How deeply do the wounds of our past pierce our soul?

It’s a bit of conundrum; remembering without remembering. Acknowledging traumas and events and things that happened, without quite appreciating exactly what happened.

The memory plays on the projector screen of our minds, but we’re not really acknowledging the scene. At that point, it’s just passive background noise to the active flurry of other thoughts that take the forefront.

It begs the question, have we really healed up from the things that hurt us a long time? Or did our brain just build a buffer around it to keep it from stinging – a clear, fleshy blister around the remaining painful thought tissue.

Recently, one of my “suppressed, but also not really” kind of memories was disturbed. I imagine it was packed away like a film slide stuffed underneath the bottom of the boxes inside my mind’s virtual filing cabinet.

I guess I must have rustled it about when I was looking for something else. Something from 20 years ago I thought I had made peace with, but now that I look at it… maybe I haven’t after all.

What’s interesting is that the memory itself is something that crosses my conscious forefront often, but is easy for me to dismiss.

Now I wonder if I have actually been remembering it, or if I was actively suppressing it all the while – noticing and then stuffing back down whenever I caught a glimpse of it.

I feel ashamed to admit that I was taken advantage of in a way that makes me feel sick. Probably not in the way you are imagining, but violating all the same.

The antagonists in question were counting on my being a dumb, stupid girl who would shut up and go along with the plan. It is probably one of the many reasons why I feel like I need an answer for everything, now.

It is probably why I have spent my life protecting myself from ever letting anyone get the best of me. When it happens (and it does sometimes happen,) I am stricken with a violent, gnashing sort of grief that kicks and screams like hell.

And so, I realize, (as it is always our job to do so,) that there is yet another channel in me that needs mending. A deep wound to be tended, explored, and eradicated. Another item for the to-do list on the journey of healing.

I admit, I am getting a little tired of this, but it’s okay. I was made of strong stuff. Built to last. Strong enough to walk through fire and come out the other side knowing it’s name. I’ll shoulder this, too, and without remorse.

Coming out of the flames and bearing witness to the carnage means that your injuries will finally be treated.

We can come undone to the relief of soft fingers applying dabs of salves and balms, wrapping the torn flesh in clean bandages, and giving you permission to take a rest while it all heals up.

I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure just how deeply our past hurts us.

For the first time ever, though, I am not afraid to face mine and heal from it.