In the dream I was running again. From one stride to the next I ran from a snowy field to a drought-starved dead ball field. And then I was failing a chemistry experiment again. I kept digging through my pockets to find the missing black pieces but my Dad was yelling at me, or maybe it was Professor Smoot, and the parts fell through my fingers. He scowled at me, professor, father, softball coach all in one, and I stifled back a sob and begged for another chance. But it was too late because the fumes from the experiment nauseated me and I ran, oh how I ran, to get away.
A bird screamed, once, twice, and I awoke to a bleeping alarm clock. “The first time you told me,” she mused, “I didn’t believe you.” I stared at her and wanted to leave but my feet remained rooted to the floor. She assessed how I was feeling but my face betrayed nothing. “And even now, I believe you 92%. It’s just a bit much, you know?” She sighed and raised an eyebrow, disapproving of someone, or something, but not of herself. In her mind, the story of my childhood unraveled like a two-headed snake biting itself.
I rushed to make her feel better for doubting me. “Yeah I know.” I gestured at my black SUV that contained three car seats and transported children from one suburban location to another. “ How can someone who drives one of these, and raises a pretty normal family in a nice neighborhood with a garden and all of that shit really have come from that sort of childhood?” I reassured her that her doubts were normal but she didn’t need the reassurance. I did. I needed to know that a real friend could disbelieve everything that I’d been telling her over the course of our friendship and still be a friend.
I was lying to myself, sort of, but I knew. I knew that I deserved better. The worst thing you can say to a survivor of sexual abuse is that you don’t believe them. You see, we bury the abuse, but it haunts us, first in our dreams. We race from winter to summer, one step to the next, never able to take the temperature of the parents who nurture one moment, and look away or touch us the wrong way the next. 
When the memories float back to us, we dig through them, searching with desperation through the crevices of our mind, for the black pieces that infect us. These parts, these fragments, slip through our fingers and we chase them as if they are butterflies in springtime. But when we catch them, we discover that the butterflies have turn into spiders. We bottle them up inside our hearts until we realize they sting us with their venom if hidden from the light of day.
With hope and terror, we hunt down those spiders and release them. As we let them go, we pray that no one will insist that we are casting off butterflies, or worse, shadows. Lies.
I tell no lies.
In the dream, as in life, I am running again, running.
I’m running with you, in my heart. You are a beautiful writer.
Aloha,
Doug
Doug,
I am so happy to have you running with me. And thank you. Your kind remark made me smile.
Aloha,
El
As always, written beautifully El. I totally understand. The disbelief is just as harmful as the abuse sometimes. We struggle so hard to trust people and in a way find that people don’t trust us. They don’t believe us. It hurts that they doubt the fact that we have strength to have survived something so horrific, and come out so “normal”.
Maybe we should be casting off shadows and lies. Cast off the people who doubt us, the ones who contract us rather than expand and support us. Cast off the chains and spiders that hold us back and they truly do turn into butterflies…..giving us wings and setting us free from the expectations of others and the need to placate their doubt. Because we are stronger than them and we know the truth. We know our power. We survived, and now we’re thriving xxxxxx
Alex,
Your comment really made me feel better. I thought about what you said this morning as I was out running errands, about casting off shadows and lies; casting off chains and spiders . . . so that we can turn into butterflies. OMG, and the words “placate their doubt” hit home. Thank you fellow Rebel Thriver. Thank you so much.
xxxx,
El
I cannot imagine how you carried all of this before you had the release of writing it. I simply can’t. As I have no wisdom to offer, I hope you will accept my gift of Listening.
Dear, dear Lisha,
Thank you. I feel so much better just knowing you are listening.
xo,
El
“The worst thing you can say to a survivor of sexual abuse is that you don’t believe them.”
Amen, pardner. I have lost friends over this.
Thank you pardner. Thank you so much. And those friends deserve to be set free.
I had copied the same section as Renee, but then I read what she’d written. And you. So, this. Both parts.
Big smile at you Deb. xoxo.
Gorgeous post, El. My mother and I have a “thing” with butterflies, too. No matter what we recall, or wish not to, we can spread our wings and transform, becoming the people we long to be (or perhaps always were). Can’t wait to share this post with my mom.
Hello August! Thank you so much for your kind words. And I agree re spreading our wings and transforming . . . in my case, I think into what I was intended to be. It’s been an amazing process, healing has been, and I am gratified for the direction I am heading. I am also grateful for the incredible writers and people, like you, that I have met as a result of the transformation.
Just want to let you know something…I believe every single word you write. ♥
I think that is the nicest thing anyone has said about my writing, my friend. Thank you! xoxo