Finding My Voice

Recently I keep coming across the phrase “finding your voice.” It seems to crop up everywhere. I take this as a sign that this is an issue I am getting ready to deal with. If it weren’t close to the surface of my mind, I wouldn’t be so aware of other people talking about it.

What does “finding my voice” mean to me?

I’m sure it doesn’t mean speaking up about the reality of ritual abuse because I have been doing that consistently for many years now. The day I realized I had been abused, I said to myself, “This is what they mean by ‘the personal is political!’” By speaking, I make my personal experience a societal issue, at least in my own little corner of society. So I opened by big mouth in 1989 and haven’t shut it yet.

I think it has something to do with allowing the cut-off parts of me to emerge. I am so shattered that there are hundreds and thousands of fragments scattered through my mind. Each little fragment holds a tiny part of some memory or emotion that I had to put far, far away when I was a child. These fragments are no longer accessible to me, simply because they are so small.

When I think of putting together the pieces, the image that comes to mind is not that of a jigsaw puzzle, but of a glass so broken it has turned back into sand. How can these tiny particles ever have a voice? Even words have been disassembled and scattered, an “a” here, a “b” over there, totally disconnected. When I bring them up into consciousness, they are just a handful of letters that don’t mean anything.

I don’t know how to help these lost parts can come together enough to have a voice. I have no idea if it is even possible.

But I do know from experience that when my system is ready to do something, it happens. Maybe not in the way I expect or hope for, but change does take place. And so I wait and trust, and that is enough.