“Emotional pain cannot kill you, but it can run away. Enable. Hug. Let yourself feel. Let yourself be healed. "~ Vironika Tugaleva
I was nine years old, sitting on the couch with my father and watching a very Brady Christmas (on my sister's birthday, December 20th) when he first molested me. Terror, confusion, unbelief and shame came together to create a cocktail that would poison me for years to come.
We grew up in a family that seemed ideal from the outside.
We went to church with my mother's family every Sunday and then had breakfast in a restaurant. My brothers, sister, and I spent the weekends participating in fun activities that ranged from clay building to clay skating all day, while my mother baked homemade bread. For everyone who knew us, we seemed to be the perfect family.
And then one day we weren't there anymore.
After that terrible night when my father promised me it would never happen again, I was lost and confused. Was there something inherently wrong with me to provoke him to do this to me? Had I somehow invited him to touch me inappropriately? I felt disgusting, soiled and used, convinced that everything was my fault.
These feelings followed me over the next three years of abuse, then spread and grew after I finally told my mother what had happened. Even after the abuse stopped and my father was safely behind bars, I carried guilt and shame with me every day. A badge of honor that reminds me of what I went through and survived.
Survival became my top priority, and it didn't matter what I had to do to gain self-preservation.
As I got older, I found survival through drugs and alcohol. I was free every day for a little moment when this alcohol touched my lips as this pain pill was absorbed and absorbed. The ceaseless dark and ugly thoughts that plagued my mind were blissfully silenced and I was able to breathe a little easier.
After this method of forgetting had ceased to function, I switched to an abusive relationship and played out the code dependency and toxicity with which I had grown up. I mostly ran from what was healthy or good for me because, in some ways, I thought I didn't deserve it. How could someone who had been harassed be worthy of true love and happiness?
I sentenced myself to a life of misery and defeat because I really believed that I deserved nothing but pain.
Living like this was exhausting. I was tired of this so-called life that I was walking through, and I knew that the path I was on would lead to death or an existence full of depression every day.
So I started to change my lifestyle. I became cold turkey cut out the pain reliever and alcohol. I would not recommend this as it is always best to follow a doctor's instructions, but I knew in my heart that I had to stop immediately because if I did not stop at that moment I would never do it.
Losing the security blanket that the pills provided was one of the scariest things I've ever had to experience. I felt like I had lost a deep, integral part of me, my best friend. I had to go through life with my eyes open; I was exposed and raw and didn't know if I could make it without the help of these little pills. I often had to reevaluate why I did it and what this new trip would look like.
I also started therapy. I knew I could give up my vices, but if I didn't deal with the deep and complex emotions that I had transmitted from childhood, I wouldn't grow the way I needed to. For someone who had learned at a young age to sweep everything under the carpet and pretend nothing was wrong, therapy was difficult to say the least.
As a child and my teenagers, I was forced to turn a therapist on and off after the abuse, but I never volunteered. As an adult who did her best to bring about real change, I tried to approach therapy with an open heart and was ready not to stop when it got too rough. It is one of the best gifts I could have given myself.
I began to participate diligently in the therapy week after week, cut myself wide, dipped my hands deep into my heart, pulled out these long-buried feelings and held them up to the light where they were addressed frontally, if somewhat reluctantly .
I began to sift through the complex feelings that I had held on to for so long. I sat with the emotions and felt them. I cried, I screamed and I laughed, wide open. I was naked and vulnerable, and although it was terrifying, it was intoxicating. By finally allowing myself to feel what I had suppressed for so long, I was able to move through the feelings as I should have done all those years ago to really feel alive.
As soon as the feelings have been addressed, I start to write seriously. Writing about what I haven't been able to talk about for decades, putting down what was important to me, even if it wasn't important to others.
I began to understand that I am important, that which I thought was important and necessary.
Through journaling, I began to understand that what I had seen was something terrible, I continued to feel sorry for myself, and wished it never happened or I could choose reasons grateful for that. Yes, thankful.
Although I would not choose to be molested, this experience made me stronger than I ever thought possible. I became resilient and self-sufficient and learned that I could transform my pain into something bigger than myself.
One of the most important things that helped me to shift my thinking from victim to empowered was starting a gratitude journal. I listed ten things I was grateful for every day, and the more I recorded, the more I saw the beauty in the hardships that were inflicted on me.
There will be things that are beyond our control, things that we wish would not have happened. But if we can look at these experiences with appreciation for what they have taught us, how we have grown through them, we will find it much easier to heal – and deal with everything that life throws at us.
If you find yourself in a situation where you see yourself as a victim and do not seem to be able to overcome the pain, I ask you to consider the situation as a growing opportunity. See everything you've learned and how you can even use these lessons to help other people.
Gratitude is a powerful tool that we can fall back on throughout our lives. Not only does it help us reshape our past, it also makes us more compassionate – towards ourselves and everyone we meet.
We are beginning to see that others are fighting as we do, and we can be a little friendlier when we understand that we all have a common ground through our pain.
Through gratitude I learned to feel sorry for myself and realized that I could make a difference in this world. By sharing my pain, I found my voice. I am no longer a victim. I am someone who has suffered an unfair blow, but who has become stronger and more resilient, and appreciates the good things in life for going through the bad ones.
By talking about what happened to me by sharing my story with others, I gave the nine-year-old the words she never had. For them I expose myself, I reveal my deepest, darkest secrets.
It is my greatest hope that someone else will read my story and know that she is not alone. If you can relate to something I wrote, you know that you too can turn your pain into something useful for others. You are not broken. You are important, you are loved and you are worth it.
About Melissa Santillanez
Melissa Santillanez is a writer on a journey towards self-love. As a survivor of sexual abuse and domestic violence, she has moved through anxiety, depression, panic, low self-esteem and drug abuse by writing and sharing her pain. She loves to get in touch with others on Instagram at @my_awakened_path or on her blog at myawakenedpath.com.
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