, that fleshing them out as stand alone events is a complicated task.
And remembering is painful.
Every November in the last half a decade, I have panic attacks. The body remembers, even when the mind tries convincing the heart we're okay now.
I've tried to appear as if I'm no longer affected. In the years directly following, I would share the overarching theme of what happened - I was left days before I had his baby, for the woman he'd been cheating on me with. I was 20 yrs old, had just $7 in my bank account and all of everything to figure out now that I'd become a single mother surprisingly soon as my sweet boy was also born prematurely. In the moment I blamed stress but also thanked God for giving me a light to focus on through the darkest period of my life. At some point, I stopped sharing this over simplified version of the story because I wanted to appear like I was over it. This happened 19 years ago, after all.
When the panic attacks started, I felt betrayed by my 30 something yr old body for remembering so vividly how panicked my 20 yr old body felt. How dare she make me confront it. I was devastated in response to last week's panic attack. I sobbed in prayer in the shower the other morning begging God to just take this all out of me. I want to reach next year's 20th anniversary of becoming a mother with an inner calm about how I have gotten where I have. I want to free my body of the panicked pain she has held onto.
This means I need to pull these details out. I need to share the sordid bits of my story. Make space for peace.
November 17th marks the beginning of my own holy week of sorts. The 9 days following orchestrated a brutal transition into motherhood. This is a sacred time of year for me.
It was on this day, in 2005, a month or so before my baby was due, that my boyfriend said he needed to take a few days to think about what he wanted. We were chaotic young adults, desperate to be loved without knowing how to love the other, even though I had a ring on my finger. I knew about the other girl, the way we know without knowing. Just days prior, after asking about it, I had leapt out of the way to avoid being hit with a bowl of hot food thrown at me. His plan was to take the weekend off of our relationship to “think”, he said while my swollen womb heaved as I sobbed. He promptly left our house to stay with the girl he'd been cheating with. I knew he wouldn't be back the way we know something without knowing it. I was terrified & furious & had no control over what was coming.
Yesterday, while talking about my niece's upcoming baby shower, my son asked if there was ever a baby shower for him. I don't know that I have ever spoken about it.
My son's baby shower happened on that same day. I sobbed for a couple hours after I was left heaving on my couch, and then headed to my mom's for my baby shower. I changed my flip phone's ring tone to Kelly Clarkson's Since You've Been Gone, and then gave myself a pep talk in my mom's bathroom about surviving while my hands rested on my belly, and my loved ones visited in the kitchen.
one story at a time, I suppose.
xx,
e
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