Writer’s corner presents a new blog about life and moving forward from trauma.
There is happy on the other side of healing. An inspiring experience of healing from childhood rape. Yvette Mozayik says, “It is possible to thrive after trauma. Look forward to poems and essays about my journey to healed.”
Healing is amazing. The man that raped me at 5 was named George. Before therapy anytime I heard the name George I would immediately be transported in my mind to him raping me. If I overheard the name, I had to put my armor on. Without even knowing it that name had the power to send me to my bed for days.
Where I work the Fitness Instructor’s name is George. We were in an African performing arts group in the late ’90s together but I knew him by another name.
I do believe that my steps are divinely ordered. I believe this situation was tailor-made for me. When I first heard his name, I did not run home to my bed. I don’t even think I recognized it as a past trigger.
Because he worked there his name was called out frequently. I would sometimes give George a ride home. On one occasion he asked me to take him to Walmart and then we would go to lunch, his treat. Well, the place “he” had chosen objectified women. I felt uncomfortable because of the staff’s attire. Most people’s bra and panties have more coverage than these young women were wearing.
He started going on about someone he knew really liked big buttocks. I stopped him mid-story and told him that I did not objectify women. He knew I am a lesbian so maybe he thought I would enjoy this environment.
After that, I had to set some clear boundaries with George. The women at work said he was testing me.
I stopped being chummy with him.
George had a stroke. Every day his name was called out by people asking how he was doing. I am the person at the front desk. I am usually the one giving an update about his progress.
The George that raped me at five is dead to me now. I have become desensitized to that name. Flashbacks, nightmares, and hypervigilance caused by George are a thing of the past.
The George that raped me at 5 was murdered in prison. I don’t know this to be true, but my memory is that my father got the word out that he had raped his little girl and they killed him.
Before therapy, he was still alive for me. I wanted to kill him so badly. I thought that it was unfair that he was dead. I was angry because I could not make him suffer.
As I write this, I take deep breaths and release any residual energy still tied to that event in my life. I made it to the promised land of happiness.
Ding Dong George is Dead, finally.
I know I have healed; I have fond memories to replace the trauma triggers. The good memories bring me joy, cause me to break out and smile while bringing happy tears to my eyes. A walk down memory lane is now filled with gratefulness. I don’t hesitate to walk down memory lane. It is a pleasant experience.
This is freedom. This is healing.