People like to say, “Let the past die.”
As if they are not aware that trauma, is like recurring movie.
Played over and over.
In every cell of our bodies.
Deeply enmeshed in our ciphers.
For trauma survivors, the past never dies.
It is etched into the fabric of our beings. It enters and makes a home in the deepest recesses of our bodies and psyches. The past hides where no one can see. It encapsulates what is good and pure, feeding from our life force. Its death grip often prevents us from fully reaching the light of our paths. Its consequence lives on. Its circumstance remains.
Trauma sleeps…and sleeps…then suddenly awakens from its slumber when faced with emotions/situations/people that mimic its shape and form. It makes its way into our skin, our cells, our memories. It feeds on our bones. Its energy runs through our blood. It convinces us humans disappoint, abuse, fail to protect…because they in fact do. It retreats and it roars. But the past does not die. Sometimes she’s quiet and sometimes she screams.
It is “not voiceless; but deliberately silenced.” (Arundhati Roy)
The past—trauma—can only be navigated and managed. Until it can’t. This is the reality. If you live or love in this matrix, you understand this, or you deny its existence. And we have a world full of traumatized people who refuse it—who are unhealed, unheard, un-whole. Their wounds becomes the wounds of the world around them.
In refusing to look, we deny our own. And cycles continue. Show yourselves so we can collectively heal. See the mirror that stands before you. Let us hold one another and feel. Let us touch each other’s hands and dreamfast.
Dreamfast with me.