My 18th Survival Day

A friend asked me recently why I love the show Ted Lasso. They had a powerful and thoughtful assumption as to why but I told them simply; I admire Ted’s ability to forgive. Yes, he’s just a character on a wonderfully written television show. Yes, he’s fictional. But the heart and soul of the writing and performance are authentic. It’s got a foot in reality in a way that helps the viewer get lost in the story and characters.

I want to be able to forgive.

When I was writing the first draft of my memoir about eight years ago, my abuser texted me asking what I planned to write. They joked that I was going to write everyone in a bad light and it confused me, especially since at that time of my life all I did was beg for everyone’s love- why would I write the worst in people? In that same conversation, they eventually gave me a blanket apology, mostly apologizing for constantly bullying me about my body growing up, and I accepted the apology with gratitude. At that point, I didn’t realize how severe the abuse was. My brain protected me from realizing it until I was far away from my abusers. What a gift it is to have a brain that knows exactly what to do to protect me.

This last summer, my brain decided to show me what I hope was everything. I pray there is not another memory behind a door just waiting to erupt. I pray there are no more memories lurking and waiting for a spotlight. It’s been hard. I feel so far removed from who I used to be and I know that’s a really good thing but I’ve been grieving for baby Megan, little kid Megan, teenage Megan and even young adult Megan. I have felt sadness and rage boiling out of me in ways I never knew possible. I have learned to sit in these feelings. I let myself feel the discomfort and mess of it all because I can’t heal if I tip-toe through it. I realize that in order to lay these memories to rest, I need to get my hands dirty digging the grave.  

The teenager inside me that’s angry wants to scream until she loses her voice. She wants to name her abusers. She wants revenge… but I am not a teenager. I am a 35-year-old mom who just wants peace. So, I figuratively hold her instead. I let her scream into my shoulder and comfort her in a maternal way that I so desperately needed. I validate what she’s experienced and never tell her that she was somehow at fault. I remind her that she’s still a child and I’m sorry she didn’t have the stability or support she needed to grow up but I’ll be there retroactively.

Still, I struggle. I struggle to find the thin line of expressing what I’ve gone through, giving it a voice and light so that it cannot continue to hurt me in the dark, while also not protecting the abusers anymore. My silence is a veil they can hide behind while I wear scarlet letters on my chest unwillingly. So how can I take these letters and form something that will bring me peace without ever casting torment onto anybody? I do not want to hurt anymore; myself or anyone else.

Tomorrow marks 18 years since the day of the eviction. It’s my survival day. Tonight, I thought back on my first survival day when I was 18 years old and how I asked my friends to meet me at Boston Market on 71st and continental in Forest Hills, my old neighborhood. I thought back to how I ordered creamed spinach and corn bread. I was grateful to have food. My friends came together for me. I wasn’t alone. A huge change when just a year prior, most of my friends disappeared. I had Heidi and Melissa. I had my ex-boyfriend’s mom. That’s all.

On our first night homeless, I was guided by family to call a friend and ask to stay with her. I cringe and ache at this. How awkward it must have been for her to receive a call asking for her friend to live with her… how uncomfortable that conversation must have been for her at the dinner table that night. Her family was normal. Her family supported and loved her. Why did my family think it was okay to just send me away when I was only 17? I was still a kid. I had just lost everything, just like them, but I wasn’t included in the decision making. I was just told what to do and told to wait for an update if there was one. It was days before I saw anyone again and I didn’t realize the pain I experienced from that until this year. Imagine being 17, just losing your home, and having nobody there to even hug you? Imagine family hand you a quarter for the payphone and say, “I don’t know- everyone’s figuring their own shit out tonight. I’ll sleep on a train. Go ask a friend to take you.” I know this trauma was unreal for everyone. I know most of us snapped in our own ways by disassociating with reality to protect us, but I was just a fucking kid and I needed someone to tell me I was going to be okay.

Of course, Heidi and Melissa opened their homes to me without question. Without a second to even reconsider, Heidi got me a hotel room for that first night. For the nights that followed, she or Melissa took me in. My ex’s mom was like a mother to me, gathering clothes to warm me and ready to take me in to live in her guest room despite how painfully uncomfortable it was knowing her son and I weren’t even talking anymore. I recognize my whole family was dealing with their own pain and trauma, trying to find their own way to safety, but it was far too easy for them to forget about me. That’s the truth.

So, tomorrow is my survival day but I’m not really focused on the eviction anymore. I’ve been healing from the years leading up to it and the years of homelessness where I was so alone. I’m cradling that version of Megan. The one who cried when texting her friends to sit with her in Boston Market for her first survival day. The one who, even then, was desperate to change her perspective from pain to triumph. I am so grateful for every survival day. I’ve experienced 18 years of being reminded that I’m not that 17-year-old. I have had people who care about me remind me that they’re here for me, check in with sweet texts and calls, make plans with me to celebrate being alive, etc… Every year I had a different need for this anniversary; sometimes it was just to be around people who cared and other times it was to be reminded about how grateful I am that I’m alive.

This year, it’s a mix of both. I’m not in contact with the majority of my family anymore. Most years, I’d call or text each member and check in to make sure they were okay. Again, a desperate attempt at earning their love. I’d usually be told, “you shouldn’t even be grieving at this point- look how far you’ve come. Your life is totally different.” As if trauma isn’t stored in the body and my body isn't still suffering… as if my life isn’t totally different because I was the only one who had to survive alone.

I’m not sure what I will do tomorrow. I know I will begin the same way I finish each day; thanking God for my life. Every single hardship led me here and for that I am grateful. I pray for the ability to forgive, as I feel that’s the first stage in really letting go, and I will honor teenage Megan by sharing this truth. No names were shared. No revenge was sought. But her voice is free now and will forever be safe with me.