Mother’s Day was amazing. Jase and the kids did a fabulous job in showing me love and appreciation. I woke up to “The Mother’s Day Cafe.” Complete with it’s own decorated whiteboard sign and helpful, eager servers, ready to prepare whatever I desired. I also got about two hours to myself while getting my yearly manicure/pedicure. Getting my nails done probably only took about an hour but they let me sit in that orgasmic relaxing massage chair all by myself for another hour. No talking. No diapers. No snacks or meals or fights or demands or injuries or… point made? That alone would have been worth it but to have my husband and children showering me with extra love and hugs and kisses and then taking me out to California Pizza Kitchen made the day perfect. Really. Mother’s Day, this year, was absolutely perfect.

What is it about perfect days, though? It’s almost as if the negative knows the spotlight has been confiscated and fights back with a force to send, even the strongest, to a crumbled heap on the floor.

Immediately following my glorious Mother’s Day, I had one of the worst nights, followed by one of the worst Mondays, ever. The flashbacks were so severe I thought I’d never recover. I felt broken and mismatched and unable to be repaired. It was a very helpless and hopeless feeling. The most depressing part was not knowing where to go to fix it. The advice I was raised on, “Just pray about it. Read your bible. Have more faith.” wasn’t working in this case. Without mental health insurance or finding money just laying around to use on mental health issues, I didn’t necessarily have people knocking on my door and asking to help me overcome my past sexual abuse. Besides, I thought I was healed of all that anyway. Turns out I’m not. Turns out I’m not ok. It turns out that I have been given the “ok” to not be ok. The rug that everything has been brushed under is being pulled away and there’s a ton of dust to go through.

For the most part, I find the best in things. For the majority of the minute/hour/day/week/year, I find life easiest when focusing on positive and good things. What happens though when the trauma that went on in life, the lost innocence and stolen confidence and murdered morality and trampled goodness, isn’t mourned? Well, I think it gathers. I think the trauma, in those feelings that continually get pushed down, builds throughout the years until it comes up, gasping for air. I think that’s where I am right now. Like a wound needs oxygen to heal, my trauma needs to breathe. I need to bring life/oxygen back to that pain.

For the first time since I was a fifteen year old in rehab, I am seeking a mental health professional to help me learn how to overcome these flashbacks. It is so sad to me that I cringe, even now, in writing that out. I feel shame to admit that my praying hasn’t been enough and that I might not have read my bible enough and my faith isn’t strong enough. The warped religious babble built into the foundation of my life did damage that will also need to be undone. But I know that this is right and it’s healthy and that talking to someone will finally shed light on things that I’ve kept in the dark for far too long.

The light shines in the darkness. Always.