Where is home? What is home? The more I heal, the more I seem to feel displaced. When I lived in the streams of denial, life seemed more pleasant — I think. At least I could pretend.
Not pretending can make me feel like a fish out of the ocean.
It’s like I was issued a family uniform and wore it faithfully. Then, one day I wasn’t allowed to wear it anymore, or I removed it, and everything felt different. Having the freedom to wear whatever I want now leaves me with a sense of discomfort.
I have a sense that this is what keeps so many abuse victims in relationship with their abusers. They don’t tell because this allows them to stay tethered to their treasure — either a family they were born into or the secret they don’t share.
Jesus said, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be.” Treasure is something of great worth or value. A family can certainly be a treasure. It’s something we long for deeply. Whether our parents were good, bad or indifferent, we desire integrity around them even if we have to pretend. Even if that means not sharing our secrets with them.
When I allowed myself to finally see this family treasure as it was, grossly distorted from what it should be, I had to take my heart somewhere else.
This may be the deepest pain of incest. Separation from our birth families without the hope of reconnection.
So many survivors of these crimes change reality.
Labeling ourselves (sluts, addicts, rejects, righteously pure) in a pursuit to pretend.
This breaks my heart.
Learning to love, learning to live in truth, and learning to find new treasures is the pursuit we should be on. Sadly, this means leaving the abusive folks behind.