Author: Shona Clingham

People have been condemning me to this hell, keeping me locked in by fear and reaping what comes of that. I didn’t have a choice then but to accept that. I’ve made a choice since to keep going, having accepted it, seeking all the while a change of those circumstances alongside personal change, remembering how unacceptable the onslaught actually is; remembering that the abuse it enabled either side of that onslaught is a personal lesson to bear like a prickly bedfellow for the trauma I was and am yet to heal from; remembering that those who dealt abuse against me might be in the habit of keeping their lessons locked away from themselves, might never make attempts for peace, might never apologise or see need for apology; remembering that the truth (concealed or vague as it might be for others) cements the pieces of myself, as I recover from what I’ve endured and make amends for that which I’ve inflicted. Some would rather see me burn than face the truth. Some sit by with fuel for the fire. There was a time where I joined them and looked on stony-eyed as bits of ourselves caught alight. As I put out the fires, as those around me help to extinguish what should not have come to pass, we’re reminded daily of the ways in which each of us contributed to it… and each of us have a choice to hang on to the fuel we carry still and channel it somewhere else, in another way… a better way.

Resilience is key. Safety comes first but one cannot ensure that without the other. Resilience is key to maintaining safety.

My resilience wavers beneath exhaustion. The kind of power-grabbing exhaustion that comes on the back of the same emotional turbulence that doesn’t go only one way. Stoicism or some variation of that has helped me to stay objective and steady enough beneath everything that trembled. The lack of response from me as I remained stoic (ish) with others became a subject of scrutiny. My change in response awakened enough of me for others to then shine a glaring spotlight on my animosity*. One way or the other, there was fault to be found. How odd… an imperfect human?

Absolutely natural. I’m allowed. Let’s consider all things…

Of course, people want to know if I’m taking liberties with that so they take liberties of their own to find out. What they find is not always what they expected simply because it reveals more of who they are than what they sought to fix. That’s been true, throughout.

*Interesting that the word animosity comes from Latin meaning spirit and courage, and time has distorted this, demonised it…

I’m so tired. I find myself wanting to stop life for a moment. I know I can’t. I want to pause. I want to pause without reflection for a moment simply because there are those who just skip on by and point fingers at me, and they do so without realising the damage it does, without realising they’re contributing to a bigger problem and they’re making themselves a part of it, prolonging something which is otherwise in hand. 

I want only to be left to live my life without interference and without undue attention and somehow, my guilt about a lot of rather normal things gave way to speculation and pitchfork donning; my guilt over finally giving in to my feelings after a lifetime of being too nice had me burning at the stake like a witch, justifying the actions of those with pitchforks and flamethrowers, and lighting a beacon for those wanting to throw fuel on the fire, as I (lay dying) locked in my mind, burning with the fire of society’s fears, knowing the unknowing in those who condemned me and giving in to the condemnation because it feels deserved—because I gave in where I shouldn’t have, because I’m human, because I’m not perfect, because I’ve spent too long weighted with those unrealistic expectations, because I’m ‘one of the good ones’ and I have to give hope and not take it away, because I have to see the goodness and spread the goodness and try to be better—

—and you know what, that responsibility as others sail on through life with careless disregard, makes me want to set myself adrift. Still. 

In the burning, I thought once, maybe I’d find that. In the ashes, there it was.

Freedom. Unmoored, untethered. Adrift. I was a little more free.

It’s within this desire to be free where challenge looms. I’m not alone. I am connected. I matter. You matter. We matter. A tug on one of my threads serves only to knot, unravel, choke, if we cannot make the time to pause when we need to, sit with the threads of ourselves without becoming entangled in them. 

(I’m tied down just enough, and still they pull the threads that bind as though complete freedom is a sustainable way to live.) I’m acknowledging myself enough to understand those deeper childhood fears, and its accompanying present-day fear of loss.

It’s easier to steer this boat now that it isn’t on fire. (Thank you, people, for no longer playing with matches.) 

p.s. Three metaphors on the go here but this is a work in progress, much like myself. I’m being patient with myself. Are you?

My silence has lately been mistaken for acceptance and blind obedience. In essence, I’m direct. I’m honest. I’m unafraid to stand up for someone in need—but I suppose by the time I had to defend myself, I was spent, and tangled—utterly undone—and utterly convinced I was worthless.

When I finally redefined my boundaries on my terms, it inevitably led to a freedom of sorts, and with it an eventual resilience, but before that terribly unglamorous transition back into womanhood, my efforts were met with outrage from those no longer holding control over me. Those people were quick to point out my mistakes and flaws, quick to redirect attention to issues I’d already addressed without them. I’ve since learned to reject their deflection.

It wasn’t an easy lesson.

It is somewhat ironic that those who noticed the oddity of my quiet compliance did not notice that same compliancy while with them over time, and those who saw only snapshots as I tried to establish new boundaries and deal with pushback saw none of the struggle and all of the harshness, blinded in turn by their own flawed lens.

It reinforces me positively now that I know and understand the dynamics at play within most of my relationships. I understand better where I fit within them and I’m no longer despondent about what it tells me because I can more clearly receive the true message.

Back then, I took on too much. Eventually, I broke. I reflected behaviour at the people I love. I matched their energy. I suppose I subconsciously gave myself permission to respond to their mistakes with the same abandon they chose to respond to mine. I had a point and I made it.

I feel equal parts pride and shame about my behaviour but I own it in its entirety and one aspect of that is simply showing up for myself. I stood up for myself when it fucking mattered. Finally.

…But I’d never had genuine confidence before and it went to my head.

It was difficult to move past that. The shame I felt and the shame piled on by others triggered other old wounds and fears.

I broke down, again. I couldn’t speak up. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t function.

Despite having endured a heap of traumatic crap throughout my life, one of the worst experiences was having so many people dislike and judge me for a speculative version of events.

It’s odd because I’d previously been in a place where my own conviction was enough to get through the day and then I was hanging onto encouragement and criticism alike until there was nothing of myself left. It brought despair as it reinforced a deeply held belief (school of life link).

That has since been eclipsed — losing loved ones can have myriad effects; the resilience I’ve rediscovered, new strength I didn’t know I had, means simply, that those who once drove the fear wagon no longer have the power to run me off-track.

With fear in check, I’m a (mostly) sane woman. Hell, don’t take my word for it—stalk me. (No, seriously—STOP stalking me.)

Despite stalking and harassment, I had to stay on task; I was dealing with internal trauma and having a roof over my head no longer equated to having a safe and private space to heal or grow and yet, years later, I’m transitioning once more into a new phase where I have a little more courage to freely be myself. I’m allowing myself to be who I am. I am handling myself well enough. I am helping to raise a wonderful little human and I’m no longer afraid to place a little trust in those who genuinely want to help. The tricky part has been overcoming those trust issues—trusting too much makes a person an easy target for opportunists; trusting too little hinders authentic connection with others.

How does a person re-establish who they are, be who they are and live with pain without shutting out the world or throwing cruelty back into it?

For me, it began with acknowledging myself.