The Child Within is my newest guided meditation and probably the most personal. Over the past year, I discovered that as a child I was severely abused. So much so, that I had forgotten the trauma.
As I began to uncover the horrible things that happened to me, I sought out counseling. As part of that, I created The Child Within to assist in my healing.
It has been beneficial to me and I wanted to share it with you. In this meditation, I guide you to connecting with your child self again in a safe and protected way. This meditation is specifically for people who have been traumatized as a child.
A guided meditation is a meditation that will guide you to help you create a desired outcome. The desired outcome is up to you. What is it that you are wanting to do or create? As in any guided meditation, there is music to help relax you and the grip your conscious mind has on you. As the music relaxes you, you will be guided or assisted by suggestions that will enter into your subconscious mind and go to work on achieving the desired outcome that you wish.
What I like to do is to listen to the meditation before going to bed.
I have created 7 guided mediations all of a spiritual nature. I created them to help myself as well as others in their spiritual quest. If you are interested in creating your own, there are APPs for that. I used garage band (mac) to create mine.
New Guided Meditation-The Child Within
I created this meditation to help with my own healing of childhood abuse. It’s not always easy to put the pieces together and heal. Use the Child Within to assist you in your own healing process and reconnect with that child within.
The Child Within
We are gathered here today
To get through this thing called life.”
So thankful for all the sweet messages of love and support I have received over the past few weeks. I continue to seek guidance and understanding over this deeply painful issue. I appreciate your continued support and prayers as I make sense out of crazy.
We are all broken. That’s how the light gets in.”
Putting the pieces together reminds me of the puzzles I used to work on during the long winter months. You probably know the kind with 1000’s of little pieces nearly all the same color. Once the edges are found, the progress is extremely slow. You know how it goes. You pick up a piece only to find that it doesn’t fit.
My life as been much like a puzzle over the last few years. The pieces are mostly gray in color and I’m having difficulty finding the pieces that go together. The outside edge has been defined and like any puzzle with so many pieces, it can’t be put together in one day. There are days when I abandon the puzzle. It often makes my head spin as the pieces are so small.
The puzzle sits in the corner, never far from site. Every once in a while someone walks by and helps with a piece. Others agree that there are too many dark little pieces that look the same. I’ve considered throwing the pieces back in the box and putting the lid back on.
This particular puzzle has taken longer than usual. I haven’t snapped everything into place, but a definite outline has come into view. It’s not going to be a pretty picture.
Several months into my own personal nightmare, I decided to look for answers. I wanted to be validated.
I started looking for people that knew our family at that time: neighbors, friends, relatives. I contacted every one I could find. I even went to the court house in Omaha to find the name of an old neighbor. I searched for my 2nd grade teacher. There were lots of dead ends.
I did find a few old neighbors none of which knew anything. I found friends of my parents and relatives, but still nothing.
I did learn a few interesting things. One neighbor said my mother had a temper and she witnessed that on a few occasions. She said she grabbed her 2 year old by the collar one day and threw him inside her doorway and told her to keep him out of her house. She also said that after my sister was born she would bring her over to her house for her (the neighbor) to watch. The neighbor lady had to tell my mother that she wasn’t her baby sitter. After all, she wasn’t paying her and she had her own children to watch. She said that made my mother furious…weird.
I spoke with one of my mother’s relatives. She implied that my mother had been beaten as a child, but she wasn’t certain.
My aunt who was my uncle’s first wife knew my mother in the early days. They had gone to nursing school together. She mentioned that she thought my mother could have benefited from counseling.
Recently, my husband and I drove by the old house. The owner was in the driveway. I stopped to speak to him hoping he would show me around the place. We chatted for a bit. I told him who I was and he told me he had lived there since ’78. He didn’t invite me in. The garage door was open and I kept looking inside hoping that it would look familiar. He did tell me about the neighbor lady to the east. I was hoping to find her. I had a few memories of talking to her through the chain linked fence. She had to have heard something. My bedroom was at the end of the house next to her house. The gentleman tells me she is every elderly and moved to Colorado some time ago.
I didn’t get the validation I was looking for, but it did help me realize that it wouldn’t change a thing.
I went through so many emotions as the memories of my childhood resurfaced. I was devastated. I was horrified. I was in shock. I went through a time where I felt like I needed my memories to be validated. I wanted someone to say they had tried to help me instead of wondering why no one did.
I called our pastor from the early days when the memories started to resurface. In the beginning, he was helpful. In our initial conversation, he told me that my mother didn’t like me and that she really struggled. He clearly knew more that he was saying, but he chose his words carefully.
The pastor called back the very next day and told me there was more to be remembered, but would not be specific. I told him more of the things I had remembered and he suddenly because less helpful. In fact, he played the “I’m getting old and my memory isn’t what it used to be” card. Yet he remembered that my mother didn’t like me and that she struggled. That was quite a thought to have remembered some 45 years later.
I heard from the pastor one more time. He urged me to forgive and forget. He said that nothing good is going to come from this He definitely knew more that he was saying.
My daughter and my sister both called the pastor. As my sister put it, “it was a complete waste of time.” He pleaded ignorance and stated, “you can’t make sense out of crazy.”
I want my life back!
Remembering the physical abuse I endured as a child has rocked me at my core. Emotionally, I have been all over the map: sadness, anger, guilt.
I don’t understand what I could have done as a small child to warrant the physical abuse I endured. Then my thoughts go to why didn’t someone help me? Then I wonder what I did to deserve that. I felt guilty because my brother was literally in the way and received much of the abuse simply because he tried to help me. Nothing more.
I want my life back!
I wonder how it is that I am seemingly “normal.” I wonder how she got away with her lunacy all these years.
I want my life back.
I was just a little girl. She stole my childhood. I can’t imagine doing those things she did to me. I can’t imagine hurting a child. What was wrong with her? And if she was doing what she thought was right, why didn’t she discuss that with my father?
I want my life back, but first I need to know what she stolen from me. If I wasn’t allowed to be myself then who am I?
My mother is gone now. She can no longer hurt me or my family. I control the narrative, I want my life back.
The memories of my childhood resurfaced one at a time. At first, they were thoughts or memories that was ordinary in nature, but what was to follow was not ordinary at all.
Because I am intuitive by nature, I was often given the feelings of what happened: the emotions that were associated with the memories. There were instances where I couldn’t look at what happened. It was too painful. Over the course of a few months or so I relived those horrible years of torment.
I turned to my older brother. He had remembered some of the beatings but, he too struggled with remembering the details. My brother was not the target, but merely in the way. He often tried to help me and begged our mother to stop. There were times when he ran away. It was a confusing time.
I urged my brother to remember more, but he couldn’t. He encouraged me to forget and move on.
My father and elderly man now is ashamed he didn’t know what was happening in his home. By his own admission, he states that he trusted his wife to do her job.
When I asked my father if we were spanked and he proudly states, “We spanked our children,” but says he never spanked me himself.
My father had no idea who he was married to or what was going on in his home. He worked 2-3 jobs while I was growing up. I rarely saw him. The abuse never occurred while he was home.
My sister was just a little girl at the time. She had no conscious memories of what happened.
I was on my own here.