Illustration by Maria Ines Gul
Sometimes I gaze into the mirror, at the top of my head, and think, "It's all in there. What's stopping me from getting to it?" My mind is very clever, apparently, as is the mind of every child who went through trauma. It gets forgotten, repressed, skewed, blurred, dismissed, diminished, swept under the rug and kept there until the time comes when you can pull it out, old and dirty and ugly, and look it in the face. That time might come, it might not. And you might need help.
I've felt like seeking help often, only I couldn't quite understand why nor did I remember. It started ringing loudly in my head when I was a 15 or so, and as I was too scared and too embarrassed and too unsure of what it was I really needed, I turned to writing poetry, and then a diary. I felt like something happened to me, something dark was sitting inside me, but I didn't know for sure. Then in my 30s the need for help came again. This time I could afford therapy, and now I knew that something did happen, and I finally knew who did it and why I forgot, but the actual memories apart from some blurry images were still out of my grasp. I turned to writing. Writing helped.
And now it's not enough. I'm starting to feel the need again, in the eve of turning 40. No matter where I turn, it's staring me in the face, that old dirty ugly thing, and there is no rug anymore to put it under.