I don’t know what to say. Still. You would think this writer’s block would have passed by now. But my words are still catching somewhere between my brain and my fingers. Usually my feelings flow freely onto the page. It is my way to process. Maybe it’s because there is so much to process lately that it’s not a trickle, but more of a bottleneck of feelings. Dammed up. Trying to breakthrough but unable to spill over because of the sheer number of them.

They say trauma effects your nervous system. It causes your brain to change the way it sees and protects itself. My life taught me this fact long before official scientific people were studying it. The past couple of years, I have added more trauma. I am older now. Less inclined to shove my traumatic events down inside and move on. More able to talk about them and let them out, despite the discomfort of those around me. (There are some advantages to getting older!)

For example, the holidays this year were the hardest I have ever been through. Turns out losing both parents and a sibling in a year’s time is traumatic. Who knew? Watching them physically die in front of my eyes, with all the horror of a body failing is a reoccurring image I cannot forget. My mind replays it over and over until I recall every detail. Every ray of sunlight splashing across the tiled floors. Every machine with their lights blinking. Every look into the eyes. Every rise and fall of the chest. Every tearful prayer. Times three.

Now, my “threat sensitive state” is heightened. My nervous system is in threat mode. So, when the world is going crazy; when people are being shot in the streets; when everything I hold dear in my country is being questioned or ripped away; I am triggered. My anger rises. My frustration spills out. It is like a tornado in my brain…swirling my thoughts and feelings into a storm. The aftermath leaves me in survival mode. Fight, flight, or freeze. My writing is frozen.

So, I seek out the secret place. A place I can only access during dark times. Over the course of my life, I have been there often during my dark nights of the soul. The secret place is a bit like Narnia, in that I cannot get there the same way twice. In fact, I cannot get there on my own at all. It pulls me in, like a vortex. When I am broken to bits and there is nothing I can do, I find the door. Only when I am at my end, broken open and without hope, does the door appear.

Inside the secret place I am wrapped in the arms of God. He holds me there, as a child. Stroking my hair. Allowing me to listen to his heartbeat without speaking. Drawing me deeper into his presence where love and peace reside. When I am in the secret place, trauma fades into a wisp of smoke, brain injury goes away, cancer takes a back seat, grief settles into silence. It is here that being without the ability to speak is the norm. It is not expected. He speaks to my heart without words. I receive without speech. It’s not a conscious thing. It’s a transference. An infusion from his depth, into my dry and drained existence.  He reminds me I am not alone. That he is bigger than all of my problems. My time in the secret place is the only thing that can begin putting the pieces back together.

I have learned from my time here, that the pieces do not go back to where they were before. Before TBI. Before cancer. Before I lost my foundation. God remakes them. Some are too damaged to use. Others can be repurposed. The secret place is like an operating room. The time here is vital to my survival. Yet, when I am here, I feel the most like myself. I can completely let my guard down and just be. No fear. No whirlwind of emotions. No need for that because God knows them all. I don’t have to explain myself to him. Such a relief. Simplicity.  

When I arise from the remaking, I will be new. No looking back. No desire to “return to normal” because it is not possible. My people have been set free from their physical forms. Communication with them is spirit to spirit now. It will be a new season. Parts of me will be left behind here in this secret place and that is okay with me. It is the safest place I know.

Until he sets me on my feet again, I will rest here. In his lap, with my head on his chest. Allowing him to comfort me in the ways that only he can. On days when life is overwhelming. On the days when I am sad. On the days when I don’t know what to say. All the days…for as long as the door remains accessible.