Dedicated to my counsellor.
There is a book.
A child’s book. Called “Are you my Mother”.
One morning, the day felt heavy. A trigger started to spin in her head. It became louder…and LoUdEr…and LOUDER…
She thought of her mother.
She thought of the book.
Where the baby animal goes to all different animal mothers and asks them all, “Are you my mother?”. At the end of the book, the baby finds their mother. The baby asks her, “Are you my mother?”, and the mother says, “Yes”.
She wrote a different book in her head. One where she asks every woman in her life if they are her mother. All the women who have supported her and provided her with some sort of guidance, care or love.
The book ends with everyone saying, “No”.
She never finds her mother, because her mother is NoWheRE to be found.
She feels smothered by her tRaUmA.
She feels that no matter how far she comes, her TRAUMA is there. Stronger than her. Creating a fOG over moments of happiness and her achievements. A grey HaZE that dims the light of the rays of sun that try to peak out to caress her skin with warmth.
Trauma whispers in her ear, “I’m still HErE. No matter where you go, or how happy you are…No matter how many counselling sessions…No matter how much love you have surrounding you. Ill be there. I will always FIND you”.
Then she whispers back…”Yes, you will aways be here. You are a part of my past. But, you have made me who I am today. And for that, I can try to make peace with you”.
She whispers back, “While you make me feel like you fill multiple full pages in my book, you are becoming only sentences, scattered throughout the story as a whole.”
“I am strong, persistent, witty, intelligent, resilient, strong-headed, skillful, logical, strategic, loving, lovable, kind, curious, adventurous and creative”.
“And while sometimes I may be the opposite of all of those traits because of you and my past, I am allowed to be. I am allowed to be sad sometimes, I am allowed to be frustrated. I am allowed to feel tired of fighting. I am allowed to be kind to myself and let myself feel those feelings”.
“But those feelings, are but a sentence in my book…And I have many more chapters to write”.
With that, the wind blows trauma away…and dissipates it into sentences…which then become words…which then become letters…