How Dare You Call Me a Flower
You’ve probably heard a million times that healing isn’t linear. It’s messy, it’s abstract, it's complex.
Recently, I had a moment of deep gratitude and appreciation for the journey I’ve been on in the last six years. I was being led through a reflection about my limiting beliefs around self-care, and I realized… there were none there. Or if there were they were whispers I could barely make out amongst the joy and light that I feel around caring for myself now. But hidden within this joy was a bittersweet memory. The first time I was led through a visualization by my therapist.
Sitting tall in the cushioned chair in her office six years ago with my hands on my thighs, she connected me to my breath and told me to envision myself as a flower. She directed me to feel the breeze on my face as I swayed in the wind. Immediately, I began to sob. Me? A flower? Imagining myself as a delicate being worthy of nurturing and adoration was too much for my nervous system. Nobody had ever made me feel that way, and I most definitely wasn’t making myself feel nurtured or adored. The opposite was true. I was in therapy because my self-neglect, abuse even, was so strong that I was in a full tailspin.
I had been running to substances to help me manage the CPTSD symptoms I was experiencing from both my upbringing, and a sexual assault I wasn’t acknowledging that had happened a few months prior. I could barely leave my house without getting high or having a plan to get high later. I would wake up at 5:00 AM so that I could get high in my room before making my way to campus for my 9:00 AM class. I couldn’t be in public settings like theatres, or any place where I felt like if I sat down there would be no escape. I wasn’t eating, I was pushing myself to overachieve so that nobody would sense there was something wrong, and I was deteriorating from the inside out.
Finally, my body gave in and my appendix ruptured. And I ignored it. I continued to perform in the musical I was in as I got sicker and sicker. It took me four days to finally go to the hospital, and even then I almost didn’t. I was convinced I just had the flu and that I would get over it. When I finally went to the ER and they told me I needed to be rushed to emergency surgery I laughed at the doctor thinking for a moment that he was fucking with me. People just kept telling me how lucky I was.
When I look back at this time it feels so far away. I don’t know that person anymore, but she’s here imprinted in my nervous system and shows up from time to time. Only now, I don’t run. I soberly invite her to share her fears with me. I ask her what she needs, and what she’s running from. I hold, nurture, and adore her.
She couldn’t see herself as a flower, but I can.
And that is a reason to celebrate.