On Getting Reacquainted With My Soul




When I first met him, my soul leapt around like an excited puppy. 

I don’t know why. 

If I’d have known then what he’d end up doing to me, I would have been repulsed by him. But danger can be cunning and can’t always be sensed in advance, and of course I was beyond naive. So trusting. So ready to be loved and seen, and he seduced so masterfully. I didn’t know he was only hungry for taking. I didn’t know people like him actually existed.

Sometimes I wonder if my soul confused him for someone else. Maybe he was the garden path, and in my eager innocence I couldn’t tell the difference.

Almost immediately, my intuition started sending me loud messages, but I didn’t know what an intuition was, let alone how to listen to it. I can remember so many times feeling something within me crying out in protest, begging to be heeded. 

Now I understand that was my true self, desperately trying to get me safe. 

If only I’d known her voice. 

I froze instead - my body’s response to the trauma. If I was frozen, or if I just left my body, I couldn’t hear my intuition screaming at me anymore. It wasn’t just that, though. If I disassociated from reality, I couldn’t hear his manic words that leapt so quickly from compliment to insult it nauseated me. If I was gone from my body I couldn’t feel his fingers on my scalp, forcing me where he liked. 

Neither could I feel the ripping apart that was happening inside of me as my soul retreated into the depths of my being - a last ditch effort to save herself. 

And through a consistent pattern of dehumanization and abuse, it had happened. The disconnect. 

My soul no longer leapt like an excited puppy over...anything at all. I was a shell. No alignment, no passion, only an abundance of lack and pain. This wasn’t living. I was sure him and that life had essentially killed me, save my physical body, but even that wasn’t holding up very well. 

I was very skilled at going through the motions, at putting on a happy face. “Negative” emotions had always been frowned upon anyway, so maintaining a stellar outward appearance was second nature for me. My reality became wearing a mask to hide my inner turmoil. I thought I could maintain it, but it got more difficult all the time.

Disassociation may have been a vital tool for survival in the prison of abuse, but once I was free from oppression, I was left severely dysfunctional and incapable of experiencing true connection and meaning. 

It was as though I was numb to life.  

The parts of me that could still feel emotion seemed to be primarily capable of feeling anger. I carried around so much anger, and feeling out of control only made it worse. The anger superfueled my anxiety; the perfect recipe for panic. I’d rage and writhe like a madwoman on the regular. Surely this must be doing something, all this terrifying, chaotic energy born from pain. I begged the panic attacks to somehow heal me, if they must stay with me, but they just kept saying the same thing, “Listen. Look. Stop running.” 

And in that dark space, all that was left in my head were a few select voices whose words played on repeat, reminding me of all the ways I would never be worthy of love. I would never quite be enough. These were not just the voices of my abuser himself, but of others in my immediate community who believed children were born to be broken and bent to “god’s will” for their life. 

I have learned you cannot set out to intentionally break someone’s spirit and call it love. The confusion this cultivates is so dizzying some people never find their footing after experiencing it. It’s heart breaking to watch.

But I’m also learning that a rising up of these sleeping souls - of what I believe is a collective soul consciousness - is not only possible, it’s happening.

My own sleeping soul jolted awake last year when I had a nervous breakdown, and since then I have crossed paths with so many others who are in various stages of their own rising up.

Waking up.

Meeting their brilliant new dawn.

Learning how to live again, or perhaps for the very first time. Like the feeling of hugging yourself and weeping an ocean of tears because you have never before directed love at yourself. 

My soul was born to speak up. I believe that now more than ever. I was so determined to be heard, in fact, that I popped one of my lungs with my first breath. Clearly I made a full recovery. 

With my whole heart I can say, for all the pain and oppression and rocky pathways, I am honored to be on this planet. That's quite an improvement from 16 years of being intermittently suicidal. I’m glad to be awake, even if it means I can no longer choose to avert my eyes from the Truth that lies within. I can’t deceive myself anymore. I can’t ignore the voice of my intuition anymore. 

I refuse to pay those prices anymore. 

This fire of transformation is so painful at times, there are definitely moments I wish I could be indolent without instantly feeling the misalignment, but at least I have more clarity now - I’m not running blindly anymore. I can feel more now, and I can finally participate in Loving and Being Loved. 

Oh, and my soul leaps like an excited puppy again. On a nearly daily basis. Honestly, I’d gotten to a point where I never thought I’d experience that sense of childlike wonder and joy again, and the magnitude of that level of healing is not lost on me.

I can remember when I was a little girl, living out in the country, running all around our acreage in the summertime, imagining I was riding on a galloping stallion. My soul was luminescent and free in those moments, and I could feel its immortality.

I didn't know life was going to break me. But I didn't know I was going to be put back together again, either.

Now I’m safe and free. My soul is rising up. My throat chakra is open. 

I am now unafraid to express my reality and speak my truth, and I still have the same luminescent soul I came here with. 

And so do you, of course. 

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