I used to hate my name.
Because of shame I wanted it to change. Why? Because I was chained. Enslaved to this notion that innately, to the depths of my core, I was bad.
A three letter word so alphabetically bare, yet it’s definition draped with the power to shatter my soul. It’s very existence embellished me in fragmented jewels of unworthiness and condemnation. There was no doubt in my mind, I was formed out of error then stamped defective; birthed out of mistake not meticulous intention. I was bad.
Such ingrained belief systems that labeled my identity did not appear without cause. My innocence and purity was muddled by trauma and pain. Waves of disillusion and suppression of such memories still remain foggy and unclear. There was no one moment, but multiple sexual experiences, that instilled uncertainty and darkness. Some by boys - and some with girls - that stamped my identity as evil. And although I cannot pinpoint one significant moment, what I know - what I've believed - is that I've had a miscued sexual identity tainted by touch since the tender age of three. My eldest daughters age.
My sense of worthiness became replaced with stains of shame, transitioning me into 20 years a slave. These acts of "innocent sexual exploration" were not just against some little girl - but a daughter, sister, friend, lover, and mother.
Uncertain of its truth, my limited conscious distorted reality and suppressed different sexual memories, stuffing each moment deep into my subconscious - my ego hustling to abolish such atrocities. And for the longest time I couldn't even remember those definitive moments of my childhood. All I could remember, all I could perceive, was someone dirty.
So I would steep in silence. This silence, coupled with other experiences, would manifest into various symptoms of trauma through the decades. Depression, perfectionism, cutting, suicide, addictions, drunkenness, co-dependency, anxiety, isolation, and a host of other self-medicating ways. To face it was to admit it’s existence. So no one would ever know. It was my dirty little secret - until now.
For years, I represented the sound of secrecy - the cry of stolen innocence without help to navigate such pain. And, the face of those in shame. I represented millions of past children standing present in adulthood, tormented by unworthiness and shame because of sexual trauma - who have children that display such foreign purity they cannot relate to. I was the embodiment of the suspicious child who condemned her being because of a corrupt sexual identity.
One of my goals with this blog is to cultivate a community of authenticity. To embrace not just me, but you, with all your brokenness and pain and undeniably say; me too. This is a cry for those who have been abused, to come out of hiding, and share our stories together. To be there for each-other and learn to be liberated once again. This choice; is loaded with uncertainty. I long to tell you that awakening this pain has instantly healed me and "poof" now I am better - but I would be lying.
My ego - my pride- longs to cover up my now exposed side with songs and sentences of strength. It's easy to testify to what we've defeated while gold plating the grit it took to subdue it. Anyone can talk about their victories when murky water has cleared - but that is not my reality, nor do I wish to any longer participate in our preverbal culture of romanticized pain and fetishes of glory. I don't have a redemptive ending to this story yet. This is my raw-right-now pain I have yet to rise strong. My journey is full of conspiracies and confabulations about my self-worth that must be confronted. I am just now braving my way to turn and face this monster of shame with full force. I am not a victim but I am not a victor - I have not overcome the PTSD, in fact the symptoms have intensified as of late (blog post on that soon to come.) But I have moved out of hustling for my worthiness and into wholeheartedly acknowledging my current state.
Because now I am that lover and mother - who refuses to slog through the mud of sexual shame any longer. Who refuses to heap pain onto my babies because of the fear to face it. Who will openly advocate for her healing so she can authentically model wholehearted living.
Now I represent the sound of acknowledgement - the cry of restoration. And, the face of those recovering. I now represent millions of past children standing present in adulthood, who are comforted by an innate sense of worthiness because of sexual healing - who now intimately experience their own children's purity and relate to their unashamed ways.
I am the embodiment of a women who dares to reclaim the innocence of her sexuality. Not just for her, but for every daughter, sister, friend, lover, and mother; who has ever been chained to sexual shame.
So about my name...
With this revelational perspective; I am beginning to love my name.
The name Kayla means Keeper of the Keys
Kayla translates to Pure One.
And that is who I am; Pure.