The Christmas after I escaped, I unwrapped a guided journal from my sister.
“SELF CARE” it demanded in bossy block letters shaped mockingly like a heart. The subhead declared it was “a guide for remembering the things you like to do”.
In the condo I’d moved into after leaving my abuser, a safe haven generously lent temporarily by a loved one staying out-of-state during COVID, the journal stuck out as one of my few possessions on display. As I spent most days in a state of fear and anxiety, shocked immobile by trauma, it glared judgmentally from the bookshelf, the sea foam green spine beckoning me to “SELF CARE”.
One day, when I could resist its penetrative gaze no longer, I gently opened the soft, faux leather cover…
and fell inside.
My story spilled onto the pages, abuses and manipulations I’d been too afraid to put in writing for years. A flood of repressed memories gushed from my pen, leaving me sobbing and hugging myself, gripping tightly around my ribs to hold my torso together.
Over time, the flow of memories slowed and became more manageable, although they still tried to splash when I least expected it. But these things were in my past. They could no longer harm me.
Clinging to that belief, slowly, cautiously, I risked believing I was safe. I began to care about myself again.
For the first time I could remember, I began writing about future plans. For the first time I could remember, I was thinking about possibilities. For the first time I could remember, I self-cared.
Journaling privately about my experiences of abuse was the first way I felt safe sharing what I’d been through. Since then, I’ve become incrementally more comfortable opening up to loved ones, a counselor, and now to a blog where I advocate for other abuse victims.
We all begin our recovery somewhere. I’d be so lost without this small token from a loved one who understands me best. I wonder if she can know how much her cheesy but thoughtful gift broke me open. Maybe one day she’ll find out by reading this.
But I’m not quite there yet.