By Steve Cleaver
Published
A yoga class. A men’s group. A book. Another book. Make the bed daily. Journaling. Writing to bring it out into the light. Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep walking forward. Fall down. Get back up. Go to the dentist. A therapist. Another therapist. Shamanic journeys. An Inípi. An Al-Anon group. A celebration. An opening. This is how the journey has been for me. Step by step.
I am reminded of a story in Peter Levine’s Waking the Tiger. It was about a kidnapping in Chowchilla, California in 1979. The kidnappers took a group of school children and held them underground. The children were terrified during this ordeal. Eventually, they were rescued. All of them except one boy demonstrated symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. So you know what that one kid was doing the whole time they were underground? He was trying to figure out how to escape. And he got the other kids involved. I like to think that by diligently digging every moment — and by recruiting others — he gained a feeling of power. I like to think he had just one spoon. And that spoon was hope. If such small actions can prevent PTSD, they are also a means for healing from it. One spoonful of dirt at a time.
Sometimes recovery can move quickly. My friend’s son was molested, and because she knew my story, she got help right away. He was young and resilient and moved through therapy in a few months.
That has not been my own experience. When I finally divulged my sexual abuse at age 32, I thought that was all I had to do. A quick one and done. I told my parents I needed to talk to them, and they drove to see me. They thought it was about my job or that I was sick. I expected I would disclose to them and they would help me move forward. That didn’t happen. They got defensive and angry. I numbed. I wasn’t prepared to challenge, and in hindsight, my recovery never could have been rapid. I grew up in a family that didn’t believe in speaking the emotional truth. A family invested in silent shame, the product of generations of trauma. My first response was to dissociate. To numb and gaslight. Blame myself. It took me time to find the inner security I needed.
My first memories of being molested were when I was about 4 years old. It’s quite possible that I was younger. I had buried the feelings deep. I was dealing with a very young boy who was most likely a preverbal child. There were times I blamed him for the pain. If only he had kept silent. His screams got louder. I had to listen. And that went against everything I had experienced.
I used yoga to get back into my body. I was so “far” from the body when I started. At one point, I was practicing yoga quite often and a lot of anger emerged. I took a break until I was ready to feel that anger. Now I am learning to explore the more subtle sensations. To go slow. It’s so much less about the large movements, more about the awareness of feelings that arise from the “issues stored in my tissues.” I am embracing Yoga Nidra, which is a metaphoric death and rebirth.
Writing truly saved my life. It allowed me to transplant the jagged bits of confused emotions onto the safe space of paper, where I could make sense of them and create something with purpose. Morning pages. Poetry. Emails to my therapist. A book. A play. Songs. Scribbles on the backs of random scrap paper. So many times, I would write and later discover truths I had hidden in the story. Clues to finding more of myself. My soul needed to be heard and writing provided the means.
I have immersed myself in every modality possible, hoping for a quick fix. What I gained instead were bits of light and a continued growth in loving myself. I am a work in process.
In the beginning of my healing, when I was struggling, I would tell people it was because I was sexually abused. I would say that expecting they would know exactly what I meant (and, perhaps, to keep them at a distance). I realized I needed to be able to articulate my fears and ask for what I needed rather than to name a cause. I learned to say I had trouble trusting. With sleeping at night. With intimacy. Break it down to what others can understand.
I would be lying if I told you that digging was always easy. God, I wanted to give up so many times. I got stuck in comparison. In frustration. But I have found that I — and that child — are incredibly resilient. I am phototropic. Reaching toward the light. To connect. To love. I won’t give up.
I have come to realize that I couldn’t have done the journey any quicker. The wounded parts needed time to trust. To return. To be integrated. Now and then, I would attempt to move too rapidly. There’s a reason they say “don’t push the river.” It pushes back. I had to learn to titrate. To monitor the flow. It took time to remove the layers of armor. To believe I should be treated with value, as more than an object. That I not only deserved love but that I could allow myself to accept it. Like walking from darkness into sunlight, it took time to adjust. At first, the light hurts. But then it warms you. And illuminates your path.
My own healing journey is one of continued unearthing of hope. Of joy. Revealing light. And so I dig. Every day. Not just to heal from this early wound but to truly deepen my experience with life. To love more completely. To be present. I dig to uncover the parts of me that I hid, to surface their feelings. I find purpose in each discovery. I find promise in excavation. I find peace in the soil. I am digging myself whole.
Steve Cleaver is an award-winning novelist, playwright, and poet. He hosts a weekly radio show called Leave it to Cleaver. For more information visit stevecleaver.com