I am the walking wounded. I am a broken survivor. I am
crippled irreparably.
But you cannot see my bruises. My scars are deeply hidden. I
limp with secret devastation.
For years I suffered silently, ignorant that I even
possessed a voice. Or that anyone would hear it. It never crossed my mind to
tell. Maybe it was the innate protector in me wanting to make everything
smooth, everyone happy. Maybe I was afraid of the consequences. What if they
didn’t fight for me? What lesson would that cement in my soul?
I made assumptions at a very early age, that I was not
important enough to cherish, that I was not worthy of love. I accepted abuse without even questioning my
abuser. I understood his message and believed his manipulations. I let this
lesson permeate every area of my life, convincing me I deserved nothing better.
I heard the unspoken pronouncement and scripted a story from
declarations. I was mean. I was a bad girl. I was the instigator. It was my
fault.
I decided to keep certain things hidden, wounds that tore at
me, scars that I was ashamed of, broken places. I felt so terribly alone. And
so horribly ashamed. If I was the bad guy, then these injuries must be my
fault.
It was true. My heart was neglected and responsibilities
abandoned. Sexuality was exposed and I was taken advantage of. Trust was
abused. Innocence was stolen and blame was shoved onto my shoulders. Burdens
were heavy, messes were devastating. Betrayed, lied to, misused, and attacked. Some screamed in my face and called me names,
while others simply forgot I was there. Leaders lied to me. And pushed me to
the ground. They said I was bad. They said it was me.
And I believed them.
I stayed quiet and accepted the blame. I shouldered their
consequences and their quiet rage. My body was wracked with the trauma. My mind
learned to disassociate from life. Some tears were swallowed and others
absorbed into my pillow. My trembling hands were shoved deep into my pockets.
Every bruise from their unceasing slaps was carefully covered for their
protection. Every scar was tenderly hidden.
And now I stand here feeling the pain of those old wounds,
seeing the effect of each violent shake.
Everyday I fight my own defenses, I struggle against my own
demons.
My heart shivers with truth as I stare it in the face, as I
begin to unload what isn’t mine to carry.
And I pray. I pray that His healing will continue to miraculously flow, His
grace sheltering my open spirit, His love filling each empty space. I pray that the
new script I have worked so hard to finally recognize, with the reality of my true identity
in Christ, will overcome the past’s lies and remind me of God’s solid grasp on
my life.
I also pray that He will use me, that I will be willing,
with His strength, to expose my scars and stand proud. I pray
that God will increase my awareness, that I will be able to see the wounded
around me and be part of God’s provision of comfort to them. I pray that He
will make me a wounded healer.
