The Power of the Spoken Word
Given how free I can sometimes be with personal information; you might be surprised to find out that I actually have a few secrets that are, in fact, still secrets. Last night I found myself in a place where I was being asked to tell some of these secrets. Not just think about them, but actually give voice to them. To say them out loud.
I knew this would be difficult. After all, I’m 44 years old and some of these secrets go back to a time before I had acquired language. That’s a long time. It’s an even longer time when you think about how many of those days and years were spent putting up defenses around these secrets and trying to bury them so deeply that they could not have power over me. But defending against secrets and burying them only intensifies their power. Every time I swallow a secret or hide it or deny it; it’s that much stronger – to the point that their power has taken on a life of its own.
These secrets are very well defended in my psyche. These secrets have become so well defended, deep in their hiding places, that on some occasions I can actually talk about them… I can bring them out and parade them around and polish up the boxes where they are hidden before putting them back. Because this detached viewing of the secrets is done without feeling or emotion, when it occurs I am not viewing these stories as if I own them. They are not a part of me or my life. I can express these events in very clinical terms – the way a mechanic would describe what’s wrong with your car or a plummer would tell you that you need a new septic tank. When these things are expressed with such detachment, their power is not released. If anything, their fortress is buttressed ever more and the power these secrets hold over me gets stronger.
So, last night I tried to speak the truth – and by telling the truth I mean feeling the emotions that go along with the words. It meant owning my history and accepting these stories as mine. I can’t tell you how scary it was to even approach this task. I listened as my companion for this journey asked me if I wanted to try this… he talked about all the reasons this was a good thing to do and how he understood it was difficult and scary… I could hear his voice talking to me, but I really wasn’t there.
The fear and the dread were already carrying me away. What if I opened the box without my familiar protections and the contents of the box just swallowed me up? What if there was no end to the pain so neatly contained in the boxes? What of the stories contained in the boxes were more horrible than I had imagined? Or worse, what if there was nothing of note… like the Coke can Heraldo Rivera found in Grant’s Tomb. That would be embarrassing to have made all this fuss over nothing. Or perhaps it would signal that I was as weak and worthless as my mother always led me to believe I was.
But we agreed that speaking, feeling, and owning the stories I had stored away was the only way to rob them of their power and to release the grip they have on my life. So, I took a deep breath and started to tell one of the stories from the beginning. Even the very beginning words, “Well, there was this time…” seemed almost impossible to utter. I wanted to raise the shields and return to the comfortable clinical, detached perspective. But I fought against it. I summoned every ounce of strength that I could. I heard myself say, “…and then…” But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to speak the words. My companion started asking questions… I couldn’t even answer him. After a while he said, “I’ll just ask ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions. Can you answer those? Try to answer.”
At first I couldn’t even say “yes” or “no”. I just sat and stared blankly into space while he queried. Finally he asked a question and I was able to whisper “yes.” It was just a rush of air between my teeth, but you could tell it was supposed to be a “yes.” It felt so overwhelming. “Yes.” It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever said. A few seconds later I was able to answer another question with the word “both.”
I was too shell shocked to cry. Waves of fear and grief and horror and embarrassment and terror and shame and pain just washed over me. It was saturating… all consuming… engulfing… Today most of those emotions remain, just not quite as intense as they were last night. It feels a little odd to sit with these emotions. I’m so used to packing them up and pretending they don’t exist. So it doesn’t feel right to have them out in the open. But it also feels like a victory. A small victory for sure. But as small as it is, it is also important. It doesn’t feel quiet right to celebrate this victory; what it represents is just too sad. But I feel like I should observe the occasion in some way. A memorial day of sorts. Perhaps I could send flowers to the grave of my great-grandfather and send a bouquet to the one still living. Of course, she’d think it was a token of my love and devotion. HA! Such irony. I think I’ll do it.
I knew this would be difficult. After all, I’m 44 years old and some of these secrets go back to a time before I had acquired language. That’s a long time. It’s an even longer time when you think about how many of those days and years were spent putting up defenses around these secrets and trying to bury them so deeply that they could not have power over me. But defending against secrets and burying them only intensifies their power. Every time I swallow a secret or hide it or deny it; it’s that much stronger – to the point that their power has taken on a life of its own.
These secrets are very well defended in my psyche. These secrets have become so well defended, deep in their hiding places, that on some occasions I can actually talk about them… I can bring them out and parade them around and polish up the boxes where they are hidden before putting them back. Because this detached viewing of the secrets is done without feeling or emotion, when it occurs I am not viewing these stories as if I own them. They are not a part of me or my life. I can express these events in very clinical terms – the way a mechanic would describe what’s wrong with your car or a plummer would tell you that you need a new septic tank. When these things are expressed with such detachment, their power is not released. If anything, their fortress is buttressed ever more and the power these secrets hold over me gets stronger.
So, last night I tried to speak the truth – and by telling the truth I mean feeling the emotions that go along with the words. It meant owning my history and accepting these stories as mine. I can’t tell you how scary it was to even approach this task. I listened as my companion for this journey asked me if I wanted to try this… he talked about all the reasons this was a good thing to do and how he understood it was difficult and scary… I could hear his voice talking to me, but I really wasn’t there.
The fear and the dread were already carrying me away. What if I opened the box without my familiar protections and the contents of the box just swallowed me up? What if there was no end to the pain so neatly contained in the boxes? What of the stories contained in the boxes were more horrible than I had imagined? Or worse, what if there was nothing of note… like the Coke can Heraldo Rivera found in Grant’s Tomb. That would be embarrassing to have made all this fuss over nothing. Or perhaps it would signal that I was as weak and worthless as my mother always led me to believe I was.
But we agreed that speaking, feeling, and owning the stories I had stored away was the only way to rob them of their power and to release the grip they have on my life. So, I took a deep breath and started to tell one of the stories from the beginning. Even the very beginning words, “Well, there was this time…” seemed almost impossible to utter. I wanted to raise the shields and return to the comfortable clinical, detached perspective. But I fought against it. I summoned every ounce of strength that I could. I heard myself say, “…and then…” But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to speak the words. My companion started asking questions… I couldn’t even answer him. After a while he said, “I’ll just ask ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions. Can you answer those? Try to answer.”
At first I couldn’t even say “yes” or “no”. I just sat and stared blankly into space while he queried. Finally he asked a question and I was able to whisper “yes.” It was just a rush of air between my teeth, but you could tell it was supposed to be a “yes.” It felt so overwhelming. “Yes.” It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever said. A few seconds later I was able to answer another question with the word “both.”
I was too shell shocked to cry. Waves of fear and grief and horror and embarrassment and terror and shame and pain just washed over me. It was saturating… all consuming… engulfing… Today most of those emotions remain, just not quite as intense as they were last night. It feels a little odd to sit with these emotions. I’m so used to packing them up and pretending they don’t exist. So it doesn’t feel right to have them out in the open. But it also feels like a victory. A small victory for sure. But as small as it is, it is also important. It doesn’t feel quiet right to celebrate this victory; what it represents is just too sad. But I feel like I should observe the occasion in some way. A memorial day of sorts. Perhaps I could send flowers to the grave of my great-grandfather and send a bouquet to the one still living. Of course, she’d think it was a token of my love and devotion. HA! Such irony. I think I’ll do it.
posted by Liz at 11:10 PM
2 Comments:
Liz ... it is a victory. You have begun to live. Praise be to God.
I wish you peace on your journey, Liz. I would imagine that as incredibly hard as it is at first, it must get easier. You have people who love you unconditionally around you. And, of course, God created you to be healthy and whole. Let Him work that miracle in you.
I feel kinda cheeky commenting at all -- I'm not expert in any of this -- but I just wanted you to know that we care. Please let me (and others) know if we can do anything to help you.
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