I don’t pretend to understand the emotional hurricane storming through my veins. The gusts of wind that take my breath away or the shards of glass that slice away pieces of my existence with every new truth. My truth. The truth that sits on my chest like the purple elephant in the room. The truth that becomes more and more valid as it’s given a voice. The truth that dispels the darkness and the truth that invites it in because really, it’s all one in the same.
Our past is dark, but it’s ours to sort through, to do with as we choose. They say processing trauma is like peeling an onion. Am I the only one that thinks that saying came from the fact that onions make you cry? Layers upon layers of cruelty, abandonment, and rejection to be peeled away until we finally find the truth of who we could have been…who Yahweh created us to be.
I don’t like the word Sonship. I never have because I don’t want to be a son, I don’t want to be connected to the male species in any way. I’ll take the tiara, be the princess, the daughter of a King, but keep your sonship and things related to men far away from me. I’ll stick with striving for daughtership. I know that’s not a word to most, but it’s my word, the only word I can work with during this phase of healing. It doesn’t ooze with slime and shame. It doesn’t scream that I am dirty. It doesn’t make the little man in the crane inside my head make adjustments to my thinking.