A Pool of Blood

Memories, memories, memories. Memories did not light the corner of my mind like the song indicates. In fact, memories have darkened my life for years.

There is so much discussion around memories. Do you trust them? Where do they come from? Did you manufacture them?

The answer to all such nonsense is this: Do you question what color your bike was when you were five? Do you wonder if you really remember your Aunt when you were little or do you think you are just making that part up?

Memories for abuse come back to you the same way that memories of eating a chocolate soft serve ice cream come to you, albeit the ice cream will be a much happier recall with fond body memories.

What we suffer from is the integrity and grit it takes to see a blip into the past that is ugly and stay with it. Believe it. Better still – dissect it. We really want to take away the truth that is coming forth in our mind. It has been held in stagnation for so long it needs to stay put, right? You worked hard putting it away, why now would you ever want to unearth it?

That’s the real problem.

I knew my memories were real. I always had snapshots into my past: a reoccurring nightmare of a strange woman being raped; or knowing that something terrible happened in a motel room.

I never manufactured one memory and I can tell you why – I never wanted to.

Here’s a great example of that: My brother used to ask me if I remembered what “we” used to do. I’d think about it, not having any recall, I’d tell him, “Nope, I don’t remember what we used to do.” Later, I remembered a time he raped me, but that isn’t something “we” did and I only can remember one event. Ok, so he implies there is more. I’m not going on a fishing expedition to find the memories. If I need them, they will find me.

Here’s another example: One day me and my counselor were chatting about the murder. He said, “There must have been a lot of blood, Jodie.” I thought about that for some time. I had no memory, not even a slight one about the blood. I didn’t try to make up an event where I saw her blood, I just told myself and him, “Nope, I don’t see that.” They slit her throat and laid her down, maybe that’s why. The bed was blocking my view but there was no pool of blood that I saw.

My point is this, it is ridiculous to think you make memories up. Manufacturing suffering is just a bunch of poppycock to keep you and your story silent.

Trust your memories.

Explore the door that has been cracked open to the past. Freedom lives there! Don’t be scared of your mind – it’s what has kept you safe during the abuse and all this time.

Opening that cracked door in your mind will actually begin to take your fear away and help return your body to a state of peace.

Published by Gracedxoxo

I have the courage to tell my story to help others embrace theirs.

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: