Glimpses of redemption

     As a culture, I think we tend to romanticize redemption.  It's painted for us as laughter and smiles, sunshine and rainbows.  It's a happy ending that eclipses any hint of hard during the journey.  I find this view of redemption to be quite shallow and short sighted though.  I am not saying redemption doesn't have a happy ending or laughter and smiles or sunshine and rainbows.  Those beautiful expressions have a place in redemption for sure, but if that is all you look for to spot redemption, you are going to miss most of it.

     You see, redemption is surrounded by what's broken and painful and dark.  In fact, redemption is born out of what is broken and painful and dark.  Before the laughter and smiles, there are tears and downcast faces.  Before the sunshine and rainbows, there is darkness and rain.  And if I'm being really honest, redemption doesn't always have a happy ending regardless.  

     So if redemption is more than the happy ending, where do you look to see it?  There is hope in redemption after all, even when redemption is happening in the hard places.  

--in the rain that falls as tears from my eyes that at one time forgot how to cry

--in the shelter of a hug that doesn't leave my skin screaming in pain while the storm rages on around me

--in the brief flash of eye contact with someone who knows too much yet still cares for me deeply

--in speaking, for the first time, a word that exposes cuts so deep it sucks the breath out of my lungs

--in emotions I once only read about but find myself feeling and experiencing, often times confused and scared by the unfamiliarity of them but making the hard choice to keep feeling anyways

     Sometimes, redemption can only be seen in the rear view mirror.  I caught a glimpse of redemption this way recently.  As I looked back on my disclosure three years ago to a pastor who put together a conference for churches dealing with child sexual abuse, something I could not wrap my mind around.  I had so many questions for him, mainly looking for ulterior motives.  I disclosed, and he responded in a way I never even considered an option.  He believed me.  He repeatedly assured me it wasn't my fault, and I would not get in trouble for what happened and how it impacted me.  At the time, I struggled to believe anything he said.  I kept asking him the same questions over and over, and he patiently continued to assure me the answers had not changed.  It was a hard season.  It was messy and full of doubt, hesitation, push back.  

     Yet here I am now, three years later, and I see the redemption in that mess.  His response, believing me and assuring me again and again it wasn't my fault and I wasn't in trouble, was God's redeeming grace poured out on all my failed disclosures of the past.  The disclosures met with disbelief and blaming me stole from me what little voice I had and took my disclosure from me.  Then three years ago, I disclosed once more and was met with a radically different response.  I could hardly whisper from the safety of my keyboard over email, but he heard me and listened.  His response gave me back my disclosure and a small part of my voice.  I couldn't see it then.  I didn't make it easy for him, but he was patient.  It took me years to believe what he said was true, but in the struggles of that summer, the doubt, the mess, redemption was being brought about...now clearly visible in the rear view mirror.

     I invite you now to expand your view of redemption, to look into the storm and see redemption happening in the dark places.  The sunshine and rainbows only illuminate the redemption that came to life in the rain and tears and hard road already traveled.  So in the middle of the broken, the hard, the storms, the mess, know that redemption is happening if you'll only take the time to look.  Redemption is messy, because the broken things that need redemption are messy.  Please look beyond the happy ending and the smiles.  You might be surprised how much redemption you find in the tears.

When trauma has no words

     It's likely obvious to you that words are very important to me.  I wouldn't be writing a blog if they weren't.  However, on this journey of healing, words have also been a particularly challenging hang up for me...well certain words at least.  The thoughts I have about words is going to take a few posts to get out, so please bear with me if this feels incomplete.  As a fair warning, these posts will be rather heavy as well.  Please take care of yourself, and decide if it is best to save these posts for later reading or to even skip them altogether.

     When we experience various events in life, we view them through the framework and background we have available to us.  For example, when an adult is in a car accident, the driver uses their knowledge of driving and injuries to assess the wreck.  Then when talking with others later, they have a way to explain their experience such as "oh it was just a fender bender" or "the accident was very serious and I am so grateful to have walked away from it."  The person involved can understand what happened and talk about what happened because they have a prior framework of knowledge to build off of.
     So what happens when a person experiences events but has no framework of prior knowledge to build off of?  To put it simply, the person has no words to put to their experiences, and it is terrifying to be in that position.
     When I was just 13, I was young and oh so naive.  I had no framework to build upon when events began to happen with my coach.  Everything felt wrong, but I had no way to express why.  With the ever present threat of bodily harm or even death looming over me and no words to use to explain why I thought this shouldn't be happening, I tried to find ways around it all in my head.  I shut down in every sense of the word.
     When it was all over and I finally told someone years later, I still had no words to put to those experiences.  I tried to put the experiences in the frameworks I did have and thought I was confessing my own sin.  I had no other way to think of what happened.  I didn't have words for what happened.  I did not even have the word "trauma."  My "confession" was not believed and was dismissed all while I was threatened with getting kicked out of church (my first disclosure took place in the context of church) because of PTSD symptoms.  Of course, I didn't have words for the experience of those symptoms either until a decade later.  As it turns out, all the experiences of coping that I couldn't explain without sounding like I had lost my mind have words too...flashbacks, dissociation, body memories.  It was genuinely healing to even get those words and know there was a reasonable explanation for those experience in light of the trauma that preceded them.
     So for years, I just called my experiences "it" since I had no words.  "God, please make it go away," I would pray.  I could describe "it" in gut wrenching detail (though I didn't).  Describing the details of what happened were the only words I had, but I could not label or categorize my experiences.  "It" was the only word I had, and "it" was a terrible word.  You see, the word "it" is a pronoun.  Every pronoun is used in place of a noun, but I had no noun for my "it."  Having memories that terrorized me and haunted me without having a way to give them voice was like being in a prison.  Words were the key, but I did not have them.

     I want to share two poems that I wrote that were my attempts at describing experiences I had no words for.  The first one I could not even bring myself to write about the experience as being my own.

Nightmare

Her world is empty

Nobody is there

Protecting his secrets

She lives a nightmare

She keeps to herself

She hides in the crowd

Invisibly breaking

With no way out

Then her fingers dance across the keys

The music singing what she cannot speak

A soft melody cries the tears that she hides

A lonely harmony pleads for a hope she can't find

But she's all alone there's no one to hear

No one to listen as she plays all her fears

The music goes quiet her brief respite gone

Now back to real life where she's somebody's pawn

She hangs her head low

To keep hiding her eyes

Afraid someone will see

That she's dead inside

She's just a child

But she's already broken

While the world sleeps in peace

Her nightmare won't end

     Vague and haunting and lacking definition, yet these general ideas were all I had.  Later, I was able to write the experiences without words in reference to me though in order to try and describe experiences for which I had no framework, she still had to be part of it.  I could let the experiences closer, but I still had no way of giving the experiences any kind of defining word.  So, I wrote this.

Perceptions

The world disappears until it is just me and him

Rage burning in his eyes I hesitantly enter in

My inside and outside disconnect as I lose hold of time

Then comes the invasion of the body that is no longer mine

Without thought he steals her while lifelessly she lays there

And even though she is breathing she cannot find air

Again and again he takes what she would not give

Now I bear the weight of deep shame that should be his

Ruthlessly violating in her what was treasured and pure

He shamefully strips me of all dignity and worth

Fearing his threats I must leave her desecrated there

In order to keep up perceptions as the world reappears

     For a long time, that poem, "Perceptions," was the best way I could describe what happened, but it doesn't fully make sense unless someone shares the experience for which I am attempting to describe.  There were words missing and having those memories trapped in my head with no words I could use to call them by nearly cost me my life during my absolute darkest days.

When it's time to stop surviving

     Survive.  Survival.  Survivor.  That family of words, and any additional you may be able to think of, makes me very uncomfortable.  They have connotations I'd rather not associate with.  There is nothing wrong with surviving something, but by using those words, it means I experienced something that required survival in the first place.  That is where those words begin to make me squirm.  So I do what I'm good at.  I scoff, dismiss the idea, make the words meaningless and unimportant.  When I hear those words, my mind instantly switches into survival mode.  Ironic, isn't it?

     I did a number of things to survive.  I never knew I was doing them.  I just did.  Then when it all stopped, I kept surviving.  I continued to cope in all the ways that kept me alive during those times I wasn't sure I would make it.  I didn't know I was employing survival strategies.  I just did.  One of them is not feeling anything.
     Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling things.  It happened pretty early on when the abuse started.  It wasn't a conscious decision.  My mind did it for me.  It allowed me to survive circumstances that were well beyond the point of overwhelming.
     As I grew up, I observed people a lot.  I took notice of how people interacted with the world and with each other.  So while I felt nothing, I used all the feeling words in all the ways I had noticed were socially acceptable.  I felt nothing, but I looked normal because I talked like everyone else.  My ability to live hinged on that coping mechanism for a lot of years.  And it worked.

     As I continued to survive by feeling nothing, I wound up putting the whole of my relationship with emotions into the phrase "I don't do feelings."  For many years, that was absolutely a true statement, but in recent months, that has changed.  I started feeling feelings last summer when life exploded too many times in rapid succession.  Still I clung to "I don't do feelings."  After all, that is how I survived so many years.
     Then a couple months ago, I was talking with someone very dear to me.  She spoke words that brought instant tears to my eyes.  It took everything in me to contain those tears.  In that moment, I realized I do do feelings.  I don't want to, but somehow they are happening in me.
     Recently a day approached that is hard because of the memories associated with it, and I found myself fighting with myself to not push down the heavy feelings that were flooding my body and mind.  My instinct is to make myself numb, but I had learned enough recently to know that wasn't right.  Then it hit me that not feeling is how I survived, but I don't have to survive anymore.  The danger is over.  I already survived.  That part is over.  Now, it's time to stop surviving.  Now it's time to learn how to live.
     Numb survives.  Feelings live.  Learning this whole feelings thing is a big task.  It's going to take time.  It's hard.  The process is going to be work.  In fact, it already is, and I just started.  I fight daily to remember that feelings are normal and part of how God made me.  I fight to stop surviving.  I fight to feel, and sometimes I fight to want to fight to feel.  But I'm still fighting, and I have a God who fights for me and with me.

     To my fellow survivors, we don't have to survive anymore.  We did that part, and we succeeded.  Now this whole not surviving anymore is not easy.  I don't say it lightly, but little by little, day by day, we can stop surviving and learn how to live.  We will have to fight for it, and it will be hard, exhausting work sometimes.  Let us remember together that we have a God who is fight with us and for us.  He has not left us to fight this battle alone.  He sees and knows the struggle it is to let go of what kept us alive for so long.  He is with us in the struggle to learn to live.  So you and me and God together, we will fight, and we, who already survived, will live again.

It

"God, please make it go away!"

     This was my desperate prayer for many years.  That short prayer were the only words I could come up with to ask for help.  Of course the "it" is the abuse from my past.  I didn't have that word though.  I just knew it was really bad stuff, and everyone who knew about "it" told me it was in the past and should not be part of my life anymore.  They even had a Bible verse to prove it to me.  After all, "if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.  The old has passed away; behold the new has come" (2 Corinthians 5:17).  I was so young in my faith and just in general that it seemed clear enough.  I thought they had to be right.  They knew more than I did it seemed.  So if it had passed away, I had to make it go away.  That was the only option I had.

     I prayed for years for it to go away.  I didn't know what else to ask God to do with it.  I tried to pretend it wasn't there, that it didn't matter, that I was fine.  But it was there, it did matter, and I wasn't fine.  I pushed it down as deep as I could and spoke of it to no one.  The longer it stayed in the dark recesses of my heart, the bigger it seemed to get and the stronger it seemed to grip me.  So I prayed all the more fervently "God, please make it go away!"  Still it remained.  

     Then God brought some new people into my life.  These people believed me.  They have faithfully walked this really hard road called healing with me for the last couple years.  It's been a rough journey at times, yet they have cared and remained.  

     I was talking with one of them, a very dear, wise woman, last week.  I was telling her that in these last couple years, I have come to understand that making it go away isn't the only option I have.  There is an option where it stays.  I don't have a firm grasp on that.  I don't understand it, but I know it exists.  I also know it is the option I should be choosing, but I still want it to go away.  I know I shouldn't, but I do.  As we were talking, she said something that really hit me hard.  In fact, I almost burst into tears when I heard her say it (and I do not do tears).

     She was talking about what it means when God says in the book of 1 Peter that He has given us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and a sound mind.  As she took some time to talk about this spirit of love He has given she said "I don't have to make it go away because I am loved with that part of me."  I do not have to make it go away.  Why not?  Because I am perfectly, wholly, beautifully loved...ALL of me...even the broken, shattered, messy part that bears the wounds of abuse.  Wow!  That truth...

     I don't have to make it go away because God loves me with it.  Because I don't have to make it go away, because I am loved deeply and fiercely with it, I can pour out my heart to God...all that is broken and bleeding and wounded.  He comes down to meet me in the middle of this painful mess because He loves me with it.  He doesn't want me to make it go away.  He wants me to take it to Him.  He loves me with it.  He redeems me with it.  

     My mind went back to that verse that has haunted me in all the worst ways...the old passed away, the new has come.  The old passing away does not mean the abuse disappears and doesn't matter.  It highlights the the place where the present and the eternal touch.  I am already made new.  Yet, I live in this body affected by sin.  I am called to renewal in the present while having already been made new in the eternal.  The old that passes away...it doesn't disappear.  The old is the pieces God uses to make the new mosaic that reaches completion when my journey on this earth is finished, and I am home with my Abba Father in heaven for eternity.  

     I am already new in Christ, yet He is making me new each day.  He sees the mosaic completed in His eternal view, yet He is making the new mosaic out of the old right now in the present.  He doesn't make the old disappear.  He redeems it all while it is already redeemed.  I don't have to make it go away.  

     For me, "it" is abuse.  I think we all have an "it" though if we're really honest with ourselves.  That one thing we feel we must hide or pretend isn't there.  The thing we have pushed so far down into the darkest parts of us we won't even let God in.  "It" could be something we have done, or something done to us, or a combination of both.  That makes no difference.  Whatever your "it," you do not have to make it go away.  You are perfectly, wholly, beautifully loved with it, whatever "it" may be.  It may be old, but it does not disappear.  God uses it to create in you the newness He already sees.  He will meet you in the middle of the mess "it" has left behind.  He loves you with it.  He redeems you with it.  

Dear one, you are redeemed even while being redeemed.  You are new even while being made new.  You do not have to make it go away.  You are deeply and wholly loved.

On risk and safety and things that cannot be promised

     Not too long ago, I found myself in a place where I knew the next step on this journey.  I knew what I needed to be willing to do, but I wasn't sure if I was, in fact, willing.  All I saw was massive amounts of risk.  I saw every possible way, whether realistic or not, of this step going wrong...the ways I could be hurt...the bottomless pits I could fall into...the undoing of me that might not be un-undone.  I just stopped.  As I stayed there, stuck in the fear, I thought a lot about safety and risk and a very brief conversation I had via email with my pastor a couple years ago was brought to mind.
     This pastor and I had an ongoing conversation at the time, and he was offering me help for the wounds of my past.  It was something I'd never had offered to me before.  In fact, he was the first person to really even acknowledge there were wounds to begin with.  As I considered his offer, I wasn't sure I wanted to accept it.  I wasn't sure I could accept it.  I wanted him to promise me that if I accepted this offer for help I would be completely safe, never to be hurt again.  I wanted a guarantee that he knew he couldn't give me.
     The reason he knew he couldn't offer me the guarantee I wanted was not because he didn't want to help me or to see healing in my life.  It was because he knows his own humanness and the humanness of the person he knew could help me.  He understood that he and the other person are not perfect, that mistakes happen, that hurt can happen even with the best of intentions.  He understood that there was risk in accepting the offer of help he was holding out to me.  He assured me that the hope was the risk would end in healing rather than hurt, but the only promise he could offer me, the only guarantee, was a God who cared more deeply for me than I could imagine and who would always be with me.

     As I considered the step in front of me, I felt all the same fears I felt when my pastor offered me help.  I struggled to see beyond the risks I would have to take, all the ways this step forward could go wrong and send me backwards.  I found myself wanting a promise again...a guarantee that the risk would be worth it, that the worst case scenario's that played in my mind would be avoided, that I would be safe.  I wanted a promise that no one could make me.
     You see, on this side of heaven, God uses real, imperfect, broken people in the lives of other real, imperfect, broken people to bring about His purposes, His plans, His healing.  Yet when I see the real, imperfect, broken people He puts in my life, I see risk.  I see the lack of safety.  I want to start building walls to protect myself from the very people He has sent to be His hands and His feet in my life.  I start asking for promises no human can make and forget every promise He has kept, and is keeping, and will always keep.  I see the real, imperfect, broken people and fail to see the perfect, loving, big, faithful God who sent them.

     So now, as I continue to work through this step I have in front of me, I see the risks.  I don't feel any safer.  However, instead of looking for promises that can't be made, I remember the promises He's already given...promises of redemption and freedom and restoration of years stolen.  I remember the promises He's faithfully kept...promises to love me, care for me, always be with me.  I look again at the real, imperfect, broken people He has placed in my life, and this time I see His hands, His feet, His heart reflected by them.  Though every step of this journey brings with it some level of risk, some feeling of safety missing, I remember the One I am promised and, with arms locked with my real, imperfect, broken people, our arms together locked with our promise keeping God, keep pressing on.

The pieces I hold in my hands

     About a year ago, I was in a really terrible place.  In the middle of the darkest part of that place, a very dear lady used a word that has become a developing image in my mind.  She used the word "mosaic."  This image has been really helpful and powerful.  I'm not just some broken mess that God will put back together the way I used to be, left as a fractured version of what I once was.  God is going to use all the broken pieces to make something completely new.  He will redeem each broken piece, perfectly place it in new fashion, held in place with the glue of His faithfulness and grace and love.  Unlike being put back together the way I once was, this mosaic, glued together with God's redemption, is whole despite being made of a lot of brokenness.  Each piece is there.  Each piece tells it's own story.  But the story of redemption and healing is told by the whole work of art as the mosaic is seen in it's entirety.

     Last week, this imagery developed further in my mind.  I have been really battling between knowing that what happened is not my fault and believing what I know.  As I spoke with the same lady who gave me the image of a mosaic, our conversation moved the imagery forward.  Now I hold all those broken pieces of me in my hands...the very pieces God would use to make the mosaic of me.  I know what those pieces are.  I know what they hold in them.  There are so many, a few overflow pieces have fallen out of my grasp.  God has been working with those shards of brokenness so gently and faithfully, and I have seen the hard work of healing begin in those small fragments.  The bulk of the broken is still in my hands though.  I hold them tightly closed and can feel them hurting me, all those sharp edges digging in as I squeeze them in an effort to protect something though I'm not really sure what.  I found myself realizing I need to be willing to open my hands...to see the broken, to see the hurt, to offer it all up to God and let Him be with me in every broken piece as He redeems each piece in the making of the mosaic.  It's hard to heal something I won't even let be seen or known.

     

     I didn't really know where to go from there though.  I just kept thinking about it all--how far I've come, how God has been faithful up to now, how I have always managed to get through the hard places I never thought I'd emerge from, how keeping these pieces in my hands was hurting me.  Then I went to a ladies gathering at my church that focused on prayer.  There were two ladies who led it.  One of them, in the beginning, described the picture she has in her mind as God's invitation to come to Him in prayer.  She described God sitting on the throne sustaining the universe with His power while at the same time she runs into the throne room, dirty yet fearless, where He pulls her onto His lap.  She is, after all, adopted into His family as His daughter.  He wants to hear what is on her heart that has sent her running to her Father, and seeing His power and knowing His goodness, she can pour out her heart to Him, and He listens and cares and loves her.  

     I could see it.  When it was me in that picture, though, I was entering the throne room dirty and bloody with fists clenched.  I haven't figured out the fearless thing, so I cower, mostly with shame, while He looks at my hands and takes them in His...you know, the hands that bear the scars of the depths of His love for me, the ones that remind me He understands, the ones that were pierced so my broken pieces could be made new.  He asks me to trust Him.  When I remember who He is and His character, I know He is trustworthy.  

     Yet I find myself like my own kids who come to me with scraped up hands sometimes.  When they fear the cleaning of the wound will be too painful, they hesitate while I assure them I can only help them if they show me what's been hurt.  I see in me the same hesitation as I fear the pain to come in opening my hands to the One I know is trustworthy.  I waver between opening my hands and closing them once more.  I remind myself daily of who God is, of His faithfulness and goodness, and I try to open my hands once more and trust that He will meet me in each broken piece as I keep working towards healing, walking this journey with Jesus and the people He has walking this with me here.  Now the battle between what I know and what I believe is a little less fierce as I begin to believe what I know.  So I fight to open my hands...my hands ever so gently cradled in the hands that were broken for my healing.

Hands

I hold all these broken pieces in my hands

I know what they hold but don't want to see them

So I clench my fists tight while the sharp edges cut me

As blood flows from the wounds I pretend that I don't see

Trembling as I grasp these shattered pieces I've never named

I fold in on myself as I wear this crushing shame

Yet You look past my shame and welcome me with steadfast love

You know the brokenness I hold and still call me to come

Tenderly You wrap my hurting hands in Yours

You remind me who You are and ask me to trust You once more

As I close my eyes tears fall to the ground

Safe with You I slowly open my hands as my heart pounds

Willing to give You these jagged shards of abuse

Believing You, my Abba my Healer, will know what to do

And as I crumble under the weight of this grief

You draw me close in Your arms and You weep with me

The battle within

     My last post was about understanding that what happened was not my fault and yet struggling to let go of that guilt.  I know it doesn't make much sense...this wanting it to be my fault.  It seems like a good thing to have that guilt that isn't mine lifted from my shoulders.  I know it's supposed to be a good thing.  I just don't know how to let it be good.  Letting it be good, letting that weight be gone, means accepting what happened for what it is, and I don't know how to do that yet.

      Since I first understood why it wasn't my fault quite a few months ago, this battle started raging between what is true and what I have always believed.  Being able to insert my own "yeah but" and writing my own fault into what happened eased the tension of the battle for a while, making it bearable.  Bearable wasn't easy by any means.  I wrestled and fought and broke, but I wasn't wearing out.  There was something about the "yeah but" blame I put on myself that gave me strength to keep fighting this battle between what was true and what I've always believed.
     Then, in August, a story broke in the news about USA Gymnastics covering up allegations of sexual abuse, protecting their coaches at the expense of their underage gymnasts.  It was a really hard story to read because it was my story.  They featured four coaches.  One of them was mine.  I was not part of the article other than being among the group of "his victims" mentioned.  I poured over the article and the documents linked in it.  I learned things that have been huge in my story.  I learned that a lot of parts of my story that I thought were true were actually lies.  It was crushing.  I had a lot to grapple with.  And in the process of taking in this new information, processing the truth that was now informing all these lies that I never knew were lies, I found myself unable to say "yeah but" to the statement that it wasn't my fault.  I found myself unable to write in my own blame like I used to.  When all my "yeah but" statements couldn't stand up to what I now could see as true, I fell apart.
     In the months since the news broke and I couldn't find a way to blame myself, the battle inside me between knowing it wasn't my fault and wanting to make it my fault has intensified.  I have struggled immensely in every way possible.  I can see the truth.  I know that everyone who says it was not my fault is absolutely right.  I know they are.  I know when they call "it" abuse, they are calling it what it is.  But something in me won't let myself believe what I know is true.  Something won't let me accept the truth for what it is, so the battle rages, and now I am weary.  That strength found in the "yeah but" is gone, and I'm losing the fight.  I'm exhausted.  I know I should surrender, but I can't.  I don't know why.  I don't know what in me won't let me stop fighting this battle.  I know I won't win it.  The truth will win.  It has to win because God is a God of truth, and He fights for what is true.  Truth will win, and I will lose.  It's supposed to be good, bring freedom.  I can't see that from where I am though.
     In light of all that I just shared, I have a poem to share with you that speaks of this battle.  I know this post is not very hopeful, maybe a bit confusing, definitely messy.  In all honesty, though, abuse is confusing and messy, and healing is confusing and messy.  Maybe the hope lies in knowing that you, my fellow survivor sisters, can see you are not alone in the struggle.  Maybe the battle inside you is over a different truth than mine right now, but either way, you are not alone as truth and lies battle within you.  I know truth winning is supposed to be good, but it doesn't feel like a good thing right now.  So when you struggle to be okay with what you know is good, you aren't alone in that either.  One other thing I do know...God is with us even in these battles between truth and lies, and somehow, when truth wins and we feel utterly crushed, God will be with us then too.  I'm banking on Him fulfilling that promise.  I can't lose this battle if He won't.

The Battle Within

 For as long as I can remember I've believed all these lies

I knew they were wrong while they ate me alive

So when I finally heard the truth for the first time

It was too hard to believe it might actually be right

Yet little by little it gently whispered in my ear

Planting seeds so one day I might believe it when I hear

It was not your fault and you are not to blame

You don't have to carry the weight of his shame

But that day, it has not yet arrived

And the lies I've believed continue to strive

They twist all the racing thoughts in my head

And I can't make sense of this struggle I dread

But as the truth now starts to close in

All the wild thoughts are beginning to spin

I find that all of the words that I need

Are the very same words I simply can't speak

And this truth brings no freedom

No it is harsh and oppressive

So I push hard against it

Fight to hold on to the pieces

Of what's left of my numb heart

But here it is still falling apart

And this battle rages beyond just my mind

It wars in every ounce of this body of mine

I am weary and I just want to be done

But something inside won't let me give up

Still I lose a little more of the battle each day

As my strength fades and begins to give way

But there's no rest for my weary soul

For in the safety of these lies is a comfort I can't let go

I can't let myself risk the hurt that will come

When the truth overwhelms and the lies are undone

I fear the broken silence when the strivings finally cease

And I can't imagine a place where abuse can find peace

So beaten down I fight a battle I know I can't win

As truth demands to be known while lies refuse to give in