The Unbecoming

Free in my mess.

My mess.

Mess. 

Me. 

The undoing, the undone. 

The stripping down, the washing off. 

Removal of all that is not me. 

Away with them, him, her;

All of those who used and abused,

Marks, habits, beliefs they infused,

Me, just me,

down to the core, 

Who is this being inside?

What is me?

What is mine? 

Piece.

Peace.

The unbecoming.

Becoming.

Be.

I once was listening to a podcast and the woman who was hosting it said “sometimes you have to take the handbag of all that you are and turn it upside down, shake it out, completely empty. Then one by one take each of the things that were inside, each piece of you, each belief, each habit, and you have to examine them to find if this is yours, if this is something you want to keep or if it's something that was forced on you or that you picked up from someone. In this way, you figure out what is really you.”  I find this is such a beautiful visual. It's simple and literal. I find myself coming back to it over and over as a part of inner awareness and a way to consciously hold awareness of my inner being. 

This week a person who deeply and indelibly abused me as an adolescent and young adult called me out of the blue. I escaped him over 20 years ago. I noticed an out of state number. Why did it look familiar? He left a message saying he needed to talk to me. I felt shocked and enraged. He sounded feeble and weak. Quick math. He is 95 years old now. Wow. He had been 65 years old when he abused me. I was just 15. A very young, very sheltered, homeschooled, neurodivergent 15 year old. Fuck him. More enraged. Why did he call me? What could he want? Maybe he was dying and he wanted to apologize for abusing me. What else could he possibly want from me? How the fuck did he get my number? More anger. I’d spent many years after his abuse suffering from PTSD, anxiety, debilitating panic attacks, and intense depression. Except I didn’t know what those things were for a long time. I didn't have any words for it. I didn't know why hearing someone breathing heavily made me catatonic. I didn’t know why someone being behind me made me feel like I needed to escape. I didn't know why the smell of chicken cooking made me panic. Many, many more triggers. I didn't have a name for this. I thought I was crazy. Broken. A discard not worthy of love or belonging. Questioning what love was. Wondering if love always meant pain. Asking if that was true. Not wanting to believe it was.

I thought it was my fault. That I was at fault for his abuse of me. I was raised deeply religious. I thought since he did that to me I was “unclean” for any other man and that he owned me now. I thought I was at fault for believing his blackmailing of me. After 5 years of suffering alone and being emotionally abused in unhealthy relationships I spent the next 5 years in therapy doing EMDR and reclaiming my life. In the 10 years after that, in another unhealthy relationship, while I was trying to decode what a healthy relationship actually was- shaking out my handbag. Figuring out what is really me. 

I called him back. My hand trembling, I put the phone up to my ear. A feeble voice said hello. It felt good to hear him as weak. The feeble voice asked for a watch of his mothers I never had. I paused. When I answered him it wasn't the abused 15 year old who answered, not the 20 year old who was brave enough to escape him. Not the 26 year old who rewrote her own ending with EMDR, not the 30 or 35 year old who learned who and how she wanted to be in love and life. It was the 40 year old, confident, empowered, completely grown up woman. The protector of herself, her life, and all the versions of her that she was before. The protector of the 15 year old girl that he raped.

I heard my voice get bigger. Not yelling, but not small. Full of power. Full of truth. I heard my voice say that he raped and abused me. That it had taken many years to reclaim my life from his abuse. He said the same thing he had always said after he hurt me “but I loved you.”

Holy rage surged through me. Holy rage for this holy wound. I was in myself. No longer an out of body feeling but an embodied feeling. Fully there. Fully me. With holy, justified rage boiling in my blood, I responded “You did not see me and love me. I was a little homeschooled, sheltered 15 year old kid. You are a rapist and a pedophile.” In complete denial he responded “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

I moved outside for more privacy and holy rage, holy truth, erupted from my mouth as I recounted his first rape of me to him “It’s not about feelings. It's a plain, undebatable fact. I was 15 years old. I was sleeping when you snuck in, sat next to me, put one arm on my chest, pinning me down with your hand over my mouth. You put the fingers of your other hand into my virgin vagina. You whispered “this is ok because I love you.” I was terrified. That was rape. That was the first time you raped me. I was a child. That makes you a rapist and a pedophile. It's not about feelings. Those are facts. You abused me and it caused trauma. The only reason you aren’t rotting in prison right now is because when I escaped you, I choose peace rather than pressing statutory rape charges. Not because you didn't deserve it. Not because your whole family and the rest of the world shouldn't know what a horrible, evil person you are. They should all know, you are a rapist and a pedophile. I choose peace and I hope karma gives you every little bit of what you deserve. You are a rapist and a pedophile. You will never ever call me again. Do you understand me?” Heavy breathing was his only response. “You will never call me again. I am hanging up now.” And I hung up the phone.

Quickly I found someplace private. Everyone at work knows me too well and I didn't want to explain. I prayed for no emergencies while I gathered myself. Alone, I allowed holy rage, truth, peace, and empowerment to blend into a healing tonic and bathing in it, I let the feelings settle. Then I went to the breakroom to eat. Suddenly I stopped. Dialed my phone carrier. Change my phone number. Shared my new number with those closest to me and those I wanted in my life. Everyone else, gone. It felt easy. Powerful. The first hint of the deepest healing. My autonomy reempowered. The reclaiming of a part of myself I didn't know was still lost. The next day I woke up. I remembered. Happy tears sliding down my face as I got ready for work. 

I am free of him. 

I AM FREE!

The shame was gone. The tiny piece of feeling somehow at fault, gone. In its place an undeniable truth. The truth I confronted him with. He hurt me and abused me. It's not my fault and there is no excuse for it. I love the part of me that he hurt and I will protect her at all cost. Fuck. him. 

Huge smile. 

Completely free. The power of my own being, reclaimed. I took a selfie of that smile cementing the moment in my personal history. What an amazing gift from the universe. My rapist and abuser calling me and having the opportunity to confront him and to hold him accountable for his disgusting actions. 

Words are so powerful. Isn't that so amazing? How powerful words are. Words are thoughts, thoughts are beliefs. Beliefs are actions, who we become, and who we are. I had felt for at least the last year that I needed to confront my abuser. My inner knowing. My human self not wanting the discomfort it could bring. The fear he instilled in me, still having its way. Then the universe brought it to me and I opened the door not knowing what it held, but following with faith the feeling inside to confront him. I think my lesson was to believe in myself. I picked up self-doubt from the pile I poured out of my handbag and I held it. Tenderly I examined it. It looked like a muzzle. A silencer. I thanked it for all the lessons it had brought me. For all the learning. I wrapped it with love and I released it into the universal mist. As it floated from me I grew taller. My throat chakra fully healed, my inner light shining bright from within me, and I danced. The unbecoming. So beautiful. So precious. 

I didn't know what I was going to write when I sat down to blog today. I only knew that I would write something. It feels vulnerable to share my story, but I no longer have shame for the ways that other people hurt me. I trust you, dear reader, to hold my sharing tenderly and I release the shame I took on, the shame they should have felt when they abused me. I hope from this you are able to find some healing of your own. Shame is catching and so is empowerment. I hope you will take from this what you can and use it for good in your own life.

Looking out my big bay window, I can see weeds in my back yard waiting to be pulled. I’m thinking about karma now. Thinking about the ways I see people die at work. Wondering if sometimes I am bearing witness to karmic sentences. Hmm. Not for me to know, but I wonder who will bear witness to the karmic justice of my abuser. Through the portal- “Also not for you to know.” Hmm. With a slight smile I gently accept this. The roses I can see through my window are about to bloom. Sam dog, ever faithful, laying beside me. Pine tree towering. Sumacs with tiny green just beginning to bud out from under the dried brown of last year. Life is beautiful. Peace washed over me and I am thankful for all of these moments. For the becoming and the unbecoming. 

P. S . I am a chronic comma splicer. lol. Love you all.