The Day My Eyes Opened And My Soul Listened

The first blow struck me in the temple, knocking me hard to the kitchen tiles.  I was kneeling on all fours. “I can’t see…I can’t see, please stop. Stop, please, I can’t hear!”  I begged as he kicked me repetitively with his muddy work boot in the stomach.  I started to cough and threw up all over my outstretched fingers. Soon, I felt a sticky liquid being poured on my head and down my spine. I thought I heard laughing, but my ears were still ringing. The cold fluid dripped into my eyes and mouth. I licked the taste of stale beer and old cigarettes from the sides of my mouth.  I began spitting as more beer and a dozen cigarette stumps rained on my head, stinging my eyes, and then falling to the wet floor beneath my trembling arms. He threw the ashtray across the room and it landed on my pillow. Lifting me up by my hair, he dragged me to my feet so that I could see his face. Our faces were inches apart and I felt his hot breath on my nose.  This time, when he pulled back and smacked me in the mouth, I didn’t once take my eyes off of his or even whimper. The blood dripping from my cracked lips went unnoticed.

“This is what you are…a trashy, ugly, stupid, stupid girl”.  He dropped me and I landed on my side. With my cheek to the floor, I watched his boots walk out of the apartment.

The sun trickled in the windows softly at first, and then more brilliant. I laid in a fetal position for what must have been hours.  I couldn’t move and hoped that if I shut my eyes long enough, God or someone would take me.  My mouth was so dry, I could barely swallow.  I decided to get up and crawled to the bathroom.  Pulling myself up to the toilet, I lifted up the seat and slowly began picking cigarette butts out of my tangled, long hair.  I watched them fall into the water, one by one. That’s when I felt Deedie, my cat, rubbing up against my back. Her soft fur tickled me as I reached around to pet her head.  I looked down at her and her big, yellow eyes looked back at me. She always came out from underneath my bed once he was gone.

“Thank you.” I whispered.  She was my silent comfort.

My legs were weak and I winced in pain as I struggled to my feet.  I didn't recognize my reflection in the mirror. A trail of dried blood that began at the corner of my mouth flowed down the curve of my neck into a circle of blood that brightly stained the front of my tight, floral dress. Leaning into the sink to get a better view of my battered face, I wiped the black cigarette ashes from my eyes and smeared them down my cheeks.  Old yellow bruises stared back at me on my arms, chest, and forehead. I ran shaky fingers over them.

“Come back…come back, I don’t know where you are.” I whispered. The tears rolled down through the black soot on my face.

Cleansing it, clearing it from the horror that was only hours before.  I couldn’t stop. I broke. Everything I had held on so tightly to for all these years, broke.  An animal-like moan released from somewhere deep within….a place that I had never allowed myself to visit. I screamed and screamed.  I cried for the little girl that had fought off the fingers of her babysitter at the early age of 6yrs. I grieved for the anorexic ballerina that craved perfection, and the teenager that had once believed in love with an untainted heart.  

I cried for all that was lost--and all that I could never get back. I cried for the emptiness that I could never fill up. No drug, no drink, no guy, nothing could touch that place within. It was up to me to stop the violence. No one could save me anymore, but me.

27 years later.

Although, this incident is now a distant memory, it still embodies the rage, the fear, the pain, the humiliation, and the repetitive cycle that domestic abuse fosters.  I lived this scene over and over and over during the years of abuse. My desperation to bury my childhood molestation gave birth to a new quest. A quest for perfection which lead me to a 20 year battle with anorexia, 8 years of domestic violence and lots and lots of alcohol, anger, and Marlboro Lights. It was not until I became pregnant with my second child in college (nearly ten years later) that I said, “ENOUGH!!!  I’m done!” I left my husband with a four month old in my belly, and a 10 month old on my hip. This was the day my journey, my quest, and my passion to live a better life began.

        

This was the day my eyes opened and my soul listened.

Everyone wakes up on their own time. We cannot rush this process. We cannot expect other people to see what we see, or to do what we think they should do. I’m grateful for when my personal awakening happened at the age of 23. I feel fortunate to have met a Shaman that helped me heal.

For I can only help to heal the wounded if I am tending to my own wounds.

If you are reading this and feel hopeless, please don't. I'm with you no matter what has happened in your life. Never be ashamed of what you have been through, or where you are...because it is the perfect place to be to love yourself again. And, again.

To learn more about what domestic violence is and how you can help save a life (if not your own), please click here: Sarah's Safe Houses.

If you experiencing intimate partner violence and need help, please contact: The National Domestic Violence Hotline.

YOU ARE NEVER ALONE.

~In darkness and in light,

Sarah Norwood
@shamanicsoulguide

                         Sarah Norwood of Sarah's Safe Houses & Shamanic Mountain Healing