No Apologies: My Bubble Bursted

No Apologies: My Bubble Bursted

The old ‘Burst Your Bubble’ statement.

The statement where you’re left with your hands in the air.

The statement where a ‘fact is a fact’  ‘It is what it is’ and ‘deal with it‘ all have one meaning… “Shut the f**k Up”

“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but your rent is going up.”

“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but your bills are due.”

“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but he’s cheating on you.”

“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but you need to get over it, forgive and forget.”

It seemed everyone had a bubble to burst while I stayed tucked away in my own bubble of shame, secrets and silence.

I had this voice in the back of my head that would scream ‘One Day My Bubble Will Burst.’   In a way it made me feel superior, knowing what I knew. Knowing I could blow the lid off and tell my family’s secrets.

But and a BIG BUT... it also meant, I had to tell truth about my childhood abuse.  I didn’t want my kids, friends or coworkers to know what actually happened to me when I was a child.  I didn’t want to remember it, never mind anyone else knowing about it.  So in the bubble I stayed.

Every new life changing event; a new apartment, a new job, my children, a divorce and more… I stayed in my bubble.

Every ounce of advice, opinion and answers to questions I never asked… I stayed in my bubble.

I stayed in my bubble because as life went on, I knew no one wanted to know what was in my bubble.
No one wants to know the full extent of a bad childhood.
No one wants to know the sex acts performed on a child.
No one wants to know the horrible memories that flash through my head.
No one wants to know how cruel and nasty people can truly be.

So, in my bubble I stayed.

I stood my ground, but didn’t move forward.
I spoke my truth, but stayed in silence.
I kept my pride, but hid behind my dignity.
I was a survivor, but lived my life a victim.

I took the ridicule, the mimics, the humiliation, shame and embarrassment because as much as I wanted to defend myself.. it wasn’t worth it.
It wasn’t worth the arguments.
It wasn’t worth the disgusted looks.
It wasn’t worth bringing up the past.
It wasn’t worth defending myself.
It wasn’t worth bursting their bubble.

So… In my bubble I stayed.

As I got older and fell victim to Repressed Memories, I slowly felt the pin being pushed into my bubble.  I heard the squeaking, long deflating helium ballon screeching sound.  I felt it push into my body as the bubble squished against me begging myself to stay silent.

I finally got the courage and the chance to talk with a medical professional, but it was behind a closed door.  And I quickly felt the patch being placed over the tiny hole I allowed my bubble to breath out of.  I was stuck behind a closed door with a bubble nearly thirty-five years in the making.

The more I talked, the more I wanted to be heard.
The more I remembered, the more I talked.
The more I talked, the more I remembered.

My bubble jiggled and jangled for months.

It was bursting, it was slowly deflating and it was blowing itself back up again.

Until I finally grabbed my bubble with my hands and ripped it wide open, shredding every bit of that bubble until there were only shreds left behind.

I don’t mean to burst your bubble…. But I am a Survivor of childhood sexual, physical, cruel, inhumane treatment, abuse and I will continue to talk about it.

I don’t mean to burst your bubble… But it’s OK to cry about things from the past.
I don’t mean to burst your bubble… But it’s OK if it still hurts.
I don’t mean to burst your bubble… But I got to the Police without their support.
I don’t mean to burst your bubble… But I’m only human.
I don’t mean to burst your bubble… But my bubble and all inside has bursted.
I don’t mean to burst your Bbbble… But if you don’t like it, then shoo fly don’t bother me.

I no longer live in a bubble created by a society so filled with shame, silence and secrets.   If you’re reading this, please know… You are not alone.

Stepping out of our own little bubble we create for ourselves is a huge and scary step to make. 

We tell ourselves its a one time thing, but it isn’t.  It’s the worst kind of addiction, a reality of recovery everyday of our lives.   The emotions, self doubts, self pity and wanting to give up.  We can either stay seated in that one place inside our bubble or we step out and share our stories in the hopes that someday, someone somewhere will use our scars as their sign of hope.

Thank You for reading me, 

Never Ever Suffer Alone

Peace and Blessings to all

Your friend, Catherine Mellen