Lost

Not all who wander are lost -- J. R. R. Tolkien

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But a lot of us are. Or have been.

I wandered for years in a kind of distorted animation. The world was going on and on around me, but I felt as if I were standing still watching. Wondering how to jump onto the merry-go-round. Wondering why everyone else knew what the plan was, and I was so . . . lost.

When I first began to unravel the mystery of childhood sexual abuse in my own life, it was a roller-coaster ride of emotions. Up and down. Good and bad. Thrilling and depressing. All at one time.

Mostly I was lost. Everyone else knew the plan -- how to get on the merry-go-round and enjoy the ride -- because they weren't walking around with a hole in their soul. They had emotions that hadn't been ripped and shredded by people using them to relieve their own pain. 

But I was lost. My compass had been damaged. I'd lost my way because I'd been harmed and didn't even know it.

It's been a long time repairing the damage. Most days I don't feel so lost anymore. And that's a good thing. But sometimes when I least expect it, it sneaks up on me again, and then I recognize the pain and emptiness of being lost again. And it scares me. Because I don't want to go back to that place of darkness and confusion where there was no way to trust anyone else or even myself.

That's when I remind myself of the guideposts that have been erected -- some by me, some by my therapist, and some by friends and family. I look for those guideposts and I slow down and breathe deeply. I am not lost. I am just wandering.


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