Integritus Prime

A reflection on my own journey. Not for the faint-hearted – trigger warning: child abuse.

When the body is weary, and the mind is full, the body holds what needs to be released. Such patience. The way my Mother was patient, loving and kind. A peacekeeper in the face of a constant onslaught of abuse. Caught in a generation of appearances and staying. The slime and sludge and mud never stuck. She was, and is, pure. My first lotus. She held everything together. I beheld her much later in life, but she was there for all of my life. She’s still there. This is love.

When the tears come, there is a shaking – tremors from the core. The grief of being labeled – stuck up, naughty, problem child. The disenfranchised grief of being unheard, invalidated. Did you ever look beyond my reclusive tears at what lay beneath? I doubt you could stomach it. Unwelcome guests. Violations. I couldn’t process it. I was two. This is what we do – we find the most vulnerable of us all. The children. Then we tell them this is good, but don’t say a word. And it continues. This is abuse.

Each tear brings a burning – anger, hate, confusion, and excruciating agony. A warmth that doesn’t comfort, but screams for justice. Will you stand with me in the fight to be safe? I cannot let you go through what I did. So, I fight for you, and for the one I hold inside – two years old and terrified. We blocked out the memories, but they came back. We sat together with the pieces. We are creating a new life. This is healing.

Nothing sticks. Your disrespect, your belittling. I am my mother’s child. My lotus is rising high. You could be a friend no longer, or a colleague I will leave behind. Your behavior, you see, is your trauma. The things you carry because you were violated too. Your explosions, your bitterness. The resentment that emanates from you like the beginning whispers of a thunderstorm. I see the generations that brought you to this moment. How you, like me, were neglected. Not protected. If you keep harming me, I say nothing. I walk away and focus on myself. This is compassion.

My reactions are my volcanic wounds. My liquid fires; my triggers. Words out of my mouth before I know what happened. Embodied abuse – a seed I am killing slowly. With intent. And yet I plough on, turning the soil of my past, and planting new neural pathways under today’s sun. My hands are hurting, along with my eyes, but this must be done. I will no longer be a vessel for harm. I will work with my soil so I can bloom the way I know I’m meant to. All the time. This is courage.

The tears come seldom, like cyclones. They are powerful, rotating with inner gale force winds. Hot with memory, and cold as they seep into my painting shirt. Today I don’t paint, because I must honor the gray colors of my past. How my voice was shut down. My curiosity, punished. My feminism when I was ten, quashed. Threats, belts, sticks, beatings. The verbal beatings linger on. I have emerged and reclaimed my playfulness, my wonder and curiosity. You, intergenerational trauma, will not get the best of me. This is defiance.

The rebellion is gentle. Silent. Like a sunrise that slowly ripens with color. The dew-tears subside and rays begin to move with different angles. The dance is unique – yours will never be mine. I shed comparison. I refuse to stand on the scales of looks, judgment, and those isms. Capital- Colonial- and Consumer- isms. I look into the face of Patriarchy with all its control and dread, and I breathe light. I soften into love. This is non-conformity.

I will never stop discerning patterns. The way a dahlia can shift your whole day with its soft symmetry. Opening. The way your life can crumble and resurrect in a way you could never have imagined, but now your vision is repaired. You can see your path unfolding. With eyes closed, you walk. Trust and surrender your faithful mantra. This is destiny.

Whenever the storms come, you stand there. Feet grounded in yourself. Hair wet from the cold droplets. Eyes wild from hot tears on a cold day when you must do nothing so you can simply cry. Holding yourself and knowing this moment is truth. It’s real. It happened. And you survived. You are excavating what isn’t yours to hold anymore, and gently guiding yourself through the tunnel that is now filled with light. Emerging into a scene that is breathtakingly simple: open sky, waves of joy, petals of prolific creativity, and songs of passion that rise beyond this universe into the next. You frolic with sparkles of gratitude, that turn the tide. You embrace it all. This is self-love.

Now, your life is about service. You can no longer hide. It’s not about talent, skill, or pride. It’s a gentle fire that brings rainbows of light, showing the way forward. It doesn’t matter what is happening outside. Your eyes on the prize stay focused on your inner light – giving it a way to shine. Simmering to the surface of life and spilling into waterfalls of consciousness. This is you. This is me. This is now. Now is all we have, and that is our magic. To be something else. Not what we had to suffer, but through its teachings, nurturing life through love and wonder. This is heaven on Earth. This is divine.