My counselor says that there are two ropes I can choose to cling; one, my Dad’s rope of destructive lies and the other, God’s rope of truth.
“I’m still clinging to my Dad’s truth even though I know it’s lowering me down. With that rope, I know my place, I know where I belong and I know to keep quiet.”
He inquires, “And where IS your place?”
Immediately I fill with shame and look down at the floor and away from him. I try repeatedly to get two words out but I cannot. The words feel like two large tennis balls in rolling around in my mouth. He hands me a pad and pen to see if I can write it. I write two words….the ground.
He asks “Where in the ground?” “Like in a basement?” “Is there a room under the ground?”
All I can do is shake my head no.
“Can you draw it?”
I draw what looks like a small grave with myself laying in it. Staring at what I just drew, I get lost in the past and cannot move or talk for some time.
I am lying, paralyzed by fear in a freshly dug shallow grave. The small puffy blue sleeves with white lace trim on the ends brush dirt on each side of me. My legs stick straight out of my shorts and my shoes point upwards towards the clouds blowing by. I see a pile of dirt to the left of the grave but I am unable to see if there is anyone else there. Fear bears down on my chest and keeps me muzzled.
After bringing me back to the present he tries to help me process this memory but I am silent. How do you talk about being buried? I still don’t know how to write about it. Except that this is one of the reasons that the 14 year old is so hell bent on killing herself. This is where she belongs.