Dear Wish: A Glimpse of Freedom

Sometimes the garden within us holds seeds we never meant to plant. Seeds of violence, shame, fury, and fear. And sometimes, in the middle of such soil, a wild, unexpected flower blooms: the desire to live.

This next post in 'The Us in Me' is tender and trembling. It holds one of the most painful memories of all, not only of violence endured but also of the thin thread of escape that, for one moment, held.

To tell the truth of trauma is to speak in fragments. Some details we remember clearly, while others fade away as if swallowed by time. Some memories hurt because they exist so vividly; others because they cannot be recalled. And yet, in this tension, we continue to reclaim the voice of the child, the one who fought, who survived, and who, against all odds, wished.

Dear God

I am enslaved. As he lowers himself upon me, the weight of his body crushes me, and the gun, my freedom, still smiles from above. I have surrendered so many times. In my mind, I am strong, courageous, and relentless. In reality, I am weak, frightened, yielding.

Do I allow this madness to continue?

Somehow, I know this time is different. I feel it in my bones. He plans to take his sick version of punishment to another level. I can't explain how I know, but I do.

I struggle. Without reason or permission, I fight. I must.

He threatens me: if I don’t stop, he will kill me. The gun looms, my friend and my fear. Should I stop? I fear both action and surrender. Relenting and resisting both feel like death.

I WILL FIGHT.

He begins to rip at my clothes. I no longer remember what I wore. I scream to no one. I push at impossibility. And then...

Light. Company. Silence.

I am free.

I run. Downstairs. I sit beside his children on the couch. I look at their faces, still, blank, unmoved. They do not meet my eyes. It feels like stepping into a picture frame, a scene painted too still to breathe.

Did he make them do terrible things? Could they hear me scream? Did I scream? Do they share my shame? My wish for freedom?

Did they love him? Was there still some affection for the word father?

My body shakes, but this time, it feels right. I’d escaped.

Part of me remains in that room. Recollection bruises me in fits of anger and fear. Each time I feel these emotions, I lose a little of the illusion of control. My memory of him remains locked in the closet.

When bloodied threads connect, they blur. One memory fades into the next, the tapestry unraveling until only shards remain.

I remember the first violation. The second, less. The third, even less. Eventually, I am left with only jagged pieces that don’t quite fit together. And still, there will be others.

But today, today, for one moment, I was free. He stood in the kitchen, staring at me. I could feel the burn of his hatred like fire on my skin.

“I’m leaving,” he spat.

– I wish

Dear Wish

She lay in a darkened closet,

body aches with sickened promise.

Memory forbids the path's escape.

Yet, for the first time, light dwells in decay.

A troubled mind jumps to a mistress he held.

Who enjoys the punishment in the place of his stead?

He will remember briefly the joy of being her captor.

But one sits beside her, whispering in laughter.

No need to speak of her name, unwelcome presence,

At the very least, affliction promotes a strength-filled essence.

Can a child's mind stop trudging from punishment to punishment?

One who lingers in the muck embraces the wishful hunt.

-God

Pause for Reflection

• What part of your past do you wish you could rewrite?

• What is the moment you almost didn’t survive, but somehow did?

• Can you allow that moment to speak today, not to wound, but to witness?

Place your hand on your belly or your heart. Breathe deeply. Speak aloud if you can: I made it out. I am here. I am still becoming.

Tending the Garden Within

There are parts of our inner garden we do not wish to visit. And yet, the weeds of trauma do not disappear simply because we ignore them. They must be acknowledged, pulled gently, with kindness and respect. The soil must be turned. The hidden places must be watered.

Freedom does not come all at once. It comes in flashes, a light in the closet, a breath on the couch, a whispered no more in the soul. This is how we begin remembering what we once thought would destroy us. This is how we start to live.

Even this. Even you. Even me.

-Kimi

-Originally posted in a collection of poems and letters entitled The Us in Me as part of a healing project where one encounters the wounded child within from my first website, Becoming Sound (2018). Please click on the tag 'The Us in Me' to explore further.