waking up the moths | an excerpt from the book

I stop the tape and hit the rewind button as fast as I can. My heart thumps hard against the damp elastic of my bathing suit as the VCR begins reversing time with a loud whir.

The following is a brief excerpt from the latest draft of my memoir-in-progress, unless a seed, the story of how God used something small to heal my heart in a big way.

a gentle note for readers

My story is one about healing from sexual shame. I have chosen to tell this story as authentically as I can, and as a result, there may be parts that are triggering or upsetting to read — especially for anyone who has struggled with unwanted sexual behaviors, shame surrounding these behaviors, and/or mental health issues like anxiety and intrusive thinking.

My prayer is always that the words I write are laced with the grace and love of Jesus, and that this grace and love would overwhelm any shame you carry, like it did for me — but I still encourage you to proceed with discernment.

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photo source

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2004 (?)

I’m nine or maybe ten years old.

I must be at least nine, because we have a pool now. That’s where the rest of my siblings are on this hot summer day, floating and splashing in four feet of water the color of a melted blue ice pop.

Or maybe they’re taking a break from swimming. They might be sprawled across washed out beach towels older than we are, cramming fistfuls of popcorn and watermelon chunks into their mouths before they return to the water to start a whirlpool.

My mom is out there with them, keeping on eye on my youngest brother who still needs a floaty for safety. It’s a weekday, so my dad’s at work.

I’m alone in our house. This doesn’t happen often, since the number of people in my family is more than the number of fingers on one hand. Privacy has to be planned here.

What’s weird about this is that usually I’m the last one in my family out of the pool. Last summer I actually got swimmer’s ear from spending too much time at the bottom of the pool, exploring the wonders of the deep through goggles that fogged up every thirty seconds. My mom finally took me to the doctor’s office so they could drain my extra earwax through a tube and into a plastic dish, and every night for weeks after I had to lie on my side on the sofa for twenty minutes while she gave me eardrops. Sometimes I’d feel the salty warmth trickling down the side of my neck, like I was crying from my ear.

Since that painful lesson, I’ve started limiting the time I spend underwater. Even so, most days I’m in the water from after breakfast until almost dinnertime.

Today, though, is different.

Today, I excused myself from swimming after only a couple of hours. Bundling myself in a frayed towel with sunwashed outlines of nineties Disney characters on it, I clambered down the metal steps and hurried across the yard towards our house.

To my relief, no one tried to follow me. My mom didn’t even ask where I was going.

I reached the back door that leads to our kitchen, twisted the knob, and slipped through it. Pool water dripped down my legs, leaving puddles of evidence across the kitchen floor and down the wooden steps, but I didn’t have time to change or dry off.

Anyone could come inside at any moment, and I needed to be alone for this.