Famished: When It's Real

This evening I sat down to have a transparent talk with someone...it was deep. It's always deep when I'm sharing my story, and it's hard too...sometimes.

I did notice something though. 

No tears...no feelings of fear or anxiety. 

Could it be that the conversation I had only days ago with a repentant ex-boyfriend; the one where I cried out...holding back all that I could only to squeak out words I never wanted to admit, "No one has ever loved me," I muttered beneath shuddering whimpers...trying my best not to let the hurt seep out...I recalled when I was so tied (ensnared is a better word) by the idea of investing into someone. Believing in the laws of reciprocity. Hoping I would reap what I had sown no matter whether the ground was good or bad...just because I believed in them...the men who scorned me, abused me and released me. 

"I've hurt so bad," I squeaked...embarrassed at the idea that I had wounds so deep that I nearly deemed myself irreparable, entirely worthless and deeply eschewed.

Wounds from my past...from my childhood. 

This day, though, I felt a release when my story came tumbling out. I was talking about my baby girl, Yolanda. That child I had often blamed for her woes, blow-ups and misgivings. Her explicit past, where she often lived...in her heart balled up in a corner hoping no man would touch her. It was as though I finally realized that she was that daughter I never had and the one person I had finally learned not to neglect...to embrace.
As I spoke of her, that past of sexual abuse and pain, I smiled because I had finally come to the greatest and most fulfilling conclusion:

I'm so proud of her. 

If you find yourself in my story, look in the mirror...take a moment to smile. 

Embrace yourself if you can. That person staring back at you is greater than a survivor. 

He or she is an overcomer and a victor. 

You, too,should be so proud!