Beginning my healing journey felt monumental like climbing Mount Everest.  At the same time, I knew I just had to start, so I filled my life with as many uplifting resources as possible.  I wrote positive affirmations and read books like The Power of Positive Thinking, I prayed constantly, and put myself in God's hands.  I was no angel.  I got mad at God, yelled, and swore, too, but I always kept talking with Him.  I think this poem gives you a good overview of my experience.

Climbing Mount Everest

I love mountain tops.
You turn around, and
wherever you look, you see infinity.
Instinctively, you close your eyes,
and slowly take in a deep, satisfying breath
as if you’re about to kiss someone for the first time.
You can feel and smell God in the air,
and see Him in every cliff, plant, and animal.
I never remembered how I got there.
I just remember how exhausted I always felt.
Barely standing up on my own,
it seemed to take forever before I realized
we really made it to the top.
The trails were hard enough.
I can’t imagine climbing the side of a mountain,
let alone the tallest mountain top in the world.
That’s what I used to think about being raped.
I couldn’t begin to imagine how to start healing.
How could I think about forgiving my father?
Then, I’d learn hating him was torturing me.
Killing the goodness in my already tormented soul.
So, I forgave him for my sake, not his.
Before I lost my mind and soul, I let the hate go.
Then, there were the flashbacks.
Horrific moments that took me back in time.
His panting face.  His hand pulling down the shades.
Or his hands violating my tiny body.
All happening quicker than the blink of an eye.
They’d come at work.  At school.  At home.  Everywhere.
Worst of all.  It felt like I was being raped all over again.
Each flashback was another violation.  Another hideous act.
Another ledge to climb over,
on my already monumental journey.
Group therapy saved me.
Talking myself through the flashbacks worked.
Years would pass, and I thought I was okay, but I was wrong.
Suddenly, one day, I sat paralyzed.
I felt like my heart had turned into coal.
A crusty, black blob with sharp, pointy edges,
slowly tearing me apart from the inside out.
I felt helpless.  I couldn’t handle my grown-up world.
I thought I was going crazy
because just ordering lunch overwhelmed me.
Somehow, that dark, hideous blob turned me into that terrified,
eight-year-old, long-haired, pigtailed girl again.
For years, I denied needing therapy and help.
Then, I struggled, playing tug-o-war with myself
and going nowhere.
Finally, I realized it was time to grow up.
Time to listen to what my little girl had to say.
Time to hear her side of the story, and let her have her way.
Time to be there for her the way no one was ever there for her.
To rescue her one last time
from the evil that destroyed her innocence.
From the darkness that almost stole her soul.
Time to carry her up to the mountain top,
so she could finally be free.