“John, sitting here in the dark, on the cold damp floor of my bedroom, all I can do is cry over you,” I said to my deceased brother, as I confided my inner struggles to him.
I often cried myself to sleep each night hoping to find a way out of the darkness plaguing my soul with rain. However, the more I tried to get away from my past, the deeper my struggle became, and the darker my darkness. With each step I took away from my past, it was like trying to run away from myself.
I often buried my feelings deep in my attempts to numb the pain. However, my past only resurfaced in the form of nightmares. I recall the tormenting dreams of demons choking me, as I struggled for air. They wanted to kill me at every turn. Struggling to free myself from the demon’s grasp around my neck, I scratched and clawed and his hands and wrists, managing to free myself long enough to call out my brother’s name, “John, help me,” I screamed.
My brother came through the wall of my bedroom, flying over the demon. As he hovered him, my brother took both of his own hands, pounded on the demon with great force, making him explode. Then, he floated down, walking over to my bedside, and said in a gentle tone, “Kiki, you’ve got to find a way to heal yourself. They way you go about things isn’t the right way to deal with your pain. You drink way too much coffee. It’s no good for you. I realize it makes you feel good through taking away your pain. However, the effects are only temporary. You need to face your past, instead of running away from it. I want you to stop running away from you.”
“How can I face my past, when it tortures me to even think about it. I hate to close my eyes at night, because of the scary things I endure in my dreams. I’m afraid of the demons who come after me. I’m oppressed by my own fear, because that’s all I knew throughout most of my life. When I think of my past even for a second, I’m overwhelmed by a crippling depression. It makes me suicidal. So often, I wish I could join you and the rest of our deceased loved ones in heaven. But there is always a source holding me back every time I consider slicing up my wrists. How can I go on without your or the rest of my deceased loved ones in my life. I miss you all way too much,” I cried while trembling, as my tears slid down from my eyelids and caressed my pillow with my pain.
“You’re a writer. Use it as an instrument to confront this way going on inside of you. For so many years, we both endured torture from the hands of our parents. On many occasions, our mother and father tried to kill you. I remember our mother banging your head against the cement wall at our carwash. It was our aunt and myself who came to your rescue. I remember it all. Confront everything that ever happened to you through writing about your life,” he advised me, while stroking my shoulder.
“I just don’t know if I can do that. I can’t write down the things that happened to me in my life. What if other’s read it. I don’t want anyone to know about the abuse we endured. It’s bad enough it happened. I don’t need to endure the humiliation of other people knowing that it happened,” I shrieked, while I trembled against my pillow, wiping my tears away with my hand.
“There’s nothing shameful about it. You have nothing to be ashamed of. If anything, you’d be helping other people through sharing your experiences with child abuse, and anything else you’ve struggled with in life. It takes courage to face your life. Courage and strength. But I know you can do it, Kiki. Just give yourself a chance. I want you to feel your pain through confronting it and your past. Face it. Most importantly, have the courage to face yourself. Do it for you.”
© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015