Reclaiming What Was Mine

As I putter about my little home, I can't help pondering the intrigue of reclaiming all that was stolen from me in the Land of Childhood. I came up with the following when I looked up the definition of the word reclaim:

re·claim (r-klm) 1. To bring into or return to a suitable condition for use, as cultivation or habitation: reclaim marshlands; reclaim strip-mined land. 2. To procure (usable substances) from refuse or waste products. 3. To bring back, as from error, to a right or proper course; reform. See Synonyms at save1. 4. To tame (a falcon, for example).

[Middle English reclamen, to call back, from Old French reclamer, to entreat, from Latin reclmre : re-, re- + clmre, to cry out; see kel-2 in Indo-European roots.]

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I'm fascinated by the word's many uses. I especially like "to bring back, as from error, to a right or proper course." My childhood was on a proper course to begin with, but somehow it ended up off track and everything which unfolded beyond that point felt to me as if it were a grisly error.

The Middle English to call back fills me with haunting desire. Red Rover was a game we played during my early years. Red Rover, Red Rover, send ________ right over! I always felt a thrill at having my name filled in the blank, hearing it called out in the sweet, pre-puberty voices of my brothers.

Lately I've been filling in the blank myself, calling back things which used to be, things which rightfully belonged to me then and belong to me still. Would I be able to reclaim anything at all if I didn't make a deliberate effort? I doubt it. "To entreat," which is the Old French meaning of the word 'reclaim,' one must:

1. make an earnest request of. 2. ask for earnestly; petition for.

That doesn't sound to me like something which simply happens automatically, without our knowledge. No, to reclaim what we have every right to takes a definite decision and effort. It's not being content to live forever in the squalor of the aftermath of abuse. It's refusing to decide who we are based on the messages which the abuse drummed into our heads and hearts.

To cry out . . . oh, I especially like this definition! To cry out means self-expression and emotional honesty. It's a refusal to call evil good, to perpetuate the game of pretend in an asinine attempt to make everyone else (our abusers and their enablers included) believe that everything is okay when it most certainly isn't.

And so as I go about making a home out of the garbage pit that was this apartment (and I know there's symbolism in there somewhere!), I reclaim what was mine. I petition for, entreat and cry out to have back what may be valuable only to me--- my truest self as reflected in:

My birth name

Not everyone desires a return to the name given them at birth. For some it is a constant painful reminder of indignities and abuses suffered at the hands of the one(s) who should have nurtured with the most gentle, pure love.

Because my maiden name is a link to the loving father I had as a young child, it has been a relief and a source of further healing to reclaim this name. I'm gifting myself with this, knowing that in doing so I'm restoring to myself that which never should have been stripped from me. There is power in taking back this name, power and a sense of rightness.

My unique self-expression

Because we're all created as unique individuals, we have the need and the right to express ourselves in many diverse ways, without anyone dictating to us what those ways should be.

I've recently mentioned taking back the color yellow. When my friend visited me the other day, I pointed out my yellow kitchen and told her I'd decided to take back the ability to enjoy this color, something which being molested in a yellow room had ruined for me.

"Do you realize how huge that is?" she cried out, with tears in her eyes. "This is a huge step for you!"

I hadn't thought of it that way, I only knew that I was tired of tip-toeing around the universe swerving to avoid this color or that scent, etc. Tired of walking with lowered head and shoulders hunched waiting for the next blow. I can't do much, maybe, to gain back some control of my life, but I can do little things along the way. Little things add up, I've discovered. They really do.

I'm working too on enjoying long leisurely bubble baths:  this is something else which causes me great unease. Five minutes in and I'm panicking. You know what? There's something ineffably sad about a 55 year old woman who can't take a long soak in the tub because that's where her abuser frequently  molested her! The tub is not the villain any more than is the color yellow. These are simply the tangibles I focused on during the abuse, so that I could survive the unthinkable. There's no menance in a bathtub or a particular color; the menance resides in the memories associated with these things.

My ability to make my own decisions

For decades I couldn't tell the difference between good and bad choices. Life was a murky mystery which stumped me at every turn. I couldn't understand the connection between the decisions I made and the resulting chaos they produced in my life.

Today I live alone because I gradually (oh so gradually) realized that I could. Having begun to see that I needed my own space and solitude, the desire for my own little haven grew to the point of shaping itself into a dream. A dream which could be realized--unlike the air castles I'd tried so unsuccessfully to build my life on in the past.

No one gave me permission to make this choice, no one but me. Oh the pure joy of standing on my own two feet, not looking to others to tell me the next step I should take, and the one after that!

Every day I am faced with little decisions:  where to put my belongings, when to turn on the heat, what to eat for dinner. These are all things denied me when I lived with others and felt the need (the duty) to adapt to everyone else's preferences.

The right and ability to not be guided by fear

There are fears and then there are FEARS. If I can manage the little ones, maybe some day I can conquer the biggies, the ones that keep me awake at night, or cause me to slink back into my own little shadowed corner of the world.

Fears are the inevitable outcome of having had so many horrible things done to me as a child. It's only logical that I would have them, but must I live with them for the rest of my days? This too is a choice, though the act of choosing not to be ruled by fear won't make them instantly vanish. Their roots go deep. If they are to be excavated from my life they will have to be taken seriously. Fear, I'm discovering, grows the more it is given expression and focus. Perhaps I can learn to distract myself from them by focusing on the good things in my life and, by doing so, minimize their impact on my world today.

Reclaim: to call back, entreat, cry out.

May I never stop doing these things as I learn to live in the world not as a victim, but as one who has decided, yes decided, to live life to the fullest.

Comments

[Marcy]

Powerful stuff. Thank you.

[Angela]

You are such an inspiration, bringing me hope when I feel that I've lost my way.
Thank You<333

[MILE 191]

tHANK YOU FOR YOUR SUBMISSION TO THE bLOG cARNIVAL. i PLAN TO USE QUITE A BIT OF YOUR SUBMISSION. i KNOW THAT WHAT YOU HAVE EXPRESSED HERE WILL HELP READERS SEEKING TO BE FREE, TO HEAL. tHANK yOU!

[marj aka thriver]

Yay, Beauty! Reclaim, Reclaim!

Thank you so much for allowing us to use this wonderful post for THE BLOG CARNIVAL AGAINST CHILD ABUSE! It is so perfect for the Freedom to Heal theme!

[Nancy Richards]

I love the positive spin your post gives on healing; very empowering; very hopeful!

Thanks!

As a side note, I lost my loving father when I was nine. I understand wanting to reclaim your father's name. Although I was never "stripped" of his name as a child, I refused to ever give it up (when I married) - through his name I clung to the one good relationship from my childhood.

[beautifuldreamer]

Nancy,

When I was younger and getting married and divorced left and right, I never gave a thought to my maiden name. It's odd in a way because, as a child who was suddenly denied access to my father, I hated using my stepdad's last name.

It wasn't until years after my last divorce that I realized I could use my maiden name, and realized too just how precious it was to me.

Thank you for your comment,
Beauty

[beautifuldreamer]

Thank you, Marcy!

[Vicki in AZ]

O how I love this. Thank you so very much.
I am going to use the printer friendly version.
Print this out and use it to write my own journal entry of reclaiming.
Thank you for the glorious inspiration.

[beautifuldreamer]

Vicki,

I'm glad to hear that this is something that helps you in your own journey of reclaiming what was lost and/or stolen.

I appreciate you taking the time to leave a comment. I wish you the best as you seek healing and growth,

Beauty

[Patricia - Spiritual Journey Of A Lightworker]

I am 57 years old and only recently in the past five years took back my first name of Patricia. Patricia was who I was as a child. Pat was who I became with my frinds and spouse. I wrote my own article on my blog about this process of reclaiming all of who I am. The article is called, "What's In A Name?" Reclaiming who you are is a process that is well worth going through. Thanks for the reminder.