I wrote this a few days ago as a Facebook status update and wanted to archive it here, :)
was five years old, I would have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich
everyday after school. With a glass of milk. It was the first thing I
would do after getting off the bus. Five for me was, well, hellish in my
little mind. It's when I started getting really, really angry. I was
miserable. I had horrible nightmares and I remember, at just five, how
heavy and depressing being alive felt. The abuse I'd been enduring for a few years had started to take its toll, in serious ways.
Everyone noticed. My siblings became scared of me or would get very
angry with me; and I with them. How I processed the abuse was to push
everyone close to me away, most especially my loving and perceptive
mother, through angry outbursts.
But everyday, I would sit
down and enjoy that pb and j with milk. Looking back, I think my mom let
me have it everyday, without fail, because maybe she could see it was
one aspect, however small, of my little life, in which I could enjoy
something. Unfortunately, I didn't enjoy the vast majority of my
I just made a pb and j. An "adult" version:
coconut and peanut butter with blueberry "preserves" grilled in light
butter on multi grain bread!
Sitting there, I was brought back to those days, over twenty years ago,
in which I sat in my same body, with my same hands feeding my same
mouth. And I smiled, thinking about how much had changed. I don't
regret or wish I grew up any differently. It was very difficult, what I
went through so early on in life, but sitting there eating my pb and j, I
thanked that little girl. Because she survived. And eating her used to
be go-to comfort food, I honored her. With a smile on the outside and
an abundance of love on the inside.
I hope we all find moments
to honor, respect and above all, love the parts of us who survived, at
whatever stages in life. And in the process, stand witness to the
sacred, beautiful journey that is life.