I tear the poem and read it aloud. A copy of the same one that taunted me not too long ago. The Spanish praise for a false man tears at my heart. I wrote these word with such meaning after he passed as a tribute to him. I ball the paper up in my hand and spit on it. Then, I tear it into shreds. Once the pieces are torn, I ball them up again. Now the words that were used to make him a hero are nothing. That feeling I had for him at fifteen no longer exists. It died when his image was ruptured, the truth of the man he was spilling from it.
“You caused a ripple effect on us. You damaged us, tainted us with labels we’ll always carry. You abused your children. God. What kind of sick bastard were you? Your actions led for the rest of us to be harmed by others. Were you ever even able to love? To care about someone else but yourself? Motherfucker.” My words spit from my mouth without a second thought. I’m not even fully aware of everything I’m telling him.
“Didn’t you know the consequences your actions would have? Did you care? You’re a sick fuck,” I hiccup.
I fall to the ground as if my spine has turned to jelly. Crumbled, and in a way, it has. My backbone has been weak since I found out the truth. I lie on the tile, my back pressed against the hard surface, and stare at the light in the ceiling.
I wish I could erase him completely, but I know that’s not possible. Whether I want to or not, he’s a part of my history, my ancestor. I’ve learned too much about our family lineage, the energy we carry, the way they influence our DNA, to think I could just pretend I don’t carry his blood in me.
It’s scary to think you come from someone who could hurt children to such an extent. Wrapping my head around that is hard. It makes me wonder if any of us could be like him. Do we inherit the need to abuse? To feel pleasure from a child? So many questions whirl around.
Patterns.
I want to break them, free us from them. This energy carried amongst generations, how many before him were the same?
Our family is tainted by the heartache of knowing people who are supposed to protect you, damage you.
I pushed Matthias away because of that.
My nails try to dig into the tile as if it were dirt. My fingers burn against the floor from my attempt.
I continue to stare at the ceiling as I think how this pattern has affected me beyond what I lived as a little girl.
It was in more aspects of my life beyond that. I know what it’s like to live with someone harassing you, making you feel afraid. I’ve lived in fear. We have a family friend that would hit on me, and feared that one day he’d get drunk and go through with the words he’d say. I became so distant, to hide so nothing would happen. Why did I have to live in silence?
My mother once asked if I had said or done something at some point to give him the impression that something could happen between us. I answered with a firm no, upset she’d think that. It took some time to forgive her, but then again, she was also conditioned to believe women were at fault for taunting men. When this friend came to live with us for some time, I would sleep with my door locked . . . just in case.
I’ve lived with that fear. What was a joke to him was my cruel reality. Just because he was a friend, he could say things that made me feel uncomfortable. To this day, I keep my distance.
Why is it that I attract people like that? Is it because of the abuse? Do I carry a sign that reads, I’m only good for my body? Could it be because that’s what I believe I’m good for? I’ve set myself up for situations like that, never feeling worthy of someone digging deeper than my pussy.
Or is it because I think someone will only love me for my body when all I want is to be loved for my soul?
I’m still thinking about my actions of a week and a half ago with Matthias. I threw my body at him, instinctively doing exactly what I question is wrong with me.
Matthias isn’t a scumbag or an asshole trying to overpower someone any way he can. He is freedom and sunshine and warmth. He’s a burning star, galaxies away that makes the view on this earth a little more beautiful.
And I tried to throw my body at him, knowing he’s the one person who wants and values my soul just as much. My insecurities are swirling, the ego showing itself.
The following days from the night at Matthias’s house have been filled with shame. It led to him leaving me alone in this space, with my head exploding with thoughts that are dragging me down.
I sit up and stare at the paper taped to the wall. Standing, I run my palms down my thighs and rip the paper from its holding place. I tear it up like I did the poem.
No more.
No more pain.
No more shame.
No more control.
No more patterns.
This ends now.
With me, standing here.
What he did to our family will no longer occur. I may not be tearing apart his role in our family because he came before me, therefore, without him, I wouldn’t exist. I’m tearing up the energy surrounding his actions. The taboo. The blind eye we’ve all turned. No more lies. Only truths. It’s time I take action instead of carrying this secret with me. I may have been more open about it, but it’s still not out in the open. I’m still hiding a part of it, and in order to have full freedom, I need to be honest.
The thought alone scares me. To face it. To say it. To hurt someone in the process. Maybe instead of hurt, it will be freedom. I can’t judge it. Not anymore. Not if I want to heal.
I’ll need Makenna’s help in releasing this.
I’m not a religious person. I stopped going to church long ago when I felt the hypocrisy of the people attending fill the air. One time, a family of four was sitting a few rows in front of me. They were talking, drinking soda, and eating chips. As much as I tried to, I couldn’t look away. I condemned them though it wasn’t in my right.
My mom would try to get me to go to church with her on Mother’s Day or Christmas after I told her I’d no longer be attending. That’s the only gift I want, she’d say. For me to attend church. It was manipulative. She eventually stopped. I’ve forgiven a lot of the manipulations she used to throw my way. It’s eye-opening when you realize the resentment you’re holding isn’t hurting anyone but yourself.
So I released the suppressed anger her actions and words would cause. I freed myself of them. It took years. I never thought her and I would reach a point where I’d call her just to talk. Just to know how her day is going. I was too proud. Too hurt. Too frustrated.
It took understanding her to release the bitterness I was braiding between us. With releasing, it’s almost as if you forget the weight you were carrying. I may remember how her manipulations would make me feel, but in forgiveness, I’ve found a sense of peace that heals the battle wounds.
I think of her as I stare up at the church before me. I may not be a religious person, yet this is where I landed in search of guidance.
I walk in, feeling the cold stone beneath my hands. People always focus on stained glass as if it were the most magnificent thing. For me, it’s the stonework of the architecture, the true art. The etching and carving, creating foundations out of stone so hard, it’d shatter our bones.
I enter the building, finding a pew not too far from the altar. I bow my head, hands folded, as I walk. Some habits are hard to break. When I’m happy with the location of my seat, I drop onto my knees, hitting the cushioned kneelers, and fold my hands on the pew in front of me.
So many thoughts cloud my mind. None offering clarity or allowing me to focus on what I came in here for. The desolation I felt when Matthias walked out of my apartment has consumed me.
Why must I ruin the good stuff? It’s a conundrum I can’t shake, even when I know it will hurt me in the end.
The wounds are my muse.
It’s almost as if without the pain I don’t think I can move forward in life, as if pain feeds my drive, my creativity.
I have become a captive of the sadness, the darkness, the shadows that linger, lying to themselves that they want to find the li
ght. It imprisons me. The pain clips my wings when I’m meant to soar amongst the stars. The awe-striking nebulas that prove there’s so much more to life than the superficial—go to school, get a college degree, be married and a mother by twenty-five, work until you retire, and then die.
I want to receive death proud of my life, having loved, and lived wildly. I don’t want to lie in a bed, before my last breath, and regret. I don’t want to arrive at death holding onto hatred.
I stare up at the altar, at the statue of Christ suffering on a cross. Why show us his pain and then preach about the good his sacrifice did? The image will stay with us longer than your fleeting words about unconditional love.
Jesus, I surrender. No more pain. No more hatred. No more thinking I don’t deserve love. Can I have a love like Matthias’s while I still walk this life as a sinner? While I continue to condemn other sinners.
I rub my eyes and suck in a breath.
I want to accept love. I want to release pain. I want to understand that I can be happy without guilt. This is more than my relationship with Matthias, this is about my life. I surrender. I want to be free of this baggage, of this belief that . . .
I sigh, gulping for air.
I deserve better than my own torture and punishments. I deserve to live a full life. I choose life.
I stand from my kneeling position, feeling more confident about where I’m going and what I’m doing. Makenna asked me this morning why I rejected my inner-child so much, why I was so angry with my little girl.
I stared at her, blinked twice, and lied. I told her I wasn’t angry. I didn’t reject her. I told her I’ve been wanting to embrace her, pull her back into my life so I can be the strong little girl again, regain the bravery I lost with age.
It was a lie.
I rejected her spark when my freedom was stolen from me. I resented her for having to keep quiet. I dulled her so no one else would look at her and want a piece of her.
She failed me. But it’s not fair to throw that all on her. To blame her. She did what she could to protect me. She tried to move forward the best way she could while remaining safe.
Our psyche is an interesting thing. It holds our reality but also masks the pain so as not to obstruct our life path. However, that kind of self-preservation ruins it. Had I admitted all this to myself, maybe I could have a healthy relationship with another person. I could have asked Matthias to stay instead of letting him walk away. I wouldn’t be leaving an empty church on a rainy, spring day, searching for some kind of answer from the divine, an answer I should be able to find within me.
I head home to do the homework Makenna assigned—meditate with my inner-child and find forgiveness. The thought alone opens up to a million excuses of things I need to do that are more important than that. Anything that won’t add to my already somber mood and broken heart. All I’ve done in the last few days is repeat Matthias’s exit from my apartment and from my life. He hasn’t written, and I haven’t called.
But I hold on to the hope that he really isn’t giving up on us. Because up until this point in my life, people have left. They’ve moved, died, found someone else. I pushed Matthias. He saw the warning signs though I wasn’t even aware of them. He felt the shutting down before I pressed the button to self-destruct. He read my words and understood how I hide behind them, creating false aspects of myself. He was wrong about one thing—in a way, I am Samantha. I wrote her based on me, on the part of me I have released. I grew the same way she did and maybe because of that, I feared he would be my Max.
Their story isn’t mine despite the similarities I painted on Samantha, like a well-worn canvas I marked with my strokes. This is my story. It’s ours. It’s different.
He’s not giving up on us.
Our purpose in each other’s lives is different.
I climb the stairs to my apartment and enter my home, the chilly silence slicing my skin.
I burn incense while I mentally prepare myself. Then, I sit back on the couch and search for soothing music to stop the race in my mind from sprinting faster than it already is.
I press play on a song and close my eyes, focusing on my breath and the bells that ring in the music.
If I could just clear my head and connect with that aspect of myself, I can work through this. Just breathe. I picture myself as a child, smiling and happy.
My eyes tightly squeeze when I see myself like that. A slight shake of my head keeps me distracted.
Fuck.
My mind is overpowering my soul. I throw my head back and puff out air through my mouth. I relax my body, remaining motionless as soft music fills my ears and woodsy smoke fills my nose.
Don’t picture her as anything, just connect with yourself.
I stare at the wall ahead of me until my vision blurs and my eyes close. I relax further, sinking into the couch cushions. Colors fill the space behind my eyelids until I’m somewhere between the present moment and a place so deep inside me I begin to see motion inside of myself, flashes of images and people’s faces. I allow them to pull me in, take me to a place that will provide some answers, provide healing.
Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me. There you are. I hear a breathless voice that matches a disheveled girl—no more than seven. Her stringy hair is a mess, and her porcelain skin contrasts her black outfit. Her face is relieved as she looks at me, as if she’s been running around looking for me and her lungs were giving out on her. I wait for her to say more, but my body jolts and my mind returns to the surrounding space. I lose that girl, but her image is so clear in my mind.
She looked like a mess.
I smile. So many times I was that mess as a child. Hell, as an adult. I run a hand through my knotted curls before tossing my hair in a bun.
Who was that girl? She looked nothing like me, yet she felt like me. She was searching for me, and I’ve been hiding.
I stretch my arms over my head as I lean my head side to side, stretching my neck. I can’t get over the expression the girl showed. I start and head out to the balcony, shutting the music on my phone on the way out. I sneak out into the warm afternoon, enjoying the breeze that swipes over my skin. I lean over the railing, looking down at the gardens I love. The flowers are blooming, yet I’ve stayed stagnant.
I allow myself a few seconds to wonder how Matthias is doing before shutting that down and returning to the work Makenna told me to do. Closing my eyes, I try to go back to that girl, find her, let her know I’m done running. No more pretending I’m peachy.
One evening I was talking to a friend. Mid-conversation, she interrupted me with a heavy-loaded question. One I wasn’t prepared for. One I thought I had hidden so well.
“Were you molested as a child?”
As soon as her words processed, I froze. She must’ve noticed because she immediately apologized and told me I didn’t have to answer if I wasn’t comfortable. But she already knew the answer, that’s why she asked.
I told her it was okay. Then, I realized this was a learning moment for me—continue to hide or speak my truth.
I decided to speak.
I told her how only one other person knew, who had helped me sort through the emotions to heal them, how I felt no grievance toward the person, how it hurt more to hold the secret than what I lived.
Her question had stopped me in my tracks for one reason. All those masks I thought were so securely tightened around my being, that I trusted, were flawed. Holes punctured them that allowed my truth to slip through them for those who were really paying attention.
I learned at that moment that we can never really hide who we are. We put so much energy into becoming something else, something less painful when everything we are has always penetrated those walls.
For the past few years, I’ve been working on removing masks, shedding what isn’t mine—things I took ownership of without permission. I lost parts of me in covering up.
I lost my little girl, lost my essence, lost my way. But since that conversation, I’ve told two m
ore people, all to help them become free of their own ties.
Maybe I’m just working too hard on helping others because I’ve failed myself. I haven’t helped myself, so it’s easier to improve the outside world than the inside universe that moves in me.
I need to help myself.
I walk back inside and head straight for my room. Spying my current journal on my nightstand, I grab it and the pen hooked on the pages. I return to the balcony to watch the descending sun and write a letter that is long overdue.
Dear Navia,
I don’t know where to begin. This all sounded so much easier in my head than it really is. Write a letter to myself. I feel weird. Like I’m talking, writing, to me when I can just think it in my head. I guess that’s the purpose though, to remove the head and just express what I feel.
What do I feel?
Sometimes, it’s an emptiness that consumes me. As if I’m alone in this world, trying to figure out how to swim upstream when I have hundreds of hands on the shore willing to help me. I’m blind to them. Blind to the help because I think I live easier with the struggle, it seems to fuel me. Maybe I’m afraid to heal completely because I don’t know what will be of my life then. They say when you treat one aspect another pops up, so you can slowly release it all until you’re truly free of karma and ego.
I’m babbling on paper. Would that be pappling? Ugh, sorry. Bad joke. You should know by now I make awkward and stupid jokes when I’m nervous or unsure. You are me, after all.
I take a deep breath and refocus, trying to release the nerves that are causing pointless chatter in my head. Inhale. Exhale. My body relaxes, muscles turning soft.
I’m sorry if I let you down. I’m sorry if you feel as if I’ve abandoned you. As if I threw everything you are to a side and tossed things I don’t need over you, to hide you, like a hoarder. I may not hoard physical things, but I hoard emotions.
I didn’t even realize what I was doing until I woke up one day and noticed I was different. I was no longer the carefree, courageous girl I used to be. Instead, I would hide. I would hate to be left alone. I needed lights on because the darkness terrified me. Sometimes it still does. Not only children can be afraid of the dark.
All My Truths & One Lie Page 12