hold me
i’ve been in bed since 8:38 this evening. trying to keep in mind what so many friends and loved ones are encouraging me to do right now, take care of me. and so i read for a while, attempting to place my mind elsewhere, though the tension headaches blur the words on the page (fuckin PTSD).
jackson had a nightmare tonight. at 10:30 i heard him screaming. paul and i both woke up startled and i went into jackson’s room to find my magoo crying in the corner of his crib yet still asleep. eyes closed. i picked him up, wrapped the two of us in a blanket and rocked him until he calmed down. rubbing his back, i wondered to myself “what could a little one, a 17 month old, possibly have a nightmare about?”
maybe jackson was waking me up from a nightmare. i have a lot of them. maybe he woke me up, knowing that right now i need the comfort, the closeness, the support.
i need to be held.
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i’ve been receiving a lot of emails this week, as saturday approaches… my 9 year sucky anniversary. a friend, a fellow survivor, wrote me today and asked “does it get better?” (referring to the time after one shares one’s story). “tell me it gets better,” my friend said.
i couldn’t give her the 1 word, 3 lettered answer she wanted… instead i emailed her back and said, “once it’s out and you’ve opened yourself up and shared, it’s embraced. maybe not easier. but embraced.”
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there are times when i am strong. i imagine wearing this armor consisting of survivorship and bravery and power.
and then there are times when i am weak.
my armor is currently hung up in my closet, allowing me the vulnerability to be who i am at this moment, a sleep-deprived, just-getting-by rape survivor. i’ll put the armor back on at the start of october.
a new month approaches. a good one. one that includes a trip out to portland and seattle just paul and i. one that will include me expanding on my story in ink.
i am excited.
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i twittered with another friend today, who is experiencing her own sucky anniversary this week. not in the same way i am, but she is grieving the loss of her child. and as both she and i most likely share too much on the internet, i found myself telling her, “i hear you. and i’m listening.”
i imagine both of these friends i mention in this post have their own armor.
sometimes it gets too heavy to wear. and you have to hang it up for a while.
be vulnerable.
cry it out.
be held.
No Responses to “hold me”
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twice...
Hugs to you Nic. I wish I could hug in person but know I am thinking of you. Magoo, sweetie, give your mommy a hug for me. Thanks! XOXOXO
omg, amazing story. sorry you had to go through that (though I realize that doesn’t even begin to touch it), but thank you for sharing. I will be thinking about you and wishing you strength.
After losing my mom, I know how the anticipation of an “anniversary” like that can suck.
Take care,
Alana
I lift my glass to ur bravery and openness. Thanks for sharing. Always enjoy reading ur posts.
Amen to that!
Nic
I am so glad that Aidan pointed me to your blog. I’m grateful for your candid and beautiful writing. I don’t pretend to know what you are experiencing, but I often think of my armor, and the lack thereof. I used to use one friend’s esteem as my armor, feeling safe because I knew of his respect and affection, but I realize that is not a long term solution. We need to be and develop our own armor.
But I also appreciate people who can let their guard down.
Thank you for being one of those. I know, it can get tiring being vulnerable. I really do know.
Lindsey
I think that our childern know when we need them.I am sending you a hug and a good vibe of stength.
Nic – I wish I had the words to take it all away or something helpful to say. Just know that we are all embracing you and that I think you are stronger than you know. xo
So true. You are amazing. xoxo
Sending hugs, love, and peace as always. XOXO
Wow! Thanks for sharing. Mine was over 22 years ago now and happened inthe Spring on Easter Sunday of my 16th year while my parents were in the basement of our house. My mom worked with his mom and he attended the school she taught at so I did not tell anyone until the mom was dead. I lived with it and worked on it, stil suffer from depressive episodes that link back to it. 22 years later. I can say time helps but only if you have self-love (hard to find afterwards) and an outstanding support network in friends and family IF youc an share. I did not feel I could for years and then had a relative lie about herself in order to get people off her back for getting pregnant. That one has been hard to deal with since I feel I was stabbed in the gut (she did not know anything that happened to me). I can not speak to her because of it which means I do not see my niece and nephew. That has not helped my own healing. However, I no longer remember the exact date, just the time frame. Progress, right?
you are amazing
When I read your story, your struggle and the many others of us who heal through words online, I picture the hundreds or thousands of us out here reading your words reaching out and holding you up. I’m thinking of you…and September is winding down.
i will hold you always.
you have survived something that i fear so much. you are such a hero to me. you are admired by me.
I know that our babies somehow know when we need them. Either way, I think going and cuddling with Jackson when you need too…even if he didn’t notice, is okay too.
Nic, you have no idea how much I want to hug you right now. Seriously.
Your writing is always so raw and so beautiful. I’m thinking about you and sending hugs to you.
Oh, I just want to wrap you in a big hug.
I’m holding you in my heart, for as long as you need.
There are no words. I wish there were. I applaud your honesty and bravery and gumption. The idea of Magoo waking you from your own nightmare is nothing short of poetic. You could write a whole book about this metaphor. The metaphor of armor is beyond compelling too. I am glad that you are allowing yourself some time to be raw and exposed and vulnerable. Not easy, I’m sure, but you are serving as a wonderful example for your darling son and the rest of us who have been fortunate enough to live life without the advent of such terrible anniversaries.
It is magical how there is optimism laced through even this deeper, darker stream.
I’m here. Not full of wisdom, but here.
What you’ve been through is unfathomable and unfair. Yet you are coping in such an inspiring way. You are confronting the tragedy and its lingering effects head on by serving as a counselor, by blogging about what happened to you, and even by allowing yourself to get into bed. While I can’t begin to understand the extent of suffering you have endured, know that I and the multitudes of others lucky enough to read your postings are here for you. We will cheer you on and hopefully reassure you that there is much good in the world to counteract the bad you have encountered. We are your sisters in arms.
Oh ouch. I felt that one. I have zero idea what it’s like to go through what you’ve been through, but the feeling of need need need need needing to be held is very familiar to me and I hurt for you to feel that. Gigantic hugs.
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