War is Over… If You Want It

As a child, I would use any medium or mode possible to express myself. I was always drawing, painting, building things, climbing trees, and seeing how high, fast and far I could run and jump, just to name a few of my avenues of expression. And it was also a personal mission of mine to make anything with wheels go as fast as it could possibly go—with me on it, of course. I was a regular little Evel Knievel, which also meant being very intrigued by death. But this was not some violent, morbid thing for me. When I found out about death, I was curious. I wanted to go to that edge—where our consciousness, as we know it, ends—and have a look.

However, I soon discovered that it was not appropriate to take death so "lightly." When I was 6 year old, I was reprimanded for squirting ketchup on the family dog to simulate blood from a gunshot wound. This, along with a few other stunts I pulled of a similar nature, triggered concern with my foster parents. Given my violent and turbulent upbringing, they wondered if I was exhibiting the early behavioral signs of something more serious. But I knew I meant no harm. To me, death was a part of life, and my sole concern as a child was to express myself, which for me meant re-presenting life for others. And their responses in return were a part of this. I can still recall the facial expressions when Maggie, our bright white West Highland Terrier, came running into the living room with this ultra red goop dripping down her coat, which hardly resembled real blood at all. The initial looks of shock and confusion quickly turned to smiles and laughter. And I was left feeling so alive...

Beyond the Trenches

Life was a war zone for my siblings and me growing up with our biological parents. Language barrier breaches, communication misfires, and blame and shame napalm were responsible for the destruction of trust and safety within our household. Even though my parents had left the war in Vietnam years ago, it seemed the war had not left their marriage. Every day in our tiny apartment in Chicago was a brutal battle or a rare opportunity to be grateful for a ceasefire. Either way, I never stopped seeking out ways to express myself. For me, it was worth the risk to venture out beyond the trenches and experience…

One method our mother used to discipline my sister and I when we misbehaved was to lock us in the closet. Sometimes we would be in there for hours on end. And every time, in that darkness, I would not stop until I had figured out a way to unlock the door. Using my hearing and whatever “tool” was available, I would put myself inside the doorknob, traveling through the mechanism with my listening to figure out a way its inner workings could grant us freedom.

My mother would threaten me with a beating if I didn’t stay put, but she didn’t always follow through. Sometimes I think it was because she admired my persistence. And the violence I did endure, taught me valuable lessons about who we can choose to be in life despite our circumstances. It taught me that we can still act in spite of fear. It taught me that pain is temporary, and we can emerge from suffering even stronger and more determined if we are willing. And last but definitely not least, and the lesson that has been the most liberating for me: We can forgive those in our lives who have hurt us. It does not matter who it is or what they did to us. We can give the gift of forgiveness… and grant ourselves freedom at any time.

~*~

We all have a story to tell, healers. Thank you for being a part of mine and generously receiving these words. This, right here, makes all the difference. If this story moves you, feel free to share it or simply be it with the “healers” in your life. However, be prepared! With as amazing as you are, you will most certainly receive miracles in return!

Constant Healing!

Victoria Moon