Looking Past My Thunderstorm.

(Please be aware that this article discusses childhood sexual abuse.)

Johannes Plenio

Springtime invites the promise of flowers yet to be seen, green grasses coming out of hiding, and stormy nights. I readily embrace the new flowers and budding grass, often bringing out my camera to get up close and capture the beauty of those fresh moments so I never forget them.

But one thing the summer brings that I can never forget is the promise of nighttime storms that steals my breath and tangles my heart. For so long, I have fought and battled to win my freedom from many childhood memories, but this one is the constant; this one I haven’t won yet.

Each spring, when I have had my wintertime reprieve and it is but a distant fading memory, the first storm claps its hands and screams its mayhem. Like the boogie man in the closet, it comes out just when you're ready to sleep, believing you’re safe and it’s only your imagination.

In the distance, I hear the rumble. I look outside and see that it is darkening; the evening is coming faster than the storm, and I can’t stop the clock racing to sunset. When it gets here, I am trapped, trapped by the moon.

As the claps get closer, I feel the panic rising, my heart races, and my body revolts. With each new clap, I’m dragged backward in time. I try to stop the fall. I kick and scream, flailing my arms out, but I’m not able to hold on to the here and now. I don’t want to go back there.

I open my eyes and I find I have reached the bottom of time. I stand naked in blackness, trembling, breathing too hard, heart pounding, screaming to be let go of. I can fight my way through time, distance, and memory, but not this one. This one was the one that broke me, and the deepest wound I have. A wound that changed the very essence of who I should have been.

I stand there peering in the darkness, alone and naked. As each clap hits, the room becomes brighter, I can see more coming into focus. I want to close my eyes to what I know is coming, but how can one leave a child so young, so alone?

I can’t, but I am also conflicted in my reactions, but I need to be the strength I have fought for and won, even as her world crumbles before me. I am both forced to be her witness and need to be her witness. I need to respect the terror, the pain, and the innocence ripped from her body.

She is me.

I stand rooted in place as each thunderclap bring more light into our memory. I stand on the blackened outskirts of our memory and watch her as she leaves her body and comes to stand next to our bed.

She is so young, so innocent, so beautiful. I watch her as she watches the moment our innocence is violently robbed from us. How he used a thunderstorm to hide the sounds and his presence from the rest of the household. She glances around and watches the storm light up the room, looks to the door, hoping for help, then back again. No one is coming; she is alone, and her body loses its rigid stance, and she accepts her fate that night.

I am behind her, she doesn’t know I’m there, silently witnessing this moment again with her. I want to reach out and touch her shoulder, reassure her that this, too, shall end. Turn her so we are looking at each other, not our memory of that thunderstorm, to show her who we have become, the strength we hold, the memories we have already conquered together.

But I can’t, not yet, at least. Her pain is too raw; she still feels that night, but we are separated from it. I know this because I still come to her naked at each thunderstorm; that is why I don’t turn her around to show her who we have become.

So I stand behind her and whisper words of love, beauty, and hope. Words she doesn’t fully understand yet, but one day will. I will come to her, clothed, and turn her around. Together, we will finally be able to put our worst memory aside, I will no longer be dragged into the pits of hell every time I hear a thunder clap at night.

Until that day, I will stand behind her silently, witnessing and acknowledging the horror that was done to us that night, never pretending it didn’t happen, and continue to whisper words of hope and healing to us.

The need to write this out has never come before, it was so strong it stopped me at every turn. I was unable to focus on anything else I was writing; I even dreamed of it and felt the words on my fingertips just waiting for release. And now I know why: she wasn’t holding onto the memory; I was.

I had to step away many times, writing this because the tears wouldn’t stop, and the sobs that would hit me hurt my body. She was looking around in our memories for me, waiting for me to clothe myself. She knew all along I was there, but it wasn’t her who needed to heal, her time in the distant past is just that.

The past.

I needed to heal, I needed to release this memory that I was keeping her trapped in. I needed the courage to clothe myself and turn her around. That is what I have been fearing this whole time. I see it now, I feel it now. I was afraid of what her face would tell me. Would I see fear, anger, disappointment, or blame?

I turned her around, I saw a smile.

© Jane Isley

First Published in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself on Substack.

---

From the writer:

Since I have written this I have been through a couple of thunderstorms. This memory I held onto for my entire life is now a faded memory or a memory, if that makes sense. I am still not a fan of the surprise loud thunder that shakes the house (who is, really?) and do startle for a moment when a large lightening bolt lights up the window.

But, I no longer feel the dread, the sickness, or fear that used to come with the sounds of distant rumblings heading our way. That is all gone, I do still have some PTSD remnants left inside my body that I believe may always be there to some extent because my body remembers that night, but I haven't thought of that night since I wrote this.

Ironically I'm uploading this as a giant thunderstorm is coming in and I'm excited to get to enjoy seeing the brilliant lighting light up the sky, watch the clouds rolling in and waiting to rush around if I need to bring stuff indoors.

Healing from childhood sexual violence does not come over night. I was 4 when this happened to me and I am know 42, but I always keep myself open to God's timing when it's come to the healing pieces of me that are still stuck in the past, I know there's a few more in me and their time will come, He will let me know. The peace from healing far out weights to fatigue of holding them all in.

And yes, when I'm curious and think of me at 4, I still see a clothed, happy and smiling little girl.