Wading through PTSD years after one is violated is a lonely thing. And it is not like wandering lonely as a cloud. It is not a sunny day. It is not day at all, and it is not now either.
It is then, but not then. It is you, and yet there is a loss to the you that is now. The you that is strong and grounded, with roots that go deep in faith.
It is a fog. And once in a while, the fog clears for a moment.
In spiritual direction, it lifts, which is why a confessor/spiritual director is so important. How could one do it without the Catholic faith.
A counselor, too, helps to guide. Tells you that you are normal in this journey to somewhere other than here.
And, Lord, how I need to know that.
The daily readings are an anchor. My Missal doesn’t know what I need to hear today, but the Holy Spirit knows. And provides.
Like today’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles – which is really a quote from Isaiah and is for me.
In his humiliation justice was denied him.
I have thought of the word justice often these past few months. I have felt the judgment of others who want me to keep it quiet, not talk about old things, the humiliation is not mine alone, they think.
Odd how the soul knows this is not true.
It is my humiliation. Crushed. Made something less for a space of time than what you are. Not wife. Not even a woman who is paid for services.
You are less than even that. Something like a slave for another’s use.
The King of kings was nailed to a cross. For a little while, a space of time, made something He was not.
Humiliation. And justice was denied him.
The cry for justice comes up from the ground. It moves up through our toes and into our souls.
Even when the cry is buried for thirty years. Especially then.
And I read the words of St. Luke in the Acts of the Apostles; I read the quote from the Old Testament.
With the backdrop of Easter, something else came to mind.
The fog lifted, as it does during spiritual direction and counseling. The fog lifted as it does when I read the day’s readings.
He is with you. Was with you. This is an echo of the old story.
Out of the curse, came life. And you let it be.
You loved it, loved that life with a fierceness that grew with the years.
Life conceived in rape is not a curse. It is not.
She is my beloved daughter. Overflowing with life. Abundant with a salve that only she could render. Soul of my soul.
From my body, yet beautifully independent.
My healing began with her and the yes to life. Her life.
Some think that healing after rape would begin with a no to life conceived in such a way. Some may see rape in marriage as a humiliation for the woman and the other children who do not need to know what their father did. Some would call it no humiliation at all, no violation. Some would think that the need for justice lessens with time, certainly does not grow with the years.
It is all part of the fog.
And I long to command the fog to go now.
Humiliated, without justice. But life took hold of me. And it was good. Is good.
Is the salve like no other.
This child is a precious gift. Conceiving a child in rape, it is the closest I have been to sensing the cross and resurrection.