Broken Pieces

“As a child, I never imagined that all of the real monsters in the world would be humans” (Mobeen Hakeem).

The last few weeks, I have been very exhausted. It doesn’t have much to do with the insomnia, though that certainly isn’t helping; rather, I have felt very emotionally and spiritually apathetic. It feels as if I am reverting back to when I was dating my abusers, and decided that being “dead inside” was better than any of the painful emotions I was experiencing.

One of the ways that the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) has affected me the most is through dissociation. Dissociating from trauma isn't always a negative way to cope, particularly during the trauma itself. During the worst pits of abuse, and the heights of the torture, I survived through dissociating myself from the pain I was experiencing. It helped me in a lot of ways, but unfortunately, I grew very used to the feeling of apathy – the feeling of having those huge walls up all around me...walls that no one could penetrate. Dissociation doesn’t become a problem until it becomes all that you know.

When my emotions become too great, it is far too easy to put those walls back up around me. Throughout the last two or so weeks, I’ve laid in bed until around 4 or 5 am, unable to sleep (the norm, but one never gets used to insomnia). Every night, I feel those walls start coming down, and I begin to sob. The weight of everything I have gone through is too much to bear. A fifty-pound weight sits on my chest, and even breathing becomes painful; I know that I must find a way to remove it. So I regress to the days of the abuse, and I throw those walls right back up. I start taking deep breaths, shake my head, and whisper, “you’re fine, you’re fine,” to myself, until the apathy is reestablished.

I have no problem admitting to you, nor to God, that one of my greatest fears is that coming face-to-face with my monsters will destroy me.

One year and seven months ago, I felt a call to share my testimony. I was not nearly brave enough to do so, and looking back, I really don’t think I was in a healthy enough place at the time. I was still in an environment where no one except for one of my closest friends believed me. I was still being abused, and there was no way out that I could see. I felt the tug on my heart, but those walls were so thick and so high that I didn’t see how I could possibly let them down, particularly for strangers.

So, I began praying for strength and bravery. I prayed every day, until 11 months later, the call was too strong to ignore. “Courage, dear heart,” my Jesus whispered to me. I adore The Chronicles of Narnia, written by C.S. Lewis, and this is one of my favorite quotes from the series.

“But no one except for Lucy knew that an albatross circled the mast. It had whispered to her, ‘Courage, dear heart,’ and the Voice, she felt sure, was Aslan’s” (C.S. Lewis, Voyage of the Dawn Treader).

I plucked up the courage that Christ had bestowed upon me, and I wrote my testimony. It still took a couple of weeks, lots of prayers, and the support of several friends in order for me to share it publicly. Once I did, the support was incredible. God was showing me the power and affirmation that comes from being vulnerable, and I have been able to continue this blog.

But those walls went straight back up, and it feels as though there is no way out. All I see when I look in the mirror is a mess of broken pieces.

I’m starting my senior year of college soon, and I never thought that I would get here – not with all I have had to endure. This pain that I deal with on a daily basis that cripples me. This pain that forced me to drop out of college three separate times, and makes even just washing my hair difficult.

I never thought I would get here, having to bear through the grief I carry with me over the loss of my father, and even the loss of one of my best friends. Knowing that my daddy will never be able to walk me down the aisle, or watch me graduate. Knowing that he’ll never get to see the ministry I am working so hard on. Knowing that he’ll never get to see just how hard I work so that I can make him proud.

I never thought I would get here, after pushing through years of abuse that has shattered me. Pushing through the years that I lived as a broken bird in a cage; a bird with no voice. Pushing through the years that I spent screaming at the sky, begging God to save me from the monsters who were tearing my body apart. Pushing through those years that stole my innocence from me, chunk by bloody chunk, until there was nothing left.

I’m so close to finishing college, and I don’t want to let those walls down, for fear that it will hinder my progress. But living as a dead woman is so tiring, and I want to live again. I want to smile and feel Jesus in the air, like I used to. I want to read scripture and get excited. I want to be genuine with my friends, and tell them how much I’m suffering, and how much the abuse still affects me. I want to be honest about how scared I am and how alone I feel. I want to tear down these walls and show the true, authentic, broken soul inside of me.

But I can’t. I’m incapable of tearing those walls down, by myself. I can barely stand to look in the mirror, let alone change the current structure of my heart.

I am so thankful that I serve a God who can. Not just that, but a God who is willing to do so, no matter how high and thick I have built those walls. A God who looks at me and calls me “worthy,” “brave,” and “redeemed.” A God who covers every scar that was put on this body, and reminds me that though they are with me forever, they don’t have to define me. A God who calls me so strongly to become a pastor, and change the world with His love and His Name. How can I give up when I have a God like that?

I know that it will take me a long time to get back to the place of vulnerability that I was in when I first heard, “Courage, dear heart.” I know these walls won’t come crashing down at once, and for that, I am thankful. I have a God who will persevere through my apathy and prideful independence, and remind me consistently that my strength is through Him alone.

To everyone who has walked through this with me: thank you. Thank you for believing me, and holding me. To my friends who have held me during PTSD attacks: thank you. Thank you for reminding me where I am, and praying for me in those moments. To those who read this blog in full support: thank you. I could not do this without you. You are each so precious to me, and I am so thankful for the people God has placed in my life. I strive daily to live with this as my reminder, and I hope that you can, too:

“As it is my eager expectation and hope that I will not at all be ashamed, but that with full courage now, as always, Christ will be honored in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:20).