As a little girl, I would sit on my swing that hung from our apple tree. It was cozy, like going to Grandma’s house and always being met with the biggest, squishiest of hugs. Oxygen be damned.
It was like being scooped right up, boo-boos healed, and like life was finally entering back into your system. Finally being able to take the breath you never knew you were holding.
It was a space where I could go, be speechless but still heard. She would absorb the pain when I didn’t know how to let it go, making things feel better without change or judgement. A space where that little ol apple tree created just for me.
She was my keeper–holding onto all the things I no longer could or the things I just didn’t understand.
I want to share the pages from my story. However, this isn’t just my story. It is many of ours’ story. So, as I share Whispers from the Roots, know that you are seen and heard, my love.
This is the story of a wild, free-spirited little girl who was always outdoors or in the bush, with no fewer than 5 bruises/ scrapes at one time. A practicing apprentice for Dr. DoLittle, speaking to and healing all animals and trees. Truly thought her hands were magical and healing.
In a world where she believed her “imagination” was sometimes one of the safest–most healing places to be.
This story is from her point of view. Living out real-life experiences as a farm girl, amongst the least favourite of the children. In a generation where you weren’t seen or heard.
Yup! That’s me; I’m that little girl. This is my story of how my brother sexually abused me for over a decade and no one saw me. These are my very true and very raw stories. I will be sharing the hard parts that no one talks about, and all the parts people actually seen. I am going to be including my journaling, my writing, my poetry, and my HS Wisdom. (Higher Self Wisdom). Come along for something I know is a part of my healing journey.
I always wanted to be seen and heard. However, I realized it’s not todays me who needs to be seen or heard. It’s that little girl and her truth.
So, if you stay, welcome and thank you. I am choosing to stay completely anonymous for this; I ask you to please respect that. Remember this isn’t just my story.
-xo
We were just kids, just kids who played cops and robbers, just kids who could transform into animals, just kids who loved each other, just “the kids” who were never seen…
Just Kids.
“They were just games, right? They just get along so well?”
If I allow myself to just feel. Feel the energy around it. It feels like there are a ton of bricks sitting on my chest. It almost makes me feel panicky. So unbelievably scared. The tears, oh my gosh, so many tears. So confused. Feeling a sense of betrayal from… my own body. Frozen in time. Am I safe, right? I thought so. Oh my chest. It feels so cold, like breathing in deep and super fast on an absolutely freezing winter night.
We are Safe. You are Safe.
Playing wolves was always a favourite, until one day, he reared up and fell, landing on my back. Thinking I had to get ready to fight, I was assured that it was just what animals did, pointing out that dogs did it all the time.
This is where it all really started and, well, stayed for a while… Until it didn’t.
I was so entirely obsessed with him. Ev-ery-thing. I wanted to be beside him; I wanted to dress like him; I wanted to wear his clothes. I so desperately wanted to be a boy. I even tried for a very long time to pee standing up. It might have worked if I had any sort of knowledge or understanding of my own anatomy. - “But, we don’t need to teach children that.”
I would beg to wear his clothing, and most nights he would pick out an outfit for me to wear at school the next day.
I remember I loved being a little girl at one time. I remember sneaking into my mom’s room and looking in her jewelry box. It was so exciting and special. I can remember the specific smell when you opened up the felt-lined, leather-wrapped, gold-embellished jewelry box. As a kid, I could have sworn it glowed as I opened it to peek in and admire all the things that sparkled. Even to this day, peeking into my mom’s jewelry box leaves behind a giddy excitement.
I’ll admit, I wanted to be a boy so bad for a while. I wanted to be just one of the guys, since they seemed to get his attention. But… I also wanted that sparkle too.
“She just wants attention…”
“Obviously I wanted attention, Linda! But if I got the attention I needed, maybe we wouldn’t be here. Would we?”
His attention made me feel something I suppose that I couldn’t yet understand. How could I? No one gives out books at your first time of abuse to say, this is what to expect, this is what you should look for, and this is what you should do to navigate this.
Any time I would outwardly show emotions (remember: not seen or heard, shhh), I was just being a bitch or an annoyance. Like, heaven forbid anyone take the time to see if I was ok.
No one could see the abuse, but everyone could see the cries for help, or the “just wants attention”. So they judged. They judged me on something they didn’t even care to see, hear or understand.
“Oh, how nice of you to notice Susan. I am sorry my abuse and trauma are such an inconvenience for you. I’ll be sure to tuck my attitude away for you next time! Wouldn’t want to cause you any sort of uncomfortable distress.”