I’m a traumatized woman, I was angry and hurt, and ignored. Time and time again. Told to “Shut up, be quiet, or I’ll give you something to cry about”. That type of home, Oh, but the joy! The memories that I cannot fathom.
Except,
for the dark ones. The ones i should forget. But no,
They’re a movie in my brain. Playing over and over.
I grew up with anger, and pain, all unheard. Not only from me.
She deserved more.
We all did.
It was a warm home. A home filled with love and good smells. A home full of hugs, even unwanted ones.
A house full of pain and hurt, heard by the slamming doors and punched walls.
It was a war zone.
& I am a survivor.
A survivor of being trapped in blackberry bushes.
A survivor of being ignored.
A survivor of abuse, from the ones that I trusted most.
A survivor of being beaten,
A survivor of rape.
A survivor of suicide.
A survivor of growing up.
Oh, & no one to share with. No one to listen, to hear the cries and pleas.
Only to be taken, stuck in a house full of strangers singing “Happy Birthday” with a cake you did not even like. Being taken to school by someone other than your parents.
When dark and despair take over rather than healing.
My life, destroyed.
Moving, moving, moving. All over. Schools, states, you name it.
& how I desire to explore the world, see every corner, meet every beautiful soul, & never settle.
I wonder how that came to be?
Oh, well.
All is good!
A nomad life is a life truly lived. `
A life truly lived is a life for Christ.
Deny yourself, pick up your cross, be obedient to God. Easy as that.
Little girls turn to Jesus. Especially when there’s scary things. Cry.
Doesn’t He hear me?
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