Someday is coming, for at last,
I am daring to escape!
The prison bars are cracking,
Eventually, I will leave the narrow cell behind
and walk—to freedom!
For now, it looks too scary,
the thought of freedom.
So for now, I wait, stretching my soul,
and dropping the chains of defeat.
I am still afraid of failure,
but at least now I know
that I am not hopeless.
To my relief, I discover
those taunts are not true!
They were only ghosts, haunting me,
in the dark night of the soul.
The dark night is over
and the dawn is here.
The light, the glorious light,
is shining on my soul.
The heart I closed to shut out the pain
I am winning slowly,
no longer losing the fight.
For I am learning to trust God,
to believe His love for me,
to find new life in Him.
Sometimes I faint in the fight,
I slide down the uphill road.
But now, it does not mean defeat.
It only means a lapse in the fight,
and a chance to try again.
A song is on my lips
and hope shines in my soul.
Ah, how sweet the taste of life!
I’ll fight on—
This poem is the companion to Shame that I posted last week. I wrote them the same day as counterpoints to each other when I was not quite nineteen. I smile a little as I read this. How little my nineteen-year-old self understood of the journey that was still to come! It’s a good thing she couldn’t see it. Had she known, I think she may have lost all will to live. God mercifully keeps our futures from our view. Sometimes, it does not feel like mercy, but it is. To see life, with all its darkness and joy at once, would be too much for our human souls.
At the time, this poem felt very true for me. Getting the abuse into the open was a shedding of an immense burden, and the freedom I felt was precious to me. I truly felt like the darkness was over. The following years, though, would gradually cloud that sense of freedom. After the initial revelation of the abuse, the silence that followed from friends, family, and church slowly silenced the voice that had the courage to speak up about my nightmare.
Mom’s borderline personality worsened, and Dad sucked me into his nightmare. Somewhere, along the way, I lost myself again, lost the little girl who had dared to speak up, dared to stop surviving and start living. Once again, I disappeared into survival mode during the the following five years of emotional incest from my father, emotional incest that had begun when I was sixteen. Those seven years left nearly as deep of scars as the twelve years of sexual abuse.
Now, of course, I really am free, no longer trapped, no longer in my cave of horrors. The bars are gone, and so is the darkness. Thank you, God, for saving me.