He had the bluest eyes, the darkest hair, and an authentic athletic swagger that magnetized my attention while scaring me silly enough to swallow my smile and lower my lashes, cloaking the blue of my eyes, whenever he'd sauntered down the aisle past my desk toward his own. Blue eyes, dark hair, male swagger—a unique combination of physical traits, considering the quartet of crushes who’d come before ...
In recent years the existence of a dark, experiential mystery, which had repressed any natural urge to lock lips with a guy, emerged from an unzipped pocket within my subconscious, and along with this darkly looming, somehow anxious awareness comes intuitive clarity as to why I’d ‘felt’ marked as prey each time male desire closed in on me.
Though the shadowy nature of this darkly cloudy experience had grabbed hold of my mind via a repetitive nightmare years before high school, the details of that story remain buried within a foggy portion of my memory, even today, (as though my brain harbors a twilight zone where clarity, teasing my conscious awareness, has not yet emerged from its subconscious hideaway, and in the absence of succinct clarity my storyteller feels compelled to withhold details she may have already made note of.
It’s as if she can whip this true tale out of storage and then just as quickly slip it back into its subconscious pocket, zipping her lips before my conscious awareness can make heads or tails of this childhood experience as if she wants to say: You’ve developed the maturity to accept that something untoward happened to you during your youth, but the height of maturity necessary to absorb this particular story within your wholesome sense of self esteem requires a ginormous leap of faith on the part of your conscious awareness, and though your power of intuition must feel that readiness is not yet yours, the day will dawn when your storyteller’s lips unzip, freeing that haunting experience to slip out of its subconscious pocket, and rather than feeling overwhelmed by horror, your readiness to welcome insight to redirect it’s spotlight away from the towering nature of the lout who terrified the little girl inside you toward meeting the unmet needs of the traumatized child you once were will be yours ...
Deep sigh...
I think I get it.
My conscious fear has been concentrating on whatever the lout did to the child. Once that fear no longer limits my ability to consciously process the child’s needs, my heart-mind connection will draw forth compassion, which will deepen into empathy as I absorb the fact that the bad guy is long dead while the child within, whose fear of my rejection of her has remained raw within me for all of these years, has been in need of feeling 100% safe and loved by the adult who she grew up to be—in truth, I’d felt compassion for the child while holding her separate from me when all along, she’d longed for the day to dawn when rather than my caressing her wounded self esteem, she’d literally be welcomed to melt into me, and as of today, right now, this very minute, rather than holding the child protectively, yet separately—she and I are one.
Wow! Talk about a visceral awareness concerning change for the better taking place in real time—that’s what you and I just witnessed as I placed my iPad aside for several minutes so as to fully concentrate my heartfelt awareness upon palpable change pulsing throughout my body from head to toe. Wheeew!
She is no longer the child within. She is me.
All the while I’ve been seeking to develop my sense of wholeness, I’ve been working toward rejecting no part of myself.
So ‘twas not intuition that thought me unready to absorb the wounded child into my deepest self but rather my conscious mind, which had concentrated its focus upon rejecting the predator rather than calmly removing the bully from inside me so as to absorb the whole of the child I had been ... Geez—
Thank goodness for EMDR Therapy (Google it)
And with insight into which mindset had need to shift and expand comes clarity concerning high school when my darkened mind set concerning guys on the prowl (marking me as prey) was subconscious in nature, meaning that I’d no conscious clue as to why one of my dates, who’d somehow managed to roll on top of my stiffened body and grind away while we were making out at his house, empty of parents, had dropped a confusing comment into my lap after kissing me good night—or should I say—after kissing me off on my front stoop—and that story, along with others concerning the flash-frozen state of my erotic reactions, will, most likely, appear on your screen before tales of my college days are withdrawn from my memory bank, being that during high school, I’d felt completely baffled, after we’d kissed good night, as to why his last words to me (ever) were—Annie, you remind me of The Prudential Building.
Believe it or not, years would pass before the dark secret I’d kept in cold storage defrosted just enough to whisper the meaning of his words into my ear. And as long as the most painful secret that I’d ever kept from myself remained securely zipped up inside the deep freeze of subconscious storage, I’d laughed at his meaning, being that intuition had offered me no clue of the fact that dark truths concerning trauma had begun to layer up within my subconscious, behind the ever ready smile, which appeared on ‘center stage’ wherever I went feeling utterly oblivious to painful memories, which remained fully anesthetized by defensive denial—this mental block, numbing emotional pain, beginning when I was barely three, continuing throughout the greater portion of my life, and as to missing visceral hints, well—during my childhood, not even the good doctors at The University Hospital had had so much as a clue that the intensity of my need to scratch at an itch so intense that I’d drawn blood, every night, had hinted at a sweet compliant, good little girl’s desperate plight to get a deep dark horrendous secret out from under my skin ...
BTW— if you ask me to ask my storyteller to release that horror story when next we meet, I know she’ll respectfully remind us to glance up at the title of today’s post so as to take note of the fact that she’s chosen to offer us a glimpse of details linking trauma, beginning in 1946 through to 1961, suggesting we have many miles to go before your sense of intrigue and my connection to courage have gained the insight to know when it’s best to muddle our way through connecting details that seem unrelated vs when to identify and then leap over repressed fear in hopes of gaining sound reason to sleep peacefully through the night rather than awakening my husband with nightmarish screams for help, which terror had silenced during childhood ... and if you ask where our storyteller will take us when next we meet, I’d reply: Only my power of intuition knows for sure, and so far, that little ‘know-it-all’ has not chosen to clue me in, suggesting why my capacity to muster the courage necessary to satisfy your curiosity requires a whale of patience—on your part and mine ...
🙋🏻♀️Annie
No comments:
Post a Comment