*Warning: This article contains reference to childhood sexual abuse.

We seem to have a love-hate relationship with time. When looking at a splendid sight, we say if only time could stand still. Time flies, yet the days drag.  We say let the good times roll, and I can’t wait for Friday. My grandfather would lament the good old days, while my grandmother would affirm that given shortages of food, clothing, and heat, those days were good for nothing. We tend to measure time through landmark events: births, relationships, graduation, jobs, vacations and loss.

Our personal journeys are not always in sync with those who share parts of it. We each have aspects of our lives that leave distinct imprints on our souls, events that inspire us, or that maim our spirit. While we strive to overcome life’s hurts, our pain is so diverse in impact that sharing it with others becomes difficult. The events that have brought me to my knees may pale in comparison to the events others face. For the most part, many of us, despite challenges and harm, plow through life as best we can, using our determination to succeed as a way of overcoming pain, of pretending it was all an illusion.

For many years, far too many really, I resisted sharing my stories, I chose not to seek help, instead I put my head down and worked to excess to validate my existence. That was a recipe for disaster. The passage of time had not healed anything, except to give a false sense that I had dealt with difficult events when the reality was, I simply kept moving; scared my wounded self would catch up with my “present” self. I’m fine; I’m OK; no worries, I got this … never too much to do, always willing to bury myself to do more.

Rose Kennedy, mother of assassinated President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, and of the late Robert F. Kennedy, slain presidential candidate, said, “it has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’  I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”

The only way I can measure this is to apply it to my experiences, those that have left an indelible mark on me. I only had one sibling. He was three years younger than me.  Despite our different interests, we were very close. At age 15, he was diagnosed with bone cancer. Over the next three years, he would go through many rounds of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. In addition, he would face surgeries to remove new tumors in each lung, and spine. He suffered immeasurable pain, yet felt he had to project strength to support everyone else. Shortly after his eighteenth birthday, he passed away. The emptiness that followed is without comparison; shocked, alone, hurt.  I resisted letting others get close for fear of loss. To this day, I miss him as the likely rock that could cut through other hurts to come.

From the time I was 12 to 14 years old, I was involved in local, church activities. I was not a spiritual prodigy, rather in a rural area with little to do, it was something. Using my skills as a good public speaker provided a sense of place and purpose. However, I had not planned on the local church minister carrying on two years of sexual, physical, and emotional abuse at my expense. I was 12 years old.  I froze. Finally, after years of burying myself in academics, work, and any other organization I could assist, I reported the offenses. Criminal charges followed, and I sought to be at peace that I had finally done all I could for my well-being and that of others.

Throughout the many years of therapy that followed, there is one element that has always not sat well with me – “you need to forgive in order to heal.” Forgive the minister?  Forgive those who had suspicion yet said nothing?  Or forgive myself?  I accept that many play a role in a situation such as this. I struggle to forgive the assailant; his peace is unimportant to me. To forgive myself? That’s difficult. Exactly what am I forgiving myself for – breathing, not coming forward?  The truth is, with that kind of intrusion and manipulation, I do not carry any burden for which I need forgiveness. The adage forgive and forget is not easily met with grace.

I do not remain stuck in the past, however the things that trigger memories of my brothers’ demise, and the innocent bewilderment of my twelve-year-old self about to face a grown man’s advances, are wounds that remain fresh and need tending to on a daily basis.