Nearly three weeks ago, I received an early morning text from my younger brother. Which is a bit out of the ordinary, because we don’t talk a bunch. He said he wanted me to know he had been up early reading, my sister-in-law had directed him here, to my blog and he had read it all. He told me “the good Lord made you a talented writer and you need to tell your story” He also told me he loved me, but those words, the latter of his sentence, brought tears to my eyes. They were words that I thought, wouldn’t have believed he would ever say. I simply could have NEVER have imagined him saying, and I was indeed overwhelmed.

You see, I love my little brother, who is not so little any more, very much. We were very close growing up and he was always much more of an “older” brother in the way he acted, he was very protective and when we were both in trouble, he always had my back. We drifted apart when our parents divorced the summer I turned 14. I stayed with mom and he lived with dad, but I’m getting ahead of myself… let’s get back to why my hearing my brother telling me I should share my story moved me to tears.

Well, because my story, my TRUTH, which is also our story, is a hard story to tell, an even harder pill to swallow. Which I suppose is why I have continued to sit in the silence and this unbearable holding pattern, waiting for something, SOMEONE to give me the signal to move on; to move forward, outside the dark and quiet void. So for years I have waited in the void, rehashing old demons, creating and battling new ones; shedding armor only to put on more. All the while, quietly waiting to tell my story, to be given the opportunity to speak my truth.

The summer I was 12, was the summer my story began; or at least my most vivid memories. There was a day, that there had been an incident, and I was on the stairs crying. My brother came in and found me, he was 10 and being a pest and wouldn’t let up until I told him why I had been crying. He didn’t believe nothing and whatever else I must have told him, so I told him the truth… he freaked out, called me a liar and ran to his room. He took a nap and he forgot it all, because he never sad a word. So I decided right then and there to never say another word, if my own brother didn’t believe me, why would anyone?

So that Monday morning, in one quiet gesture, in a loving text, my brother gave me the nod to move forward – forward in the final phase of healing from the trauma I endured so many decades ago. Its like I have finally been given the permission to get up of the stairs in that old farmhouse where it all started. As if I have been sitting there ALL these years and now I am finally FREE! No more softly weeping, unable to move, afraid to do so; because if I did; the walls would come tumbling down around me.

Today, I am good, truly, my wounds are healed. I’ve been thru therapy, twice; and after 20 years of self medicating with alcohol and drugs, and basically marrying my father three different times; I found recovery, including out-patient treatment and started seeing myself differently and moving forward there were much fewer self inflicted wounds. Its been another 20 plus years, living life sober and today I know make better choices and I am living a life I am much prouder of. I still have struggles, that comes with life. But today, I know much better ways to deal with them.

As previous posts have revealed, the last two years proved especially difficult as I experienced more loss and grief than I could have imagined, and I did get caught up in the void, the isolation of that staircase, sitting there, alone and crying and just lost in the sadness. I used to pray on that staircase, and to my naïve and traumatized young self, I simply thought that God either didn’t hear me, or worse… didn’t care. Today, I know better, with FAITH, even in my sadness and sitting on those stairs again, I prayed, asking God to help me through.

So while there can be strength in silence, I am here to say, I have been silent for far too long. And if my not so “little” strong and silent brother can give this tortured writer the gentle and encouraging nod that I have been waiting for… if as I standup and start to walk away, I can hear the quiet rumble and feel the trembling around me, as the walls do come crumbling down. When the dust settles, I turn to see that the stairs are all that remains. Someone still sits there and I take a step back, raise my hand to shield my eyes and I see that it is 12yo me. She lifts her hand to wave and she smiles, and then she walks away, a skip in her step, nothing to fear.

I turn to do the same, maybe not skip (my 58 yo back and knees would not agree) but walk, away from the wreckage of my past, trudging along on a beautiful new path, that is filled with it’s own uncertainties, but today I am more than strong enough to do what needs to be done, including shatter the silence and stand strong.