A book leapt off the bookshelf and landed on the floor with a hard thud. Startled and curious, I made my way to investigate the source. A rush of adrenaline hit my heart as I read the words written on the outstretched pages, memories from age seven. Immediately, I slammed the book cover and fumbled to place it back on the shelf.
I had long ago closed that book. It was cloaked in a blanket of dusty layers from decades of neglect, as it remained neatly positioned among the other books on the shelf. I had no desire to wipe away the filth enveloping the contents and certainly no wish to re-open it. It was too painful to read. I knew those pages held secrets I had tried to forget, secrets I hoped to never remember or reveal. Each time it would tumble off the shelf, I quickly shoved it into any open space it would fit. I could not bear to look at it for more than the brief moment it took to squeeze it back between all the other memories.
Time moved on, but the book continued to fall, forcing me to acknowledge its existence. The disruption seemed random, but my mind slowly put together the pieces and learned to recognize what triggered it’s awakening.
In the midst of giggles from my sweet seven year old boy, it fell. In the middle of the night, it woke me. In an argument with my husband, the pages spread open wide. Persistently, the collection of tainted memories beckoned me to explore the pages. It haunted me in my sleep and wake.
The dark had always frightened me. The unknown and being unable to see what was before me was terrifying. Well into adulthood, the fear held tightly, sending my grown body into a cold sweat. As I laid my head on my pillow, what should have been a haven for rest morphed into a captivity of torture.
As I lay in the darkness, the book whispered the stories each page contained. Vivid reels of the scenes of my youth flickered behind my eyelids. My physical body was in the present, yet it relieved the horror of the past in real time. My heart raced and my stomach met my throat. Intense fear flooded my system, like hot lava coursing through my veins, yet my body froze like a statue of solid ice.
Opening my eyes, I saw a dark shadow inch towards me. Fear forced my eyes to squint shut allowing the replay of the terrorizing movie projected onto my eyelids. There was no escape. Frozen. Speechless. Helpless.
So, I prayed.
God, please make this stop. Please give me peace. Wrap your arms of comfort around me.
I prayed and prayed, until sleep found me.
Some nights rest greeted me with dreams sprinkled with promise. Most nights, the nightmares woke me, and the dark shadow reappeared.
Frustrated and desperate, I attempted to eliminate the book. I needed the memories to be erased and never to be remembered. I doused it in gasoline and lit a match, but the pages refused to burn. I clawed at the pages, but they would not tear. I squeezed the pages between sharpened scissors, but it only dulled the blades. There was no escaping. The memories stored within the pages of the book were indestructible. So, I buried it further back on the shelf and stacked books all around it.
Life moved along, as it does, and the book stayed hidden and forgotten for a time. Until the shelves and surrounding books could hold it no more. In a great crash, the bookshelf fell like a mighty oak tree. Each book of memories and the books of blank pages for the writing of future stories scattered about. I could ignore the past no longer.
I sat among the ruins, broken and shattered like the wooden shelves surrounding me. Hot tears streaked my face marking a trail of pain as I opened the book. The book of age seven memories.
Within the pages scribbled in crayon words and drawings, I encountered a beautiful and vivacious little girl. She was innocent, trusting, and forgiving. She excelled in academics. She danced freely and sang loudly. Her heart held a love larger than her small body could contain, and it spilled out to everyone she knew, extending even to the father she did not know.
As I read her story, I fell in love with her spirit. My heart broke for her in the silence and pain. My body re-lived her trauma, over and over again and again. I wanted to rewrite the story. I longed to remove the characters that caused her harm. No matter how many times I read her crayon words, I could not save her or rescue her.
So, I sat with her…
…in the grief
…in the pain
...in the confusion.
And I will continue to sit with her…
…until she is ready to stand up again
…until she is ready to build a new bookshelf strong enough to hold the heavy memories
…until she can gently place each book back in it’s rightful place with love.
I will sit with that brave girl.
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