February 16, 2011
I always felt like something was wrong. A little off somehow. And most of all, I knew it was my fault. All the world’s problems somehow had to be because of me. This is what sexual abuse does. It takes away our memory of what makes us worthy of joy in any way. Alla Renee Bozwarth calls this kind of abuse “the deliberate disappearance of our souls.” I didn’t even know I had been walking around for years feeling ashamed, scared and alone. I didn’t even know.
Until one day, I remembered. Once the flashbacks came, the memories flooded in, I had no choice but to go through them. As 30 years worth of stuck feelings came flooding back, I did the only thing I knew how to do. Create art everyday and believe it would heal me. It was a desperate act. And it saved me. This dedicated arts and writing practice has brought me back to myself. Only now I’m deeper. Lighter. Amazed by my own power. Inspired to tell my story and encourage women to tell theirs. I’m writing a journal with Cosmic Cowgirls because I know every woman who’s ever suffered has the ability to heal herself in ways she can’t even imagine. It is an honor and a blessing to collaborate with Cosmic Cowgirls- a wild, authentic, risk-taking group of woman warriors who know what it means to rise up. This book will be a way to practice trusting ourselves. A way to imagine life free from the story of abuse. A way to rise above and beyond the moment when our soul first disappeared. A way to let go and begin again.
When she plants a bougainvillea tree outside her door
Because the bursting fuchsia makes her heart sing…she rises.
When she wails, letting out grief that’s been stored for 30 years- a baby’s cry…she rises.
When she says no. And no again. She rises.
When she calls a friend or goes on a walk or breathes or cries or tries….she rises.
She rises when she chooses homemade soup.
When she gets deep rest and massages and takes Chi Kung classes for the first time.
When she reads Eve Ensler, she rises.
When she prays. When she dances.
When she screams and rips up the poem she just wrote and pounds her fists and allows anger…she rises.
When she lets a trusted friend care for her.
When she looks in the mirror and smiles.
When she believes enough to hope.
When she puts her hand on her heart
and notices it’s still beating…
Allison Kenny I am a small business owner. A mama to two little dogs. An actor, empath, play therapist, expressive artist. Poet. Wife. Queen of curried sweet potato soup. Lover of redwoods. And yes, a survivor.