Something surfaced recently during a session with my therapist — not just a memory, but something my mind had blocked away for decades because it was too painful to carry. It pointed to an incident of sexual abuse I experienced when I was just two years old, involving someone who had once been part of my extended family. Though my conscious mind had no access to it until now, my body seems to have held onto the truth all these years, quietly storing what I wasn’t yet ready to face.
This morning I woke up wondering if it was real. My mind kept circling the same question — could something like that really have happened? A part of me is still trying to find ways to make it untrue. But another part brings up moments I had long forgotten. The night I spent at my aunt’s home with her ex-husband. How I felt around them. Details I had tucked away, surfacing now like pieces of a puzzle I never knew I was holding.
There’s been a quiet tug-of-war happening inside me.
Last night, I felt tired before going to bed. I reached out to soothe myself by placing my hand near my belly button — something I often do for comfort — but this time, I flinched. It felt wrong. Earlier in the evening, rubbing my belly over my clothes had helped. But when it came to touching my skin directly, I hesitated. My body pulled away. It remembered something I didn’t.
I’m in a kind of shock. If what came up in that session is true, I don’t quite know how to feel. I’m not angry, not yet. I just keep wondering — how could something like this have happened and stayed hidden from me for so long?
I looked at some old photos from around that time. There’s something in my expression, something in my eyes that now makes me pause. A part of me wants to dismiss it, while another part keeps saying, “Look again.”
I keep thinking about my grandfather. He used to do reiki on me when I was little. I never really understood what it was, just that his energy made me feel safe. My mother, too, used to rub my belly gently or place castor oil in my navel when I had stomach aches. It helped. It soothed. And maybe, on some level, those acts of care were helping a wound I didn’t have words for.
Last night in the shower, I tried something my somatic therapist taught me — a muscle test, a way of letting the body speak when the mind is unsure. I asked myself if that uncle had touched me in a way that crossed a boundary. Each time, my body leaned forward. Every single time.
Then another memory came up. Years ago, at the start of a past relationship, there was a night where I was touched while I was asleep. I was too tired to keep my eyes open. When I stirred, he said, “Keep sleeping.” I did. And the next day, I remember writing in my journal about how that moment had made me feel wanted. I saw it as romantic, not realizing then what I understand now.
It’s uncomfortable to write about. But I’m not pushing it away.
I don’t have all the answers. Just fragments. But I’m letting them surface, one at a time. Listening to what my body is trying to tell me.
Today’s truth:
The body remembers, even when the mind cannot. And maybe now, for the first time, I am ready to hear it.
fortuitouspurpose 