Travels with Sojo- Week 2: Healing

It’s been two weeks since I began my restful, reclamation-of-my-life journey. I’m already amazed at what has come up for me as I live and breathe in silence. I didn’t know what to expect when I got here, I just knew it would be good. And just as I thought, it has been. I should probably clarify- I’m not sitting alone in the woods meditating or reading self help books all day long while I breathe in positive energy. I’m not sure whether or not that’s the image I’ve created as I write. I’m actually quite busy and my life looks fairly normal from the outside. I’m volunteering full time at a food pantry here in one of the poorest areas of the country. I wake up Monday through Friday at 7:45 am, much to the dismay of my body, and serve all day long. It’s a really heartwarming environment, despite the reality that I’m packing up boxes of government food for people that are near starving. If the Appalachian people weren’t so friendly and open about every detail of their lives, you’d never know they were hungry or cold or lacking the basic necessities. But that’s what I love about the people here, they’ll tell you anything about themselves like you’ve known each other for years. Except, they’ve only just stepped into the pantry and we’re smiling at each other for the very first time. The women call me honey, sweetie, and dear like they’re my grandma; I let them hug me as if they were. They have the most impressive way of interjecting stories into conversations, sometimes when we’re not even having a conversation. They talk about their recent hysterectomy, their visit to the doctor, the neighbor’s cousin’s health, the grandkid that lives at home, their recent aches and pains, their vision to build a prosperous rabbit/worm farm and their furniture. I’m always captivated but often unsure how to respond.

I really love people. I’m fascinated by people’s life stories. How they became who they are today; what brought them to where they are; who they love; what they love and why. I’m intrigued by tragedy and how people respond to it. One middle- aged lady came to pick up food three weeks after her husband had passed away. She brought it up so casually I assumed he’d been gone for a long time, but then I saw the deep sadness in her eyes and a dazed look on her face that took my breath away. It was the first time she’d been shopping without him. She paused before every item she chose because normally she planned her meals around what he liked. She looked lost and it broke my heart.

An older couple came in the other day; one of them had recently had a birthday and started receiving social security. Their income had to be reassessed, only to find they now make $5 over the accepted limit to receive food. They were turned down by the woman who manages the pantry (who I’ve discovered lives life by the letter of the law instead of the spirit of the law [she didn’t get the memo about the new testament]-I’d love to understand her life story). Five dollars. Because of five dollars they won’t be able to eat this year. Even though it wasn’t my decision to reject them, I could barely look them in the eyes. I felt embarrassed and had to turn away before they saw the tears welling up. I heard the woman say, “No one has to know,” desperately pleading for help. Her tone was not devious, simply desperate. Heartbreaking.

It’s the honesty and openness of the Appalachian people that resonates most for me. I thought a lot about honesty this week. I thought about lies I’ve told and lies I’ve been told. I thought about Adam and Eve in the garden and how they hid when they knew they had sinned. All these years later, despite whatever social progress we’ve made, that’s my first instinct too. Hiding. I hide especially when I feel ashamed. I feel ashamed when I know I’ve done something wrong. I discovered the worst lies I’ve ever told came from a place of brokenness. And the worst lies I’ve ever believed came from someone else’s brokenness. But I think honesty sets you free. There’s something powerful about speaking the truth, my truth. Giving my hurt a voice somehow takes the power away from it and gives it back to me. As soon as I own my faults, my lies, my shame, my brokenness, a weight it lifted from me, like I can breath again. But its in speaking it forth that true healing comes. I guess that’s why I’m such an advocate for speaking out about rape. Rape has the power to destroy a life if it’s kept in secret. But speaking brings healing and forgiveness which have the power to transform a life. I realized more than ever this week that everybody gets hurt throughout life but its how we deal with that hurt that determines how our life will look. And just because I ignore my pain it does not go away.

As I’ve said before, my purpose in being here for the month is to rest and reflect on my story and how it’s led me here. I was honestly disappointed to find when I arrived that I still have full cell phone coverage and wireless internet access. As much as I love my iphone, it’s a constant source of escape from every present moment. Being a telephone is the last thing it can do and I find it pulling me away from my purpose. I know in order to get the most out of this time I need to put it down and pick up my books and journal like I had so much the first week. I’m going to work on that…

I mentioned in my last post that I was able to find healing through different people over the past few years. I love to think about these people because they will forever have a special place in my heart. I feel indebted to each one because I know without them I wouldn’t be here today. The first person is Julio. Julio will never read this and I know he’ll live a full life never understanding what he did for me but that’s exactly why he is so special. The next person is Margy, her story and her words have strengthened my heart and provided a place of safety amidst a world full of danger. And lastly, are two friends I made along the way, who believed in me, fought for me and gave me back the hope I had lost.

Its kind of strange the course of events that led me to meeting Julio. It took place over years, beginning long before I was assaulted. First, a friend of mine got a job through a temp agency at the Indiana School for the Blind and Visually Impaired, working in the textbook library. She helped one of my best friends and roommate at the time, to also get a job there. The summer after I was raped, I was looking for a job and my roommate put in a good word for me at the Blind School. After working in the textbook library for the summer, the superintendent of the school mentioned to me that they needed help in one of the dorms and that I’d be able to work around my school schedule. Not long after that I was spending a few days every week with eight-year-old Julio. Julio is blind, has cerebral palsy, a developmental delay and no speech. This boy changed my life. I would come to work every day after a long, frustrating day at school and be so excited to be alive. My heart had a soft spot for Julio instantly because of all the boys in his dorm he was the most neglected. He didn’t speak so he was quiet and he loved to play the keyboard. While the other two boys played with their caretakers or with each other, Julio sat quietly in the corner playing on his keyboard. No one liked it when he was near the other boys because his only way of expressing himself was biting and scratching (or humming if he was happy). In my eyes, Julio needed more love and attention than anyone around, even myself. So that’s what I did. I loved Julio, I paid attention to him, I got to know him, I learned what he enjoyed and what he didn’t, I figured out how to make him laugh and smile, I taught him things and helped him grow. I gave Julio everything I had because I knew he needed it and I knew, even though he could never look me in the eyes or speak to me, that he loved me too. When he came to the dorm after class, he would wait patiently for me to get there, as soon as he heard my voice he would stand up and rock back and forth excitedly with a huge smile on his face. He would outstretch his arms and search for me until he found my hand, make sure it was really me then pull me as fast as he could to the door- he wanted to swing. Everyday. He loved the swing and knew I would take him (I found out about a year later that his past caregiver wouldn’t let him swing because she said it gave him seizures- he never had one while I was with him, so luckily for him, we swung nearly every day!). I really believe Julio understood how much I cared for him, and that was really my only goal- I wanted him to feel loved, cared for, noticed, special. The longer I worked with Julio, the better he behaved. He stopped biting himself (he had a thing about biting the top of his hands, they were completely callused from years of the habit) and his hands began to heal. He stopped biting and scratching others which enabled him to spend more time around his peers. He hummed more often and he even tried to speak. Everyday I would encourage him to use his voice because he had one, we heard it when he hummed and when he screamed and laughed. He began to make noises and would consistently say “yaya”! I was ecstatic about his progress and continued to pour out my love on him.

My time with Julio was exactly what I needed to find healing and a place of safety. Julio had a lot of needs and I recognized right away that it would require all of me to really be there for him. I didn’t have time to think about my struggles or fears or loneliness or to relive my nightmares. I had to be present. I had to pay attention to him. And as hard as that was some days, nothing made me happier. Without knowing it, Julio provided a desperately needed escape from my self. He gave me something to look forward to when everything else seemed meaningless. He never asked me about my life because he couldn’t and it didn’t matter, I was there for him. He was my joy, my friend and the best support I could ask for. Te Amo, Julio.

I spent a lot of time in and out of counseling after the rape. I went to a crisis center immediately following the attack and when I returned to school I saw a therapist there. The lady at the crises center spoke a lot of important truth into my life, things that I needed to hear right away. She emphasized that what happened to me was not my fault, words that would echo in my ears for years to come. She also told me often times victims of sexual violence will either become sexually repressed or sexually aggressive. I tucked that information away and wondered which one I would be. I figured it out about two and a half years later. More importantly, she reassured me I was still valuable and pure and that I could still live a full and happy life, although my battle was just beginning. Her influence in my life was profound and the timing was pivotal. As I moved forward in school, I met with a lady there. Our time together was not quite as productive as with the crises counselor. We didn’t talk much about the rape, instead I came in once a week overwhelmed with schoolwork and complained about it for an hour. I was angry, shut down, confused and alone. I didn’t understand many of my feelings and was unsure how to even begin talking about them. Even though I wasn’t getting much out of those sessions I continued going for the rest of the semester, mostly because I felt like I should. I realized later that I just wasn’t ready to process a lot of my feelings and that that is okay. I took the summer off from therapy and did my best to feel normal. I hoped that a time would come when I would feel ready to delve into my mess of a life.

By the time Fall came I knew I was ready again. I knew I needed to find a counselor that I connected with, someone that understood my struggle. So I started googling. I got numbers to several offices that accepted my insurance; then I started praying. Living with the emotional chaos that was going on inside me was stressful enough, whether I engaged with it or not, and I knew I didn’t have much energy to find a therapist by trial and error. I feared if I met with someone that I didn’t connect with I would stay there anyways just because the thought of starting over with someone else seemed exhausting. So I prayed and I listened and I waited. I called two offices, one of them wasn’t accepting new patients, the other one only had a male therapist available. I didn’t have a good feeling about meeting with a man so I tried one more number. I knew right away this was the place I was going to find help. This is where I met Margy.

Margy and her husband have a practice by themselves, its very small and very cozy. I felt comfortable there as soon as I walked in. I spent the next year in and out of that building, crying, talking, listening, and healing. I really liked Margy, she never wore shoes and her eyes were full of compassion. She listened to me, she understood me, she shared some of her life with me, she interrupted harmful thought patterns I developed, and she encouraged me. I had no idea how much I needed encouragement until she spoke into my life. She believed in me, and I felt that she genuinely liked me as a person. She thought I was strong, valuable, smart, perceptive, brave and adventurous. Over time I started to believe those things too. During this time I found myself gravitating towards people that were positive. I understood in an all too familiar way how ugly and destructive the world can be and I just wanted to laugh, smile and be happy. Margy helped me see the good in the world and in myself. She helped me regain some of the passion and adventure that was taken from me when I was attacked. Talking with her built my vision for what my life could be and I began to be restored. After meeting with Margy for a year, we both agreed that it was time for me to move forward on my own. I had come along way from the angry, defeated, broken girl that walked in a year earlier. I felt confident, victorious, passionate and valuable. I think about Margy quite often. I thank God for her encouragement and I hope that everyone can find someone who believes in them because its truly life changing.

There are two more people that profoundly changed my life during this time. They have done more to heal my past and restore my future than any one else. Right after the rape, I was so broken I couldn’t even function. I laid in bed for almost a week straight, crying and mourning the loss of my innocence and my old life. During this time, my mom did everything she could to fight for me but when the pain became too much for her to bear, these two people fought for us both. They fought for my whole family. They were our advocates. They, like Margy, cared about me and believed in me. They thought my story was important. It was so freeing to feel that what happened to me mattered (even if it only mattered to them), especially because most people I came into contact with communicated a different message.

I guess looking back, what really made a difference for me was being honest about what happened to me and how it made me feel, finding encouragement and positive affirmation, and being told that my story matters. There are a lot of other people that I’m thankful for that I didn’t mention here. There were many people willing to listen when I needed to talk about how I was feeling and many people I knew loved me, even though they didn’t necessarily know how to relate. I feel very blessed to have the life that I have. A couple years ago I read the verse Joel 2:25: “I will restore to you the years that the locusts have eaten.” I clung to that verse and it gave me hope. Now I see that the Lord has restored to me the years that were taken. He has restored my life tenfold. I have a new found strength, understanding, passion, wisdom and a clean slate to move forward. God never forgot about me, even though I was often tempted to believe he had. He kept his promise to me, and for that I am forever indebted.

Ps. I meant to mention a while back that Sojo is my car. Actually, his real name is Lewis Sojourner Supertramp Seger but he goes by Sojo, or Lu.