Dry Rot

 

open 

vulnerable 

alive 

but dying 

healing 

and still wounded. 

 

injury is deep 

but I appear impenetrable 

so it is the core 

the place where life flows freely 

but is now interrupted… 

 

in that place, 

I decay 

for the exposure 

to sun and air 

cannot heal. 

 

I crack 

and you wonder why 

I bend and break 

in the wind 

in the storm 

at long last 

I am exposed 

but it is too late.

 

put on your armour 

they said 

it will protect you. 

you are strong 

we can all see that 

why can you not see it? 
 

why can you not see 

me? 

you’ve asked 

inappropriately 

for the facade 

for me to be the bigger person 

and in the process 

you have denied me safety 

cut me off from supply 

 

for we heal in a place of rest 

 

it is written into the universe 

the day to work 

the night to sleep
 

What has been asked of me 

is abuse upon abuse. 

for the good of others 

also abused 

you have demanded 

I make deals 

with the devil 

for the sake of peace. 

 

but it has failed 

for the next storm 

will expose 

how deep was the wound 

you continually reopened 

by your own violating expectation. 

 

take care of the widows and the orphans 

in their distress. 

take. 

care. 

 

or watch the wounded fall 

from that which festers. 

 

 

I never expected to feel the pain of a broken tree. To understand the reality of the shell that still stood, but was bent over… it had decayed on the inside while looking so strong and sturdy. And in the end, something so tall and majestic could have blown over cracking and crumbling in the wind at night. 

And no one would have known. 

In a forest full of trees, no one would have known. One day it stood, tall, proud, leafy, and the next… bowed and gutted, not even useful for firewood. 

Unhealed trauma is so pervasive in nature. It is the wound that bears no visible scar, yet robs one of life with the most certainty. Even the one who bears it never really knows the full extent until they try to heal. If it were a tree, parts, limbs might be cut off, pesticides might be used… pieces of itself would be take off in the process and it would have to adapt to life without them: put out new branches, more roots. People need this too. Heart Wound Dressing. The support of a community that will bring healing to them, because they cannot move to healing themselves. 

A label has been given. We call the irregularity of response to trauma PTSD. It’s nice to have a name for it. But a name is not validation. I am a victim of domestic abuse. My children are also victims of domestic abuse. It is ugly. It is messy. Our wounds are on the inside. A word, a tone of voice, a second within an experience… and the brain bypasses reason leaving us flummoxed and incapacitated. Western culture doesn’t deal with trauma adroitly. It pushes the victim to just “deal.” It considers coping to be healing. It isn’t. 

I would love to say that the “secular” structure… social and legal are different than the “religious” in this arena, but I have moved through both, and they aren’t. Sadly, I think the one determined the other. More emphasis is put on the victim forgiving than the perpetrator being held accountable for their actions. While it is true that one can’t move past an event without forgiving, the human psyche cannot fully heal while still having to form a “thick skin” or employ “resiliency” due to continued contact with one they cannot trust. I can see my abuser with the eyes of love and forgiveness, even understanding, yet still want healthy boundaries. If I were a divorcee with no children, this would have been possible. I could have cut all ties and run, licked my wounds, and healed. 

But children need to know their father. I understand that in the legal arena, many people lie. accusations are made, people lose livelihoods because of vindictive words and actions. Injustice is made because anger and unforgiveness overrule reason. Many have experienced system trauma on both sides of this bench. But some of us are honest, truthful, hopeful, desiring healing, and unseen. Lawyers tell you to leave your emotions out of the negotiations. It’s simpler in the courthouse. But it’s hell in the healing process. 

I don’t know your story. I don’t know where you have hidden your pain. I don’t know which wounds lie dormant until someone inadvertently steps on the land mine they have become. I only know that I have trauma that has been tabled. And I see in myself the same dry rot that makes a tree susceptible to the winds of storms and changing seasons. 

And unlike the common thought and literature of the day, which says to cut ties and run and rediscover self, without the lies and lack of safety, I am forced to find healing without the distance. And it hurts. The wounds have festered. The effects of trauma have commandeered some of my physical being in an effort to be attended to, and even though my heart and mind might heal, my body still responds badly. 

I recently was lamenting the slow speed at which I am recovering from trauma I am now brutally aware of (awareness is the first step to healing, I think). I am by nature, a healer, and “physician heal thyself” is not a mantra I would run from. I find myself impatient with the process of healing, and what feels like emotional relapses. A very wise friend listened to the mama guilt and feelings of helplessness I was wading through in the moment. I was expressing the difficulty of looking unstable, not because I am irrational as a matter of course, but because PTSD is unpredictable and tears surfaced in the wrong place. I told her that I know I’m not a bad mother, I take steps to protect my kids from seeing me in this state, but a person with authority in my situation doesn’t know me well and misunderstood. She responded with with three words. “I AM Sure.” The capitals were important. There is One who actually sees. feels. knows. and connects me with others so I am not alone. And that Someone always sees me clearly. That is the voice that declares how stable I am. Thinking about how that erased the guilt and the shame put on me by so many who have only wanted my skin to get thicker and see me learn to take the hits and be the “bigger person” still wrecks me a little. I do not need to be strong all the time. And perhaps if I let myself bend in the wind a little before I break, I may find someone realizes I need support in healing before I blow right over in the next storm. 

I want to say two things: if your healing is in limbo, as much of mine has been, your wounds are not your identity. You are still beautiful and loved, and valuable. Sometimes your wounds speak where your true self should, and while it is not ok, and can create a rather unsafe place for the people in your world who don’t see the trauma, you will have to forgive yourself for hurting others, and learn to apologize and own it. Also, you are still alive and you are not alone. Find community. Someone who will listen, yes, but also someone who will not leave you in your mess. Commiseration never brings healing, it only sparks the spread of bitterness and disease. We need reminders that our experiences are not our being. Find people who will pull you up and show you who you are. 

Just because the book hasn’t been written on how to heal from trauma in the middle of what still feels like the battle, doesn’t mean it can’t be done. It just means that we who are in the middle of it have not yet told our tale. 

But healing happens in the sunlight. So here I am, dragging the difficult out in the open. Because we, are not alone. At all. Ever.

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