I have someone really close to me who has been through some hell in her life. Her childhood nearly killed her and she became an adult with a severe inner limp. Nobody can see her wounds, though. She seems bubbly and silly, but I can see inside. It’s so deep and so intense that it makes me ache to the point of having to push it away. But tonight, I’m taking a bath in it. I want to dig that little girl out and protect her. I want to take away all the stuff that happened to her.
I would go back in time and take her place if I could. I’m crying as I write this because even though you don’t have a clue what I’m saying, I do. I know what happened to her. And I can’t believe that people are expected to survive after that. If I’m being honest with myself, I think I can only say I would take her place since I know that it’s impossible. Maybe I’m a coward. But, I don’t know. I love her like she’s mine…
Back to her survival… She’s buried herself. She hides behind a lifestyle, she hides behind her jokes, and she hides behind her weight. I wish they made shovels for those kinds of barriers. I wish you could make people forget. I wish there was a pill for getting rid of physical reminders of childhood trauma.
I wish I had a gun and a time machine.
I can’t convince her that she’s not dirty. She doesn’t believe that God wants to rescue the little girl inside her because that little girl grew up to be someone who is tainted. In burying herself, she got tangled and can’t get out. Believing in grace is the only thing that can give her a chance and I can’t make her believe.
The only thing I can do is witness her. I cry for her and she comforts me. This dance of feeling is my role and denial is hers. I wish she would cry. I wish she would scream and cuss and spit. But that requires unearthing the little girl and she doesn’t know how. I think she’s afraid that she would be consumed by her like the dead feasting on what’s left of the living.
I’ve written my whole life. It’s only since my big fall that I started letting the public read what I write. Sometimes I write for you and sometimes I write for me. My friend showed me a poem I wrote for her in 2003. This was when my writing was still private. It was my way of telling her that I can see her. I forgot about this poem and it means a lot that she has kept it this whole time.
I wanted to share it with you. I think I just want someone out there, someone like my friend, to know that you’re not alone and that the little girl inside you will not go away because she wants to be free. She wants to be untangled. She wants to be rescued.
your shiny curls
and sprinkles of freckles
your laugh rolls
it rolls and it bubbles
but your windows
they show the glare of your pain
no matter how deep you smile
no matter how long you laugh
they give you away.
“The cords of death entangled me; the torrents of destruction overwhelmed me. The cords of the grave coiled around me; the snares of death confronted me. In my distress I called to the Lord; I cried to my God for help. From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears.
The earth trembled and quaked, and the foundations of the mountains shook; they trembled because he was angry. … He parted the heavens and came down; dark clouds were under his feet. The Lord thundered from heaven; the voice of the Most High resounded. He shot his arrows and scattered the enemy, with great bolts of lightning he routed them. …
He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. He rescued me from my powerful enemy, from my foes, who were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my disaster, but the Lord was my support. He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.”– excerpts from Psalm 18:4-19
These are the times when we need an angry God.