Recently I have been getting in touch with friends from my past, friends that I thought I would always stay in touch with, friends that I had yet to discover were my friends. During this processes of reconnection and connection I tell and retell my story. I am getting pretty good at editing out the full novel and reduce it down to what reads like an abstract. An interesting perspective has been pushed to the forefront and to some degree, causes me to question how lucid my memory is.
I am coming to a point in my development where who I am now is becoming far removed from the person who chose to travel through Wonderland for 6 years. The more detached I become to the characteristics that defined that stage of my evolution the more my current state starts to question the validity of the memory’s existence as an actual string of events that took place. To state it plainly… I feel as if I am waking up from a really disturbing dream that was so contemptible that it’s not possible that it had any root in reality. Was I dreaming for the last 6 years? Was I abducted and the memories of allowing myself and my children to be abused planted in place of what really happened? Am I cracking up?
The healthier I become, the greater my shift in perspective. Instead of recalling my relationship through the eyes of a victim, I am beginning to see the relationship through the eyes of those who were on the outside looking in. It’s shocking. I am not one for telling lies. Yet, when I retell some of the experiences I have had, there is a sort of hazy film that coats the details like a marker so that I may know the difference between what is real and what is not. I begin to question if I haven’t somehow tied together a series of events that I read about, movies I have watched, tellings of other people’s lives and substituted them for my own mundane life. God Shannon, get a grip, you are cracking up.
It is at these times that I quietly sit back on a synthetic leather sofa in my living room and realize that most of what furnishes the apartment does not belong to me. I inventory everything around me and become acutely aware that it would only take a few short hours to pack everything I actually own if I were to move. I am forced to conclude that the only reason that this is my reality is because my past memories, no matter how conviluted they feel, are as real as my present. There is a specific reason I am in transition. There were a series of supportive events that had to occur for me to qualify for this program. Out from around the corner pops a 2 year old ball of kinetic energy, also not a dream. He came from some sort of reality. To further substantiate the validity of a distant past are two girls who also lived my nightmare. It can not be denied. It can not be swept under the rug or explained away as an exaggeration.
As alarming as it can feel to question my sanity there is peace of mind in that the shift in my personal belief system has been great. I can no longer accept my previous lifestyle and the vulnerabilities that took me there as a viable option for existence. To make the choice to live with abuse is not concedable. I would have to be in the clenches of an involuntary nightmare to see myself in an abusive setting again. While I can rest assured that I am not spinning yarns for my friends as I recount my whereabouts for the last few years, I can also rest assured that if I maintain my convictions, these memories will never be my reality again. Progress.