Liz Chelak, MSW, CCTSI, CRPS is a compassionate and skilled clinical social worker who has dedicated her life to providing trauma therapy and substance use disorder treatment. She utilizes a collaborative and relatable approach, drawing on evidence-based techniques such as art therapy, somatic therapy, and psychodynamic therapy to assist clients in reducing post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) symptoms and increasing self-awareness. Liz is dedicated to helping you identify your goals and aspirations, and works with you to create a roadmap towards achieving the fulfilling life you desire. More info: https://www.traumatherapywpb.com/about-us/liz-chelak-msw-cctsi-crps/ Trauma Therapy Center: WPB 222 Lakeview Ave, 800C West Palm Beach, FL 33401 (561) 363-7994 Web Address https://www.traumatherapywpb.com/ E-mail info@traumatherapywpb.com Our location on the map: https://maps.app.goo.gl/Yejg31EBqeP3d6zj9 https://plus.codes/76RXPW4X+7J Nearby Locations: West Palm Beach | Boca Raton | Delray Beach | Boynton Beach | Lake Worth | Wellington | Greenacres | Royal Palm Beach | Palm Beach Gardens Working Hours: Mon - Fri: 8:00 AM - 10:00 PM Payment: cash, check, credit cards.

The Trauma Therapy Center in West Palm Beach is a team of experienced and compassionate trauma therapists who specialize in healing trauma, depression, PTSD, anxiety, and ADHD. We understand that trauma can have a profound impact on your life, and we are here to help you overcome its challenges. We offer a variety of evidence-based trauma therapies, including cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), dialectical behavior therapy (DBT), and EMDR. Liz Chelak, your WPB therapist, can teach you to develop the skills and coping mechanisms you need to manage your trauma symptoms and live a fulfilling life. If you are struggling with trauma, we encourage you to reach out to your local therapist for in-person or online counseling today. Trauma Therapy Center: WPB 222 Lakeview Ave, 800C West Palm Beach, FL 33401 (561) 363-7994 Web Address https://www.traumatherapywpb.com/ E-mail info@traumatherapywpb.com Our location on the map: https://maps.app.goo.gl/Yejg31EBqeP3d6zj9 https://plus.codes/76RXPW4X+7J Nearby Locations: West Palm Beach | Boca Raton | Delray Beach | Boynton Beach | Lake Worth | Wellington | Greenacres | Royal Palm Beach | Palm Beach Gardens Working Hours: Mon - Fri: 8:00 AM - 10:00 PM Payment: cash, check, credit cards.

Are you struggling with intense emotions, a confusing sense of self, and relationship challenges? You may be experiencing symptoms of borderline personality disorder (BPD). While BPD can be challenging, with therapy, you can maintain emotional regulation, improve your relationships, and increase self-esteem. Our goal is to empower clients and their families by providing effective BPD therapy in West Palm Beach. What Is Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD)? Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a type of personality disorder that typically develops in early adulthood. It is characterized by unstable relationships, seeing oneself differently at times, impulsive behavior, and intense emotions that can rapidly change. Read more: https://www.traumatherapywpb.com/conditions/personality-disorders/borderline-personality-disorder/ Trauma Therapy Center: WPB 222 Lakeview Ave, 800C West Palm Beach, FL 33401 (561) 363-7994 Web Address https://www.traumatherapywpb.com/ E-mail info@traumatherapywpb.com Our location on the map: https://maps.app.goo.gl/Yejg31EBqeP3d6zj9 https://plus.codes/76RXPW4X+7J Nearby Locations: West Palm Beach | Boca Raton | Delray Beach | Boynton Beach | Lake Worth | Wellington | Greenacres | Royal Palm Beach | Palm Beach Gardens Working Hours: Mon - Fri: 8:00 AM - 10:00 PM Payment: cash, check, credit cards.

Busy, busy place our little fibro home. Teenage children crowding: two minute noodles, friends, music: loud! And me, the middle-aged dad, knowing less about life than ever. This learning curve about me is steep and getting steeper. ‘How are the children?' my on-the-phone wife asks the voice at the other end. Wonder who she's talking to? ‘Where will they stay?' she asks. Ah! This is about old mate who's on the way out with cancer. His wife and kids need help. Something clicks! inside me. ‘They'll stay with us,' I almost yell. ‘All with us, the mother, all of them—forever!' Where did that come from? I nearly lost it right there. The day wears on. They're coming to stay. Great. Back at my screen in a dusty, cobwebbed office, something's not right. The heart's pounding, booming out of the chest like in a rugby game. This is no ordinary palpitation. Had those for years. This is like running hard: thumping, thumping, thumping but not out of breath. Walking in the yard should fix it. Nope! Still going hammer and tongs. Lying down, pressing on the eyeballs—the Vagus nerve trick—which works on palpitations. But no dice. Finally, it goes away of its own accord. Days pass and it's all good. The children come to stay. Meanwhile, we're sorting the logic of the click! and the pounding. It has to be something to do with when Mum got sick. She and Dad went away and me and the brothers went to a hostel. I was six. It's an emotional trigger event. That's all this is. Back at work. Talking to young adults about life and faith. Taking a lost boy for a long walk at night. He needs to let some anger out. Meanwhile, under my own skin: ships sinking, spaces filling with a hurrying, flooding ocean. What the hell? It's a new day. I'm caught out. Can't stop it. Here it comes: a gigantic black crate seeming to drop out of the sky. A caged monster crashing around, flames shooting out the cracks. And me the little boy, terrified. I'm supposed to flip the latch, to let it out. It goes away like a truck passing on a highway. Maybe it's medication and lock-up time. ‘It's imagination,' I say. 'You've been helping one too many traumatised kids.' But I know imagination. This is not imagination. It's real. And there's my wife and lover praying with and for me—and both of us hoping for a way ahead, that this won't be some dead end street. Not now, we have enough on our plate. Days drag on. ‘This is embarrassing bullshit,' I murmur. ‘I'll fix it myself.' ‘Whatever you do,' a friend says, ‘don't try to fix it yourself.' ‘So,' my prayer to God voice says, ‘What do I do now?' Maybe there's someone out there who could help, the idea returns to me. I laugh, thinking of all the disappointed people I know: stories of quacks and healers. Maybe you're not ready yet. Don't lose your nerve. ‘God did not give us a spirit of fear,' I say, quoting an old verse, ‘but a Spirit of power, of love and a sound mind.'* So, here we are, walking the dog down to a rippling brown river and wondering. Is there such a thing as a prayer or a question that's before its time? Or things that need to be allowed to have their day? We stop. Under a cold grey sky. The dog looks at me. What the? Did I just hear a murmur of dissent from my false-self? That middle aged—well educated—voice: offended at the suggestion that there's something on offer that I'm missing out on: terrified of the chaos this might unleash, or, if truth be told, the freedom. We reach the river, water rippling over stones and the fresh, sweet smell of a sandbar. On the haunches now, head bowed. The dog licks my hand. Before we try to sail this ship on the next Big Life Journey, perhaps we need to allow things in the harbour to float out to sea: half-formed dreams, faces running with tears, premonitions and prayers. Grievings of the Holy Spirit, longing to have a voice in the space, time and matter that is me? We make it back to the house. The un-pulling is heavier. Remember, don't lose your nerve. Trust. Pray. So tired. Have to sleep. Everyone's out, thank goodness. Here comes the lying on the floor part, paralysed. And a flashback dialogue with a fourteen year old girl, of which I'm speaking both sides—seeming to gather information about the six year old me in a trauma hell-hostel. Like a video replay. ‘Father in Heaven,' I pray. ‘What do I do now?' Relax. Lie here, wait and let it play. You're not crazy. This is real. ‘Trust in me,' the words seem to be spoken directly to me. Days and weeks pass with more monster in the cage moments, flashbacks: waiting, thinking and praying. I talk with a friend about the monster in the cage. ‘I remember that,' she says. ‘I was sitting on a huge box: all these tentacles coming out.' Oh. She's one of the sanest people I know. Maybe there is hope. ‘I had to choose to open the lid,' she says. I knew she would say that. ‘So,' she continues, ‘You're ready to open it are you?' ‘Yes.' * 2 Timothy 1:7

I am the black sheep. I am excluded from family events. Birthdays, weddings, holidays. I am talked poorly about. A teenage mother. College drop out. I am forgotten at birthdays. No card. No text or call. I am unclaimed. Not his daughter. Not her daughter. I am the black sheep. Generally, the black sheep of the family is the weird uncle who was convicted of child molestation. The cousin who is addicted to drugs - the one who never seeks help and disappears. The father who is an alcoholic and takes his anger out on his wife. The mother who cheated on her husband and got pregnant. Not the daughter who grew up, realized her trauma and is freely speaking about it. Not the niece who set a healthy boundary and left when the lines were crossed. Not the sister who moved her sibling in, when they had nowhere else to go. Not the daughter who dropped everything on the dime, to drive 259 miles in an "emergency". Funny how that works, isn't it? You're always the antagonist in the story, while they are the victim. All because you recognized the signs of a narcissist. You realized their patterns of abuse. You were conscious of their motives and their actions. They are always quick to tell others what you did wrong. Yet they can't take responsibility for their own actions. And so, you will forever be the antagonist. The unwanted. The black sheep. I'll be the first of them to admit that I've made mistakes. I'm flawed, just like any other human being to walk the face of this planet. The reason I can admit that is simple. I tried, they didn't. I went to counseling, I did the work, I forgave things I shouldn't have forgiven. Now I'm the black sheep for walking away; for bettering my life. I am the black sheep. For giving my children a better childhood than I ever had. For not allowing negativity into my life. For putting my children first. For setting healthy boundaries and enforcing them. For growing as a person, attending counseling and healing from my trauma. For telling the truth. For speaking out about my childhood. For connecting with others who've experienced similar things. For not forcing my children to be in the lives of people who talk poorly of me around them. The list goes on and on and on. I'm the black sheep for speaking my truth and telling my story. In the beginning I'll admit I was terrified. Then I realized that they are still out there proving my point today. My "mother" still a drug addicted, alcoholic nut case. My "father" still a narcissistic, ego driven asshole. I have nothing to be afraid of. I refuse to let them shame me for healing, telling my truth, and living my best life. Because I am the black sheep... and I'm proud. Sometimes the black sheep, is the only one telling the truth.

I can't remember the first time I experienced the cognitive dissonance of looking at my body and knowing logically it was mine yet feeling like it was a completely separate entity from my inner world, but I remember the first time I tried to talk about it with someone. I couldn't have been more than seven or eight. This was before the impending deaths of my father and grandfather, and my grandparents were driving me back home after a weekend spent staring at the opium weights they had purchased on a trip somewhere in South Asia. My gaze remained steady as I listened to my grandfather's stories about his time in a camp in WWII, his voice trembling as he vacillated between dark jokes and terrorized tears. My grandmother always said he never left. It was as sunny as always as we turned down the street in San Diego where I spent most of my childhood, claustrophobically so. I peered out the window at a plastic green lawn then down to my hands and thighs, a familiar dissociation overwhelming me as I flexed my tiny fingers, examining the peeling skin around nails I bit so short that they bled. My wrists were always bleeding too, along with the back of my knees and the tender skin around my chapped lips, symptoms of my eczema. Even with medical creams underneath layers of bandages, I still scratched while I slept, ripping myself open over and over. I wonder now if I was trying to penetrate this flesh in an attempt to find some connection to this mind underneath. I'm reading a book about trauma called The Body Keeps the Score. One scientific study found a correlation between autoimmune disorders and significant past traumatic events. These events set off a fight or flight response, and the body can overcompensate so greatly that it begins attacking itself. Eczema is an autoimmune disorder. My recollections of my childhood are shrouded, vague shapes, but mostly obscured. This memory in the car is one of the few I have. Maybe this can be attributed to it being a key exemplifying moment of the disconnection I always felt between both pieces of myself and between myself and others. As I gazed at my tiny thighs- how strange it was that they were so slight! Microscopic in the scope of this planet- I asked my grandparents if they too looked in the mirror and saw foreign beings staring back. I assumed it must be universal, and I wanted to understand why it happened and how to cope with it. My grandmother said she had no idea what I was talking about. I now understand that this fracture was made sometime during the course of my life and is not an intrinsic state, but it's still hard to fathom the idea that most people have never experienced this sensation. I don't remember a time where it wasn't always occurring to some extent at any given moment whether I'm thinking about it- naming it- or not. Even when I do not give it attention or words, it scuttles around in the background of my consciousness. I've found ways to alleviate some of the most distressing aspects of this reality. Tiny needles filled with ink have penetrated my skin, depicting visions congruent with my inner world, reminders that this body is mine. As they increase, so does the reassurance that I'm connected to these limbs. Still, there have been times when the chasm between here and there have felt deeper, even recently. Last spring I spent exactly seventy days alone. Towards the end of this period I was tormented by a delusion I knew to be intellectually impossible, yet some part of me still felt it was real, like experiencing fear while watching a horror movie. You know it isn't happening, but it doesn't stop the nightmares. It consisted of the idea that if I was to look in the mirror I would see nothing there. If I looked at my limbs, they'd disappear before my eyes. The only thing confirming my existence was the heaving inhalation and exhalation of the walls of my apartment. Weeks of words unspoken can make you wonder if you're real. What is the difference between me alive and me dead if there is no evidence that I'm still here besides my own perception? I've come to the conclusion that seeking this sort of reassurance that I'm real from others is futile. When I think of that moment in the car, I am most struck by how much more isolated I felt when there was no solidarity, even lonelier than the seventy days I spent alone. Now I'm trying to connect the veins that pump blood through my body to the veins where intangible, hidden, ancient parts of my being reside. Just as my body is mine and mine alone, so too are the chasms. I'm the only one who can navigate them. I'm hoping someday that this archeological dig through my consciousness that I've embarked on might make me feel present in this corporeal form. It hasn't happened yet, but I'm starting to become the understanding adult the seven year old inside me still aches for. This body might still feel like a complete stranger sometimes, but she doesn't.

You tie knots around the inner linings of my ankle. You push me down underneath, everything I already see. You make me blind and silent. Cowardice and shy, an imposter and a rare oddity. You wrap these knotted chains of steel around my ankles and my wrists. You make my bare and naked body, feel every gut wrenching rip and tear of my own flesh. You tear me apart, you defy me at every turn. You don't want me to be noticed or recognized for what I stand for. You hold all the control and because of that I have no control. You're the puppet master and you're pulling on all my strings. You decide when I can let go, when I can unchain myself. I can stop being the anchor, when I can be fully clothed. Fully enraptured in the glory of what is mine and you want me to see me for what I really am. An anchor. An anchor that on cue, holds in place and doesn't disable. Or become incapable of holding still, an anchor that takes everything that is forced upon. An anchor to be walked upon, to live only in the eyes of what lies underneath. Not what is residing above the surface. An anchor that doesn't defy. That only listens and that is simple and uncomplicated. An anchor that resides at the very base of the sea. When the anchor forgets it's purpose, the anchor wants to believe it is something else. When the anchor does not agree with every forced decision placed upon them, the anchor wants freedom. Control, untainted love and to have an understanding. To not be told that one day, it'll "thank you" for all the shit you put it through. When the anchor wants to be left alone, the anchor is just done. It wants no more of this pushing down or pulling up, bestowed upon it. It just wants to be an anchor. It wants to remain at the base of the sea. Unbothered. Untouched. Unloved. Unlinked. Unacquainted. It just wants to be left. Forgotten. It wants no one or anyone to depend on it. To seek things from. To expect things from. To lust for things from. To be full of greed for. To be consumed in. The anchor just wants to be an anchor. Simple. Left undone. Left to be unbroken. I am the anchor. And I just want to go on being an anchor. Left to no longer exist above the surface where the world is always watching me. I just want to be an anchor and be done.

Covid was a wild ride. I have been struggling with depression as long as I can remember. It was not until covid hit, that it finally came up to my parents. There were long, rough nights, and times I didn't even think I would make it. I ended up self-harming so bad from all the stress, I was put in the mental hospital. Besides the depression I had to deal with trauma that had happened to me that year, and if that wasn't enough stress, I was also dealing with a drug problem. It was rough. I was self-medicating to try to push down the underlying problems. The mental hospital didn't exactly help either. I was unstable and couldn't see a point of living. In my mind I have nothing to look forward for. The country was having social unrest, the economy was collapsing, nobody seemed to be able to agree on anything and the political war was out of hand. I felt like the media was shoving all the problems down my throat and I just couldn't breathe. That was the one good thing I got from the mental hospital, a fucking break. I couldn't handle it. What do you do when your life already feels like it's going to collapse and now, you're in a middle of a pandemic. The cancel culture was getting out of hand and social media was becoming a huge problem. No one could tell fake news from real news and everyone was scared if they said the wrong thing they would be shamed. The pressure was unbearable. This led up to my suicide attempt that landed me once again in a mental hospital. It was awful feeling being trapped in the same four walls, constantly being watched by the staff. It was a nightmare. I couldn't decide which one was worse, being locked up and forced into therapy 24/7 or being out in the real world full of problems. I was lost and there seemed to be no answers. Again, and again I continued to relapse, unable to pull myself out of the bad habits. Soon there was not an inch of my body not covered in scars, but the physical scars didn't even matter anymore. The emotional scars left behind wouldn't heal like the physical ones would. I went through many therapists trying to find someone who could help me. No matter what I did it seemed like my trauma seemed to always resurface. As a woman it was extremely hard for me to come to terms with what happened. I felt so violated but the stigma around my abuse was a thick cloud no one wanted to break. It seems it was never the guy's fault but always the girls. We must have led them on, worn something wrong or said the wrong thing. Now in lockdown I had plenty of time to sit and think about everything causing my life to spiral out of control. There were no distractions to keep my mind at bay. Everything was shut down. Nothing to look forward to, to keep my spirits up. Prom was canceled, and graduation ceremonies don't seem like an option. As a young person it is very hard to get the attention we may want, and if we do it is a negative light. We cannot tell out stories because they are not valid until we have “lived life” and “truly experienced the world” I am tired of people telling me I'm lucky that I am young. What good is youth when we cannot enjoy it. The same people that tell me I am in my prime age are the same ones who played in the streets and went wherever without worry. I was not allowed in the streets; I was not allowed to adventure and be a kid because when I grew up there were to many criminals on the loose. We could not walk down the street without an adult in fear of being kidnapped. We were deprived of a lot of freedom because of what the world had become. So naturally when I became a teenager life did seem like the prime. Maybe we do have lots of mental health issues and other problems that are not being addressed as much as they should, but at least we got the taste of freedom. Long nights with friends, school dances and activities, being dumb teenagers. Maybe we didn't fully get to experience being a kid but we sure as hell weren't going to let our teenage years go to waste even if it may not be as glamorous as it seemed. Now even out teenage years are being ripped away from us. No more high school, hanging out, long nights, school dances, and being dumb teenagers. We were told to stay inside and be safe, to wear our masks and hide from society. I am tired of living in a world that doesn't seem to want me here. How much longer can I stand being beaten to the ground before I won't get up again. Every day I question the benefit continuing life. How can I “just get over it”? I've been through so much and all I get in return is a little gold sticker and the promise it will get better soon. Covid has been a blessing and a curse. It lifted me up and bit me in the ass. Without it I may have never gotten the help I needed with my depression; I may have never told anyone the horrible things done to me that creep into my nightmares. But with it comes the impending doom that everything was for nothing. My life is a mess and that's just how it will always be.

Every time I wake up in the morning, a shivering nervous me, grabs the cellphone and quickly prays to God for no new missed calls again. But today was different. There was no missed call. Instead a Whatsapp message displaying 'All the best' was at the top of the notification. It was from an unknown number. It was send 4 minutes ago. Should I view the message now? Or will the unknown person check my 'last seen' and come to know about my activity? I decided to check the number in the truecaller app. It was someone named Raja. My heart ached. Is that same person who is trying to blackmail me? I felt my back sweat profusely which made the bedsheet totally wet. Oh crap! Without wasting any second, in an instant, I viewed the whatsapp message and zoomed in on to the profile picture. It was my friend. I felt like my back dried at an instant. What a relief! He had wished me for the job entrance exam that I had that day in the afternoon. I tried to focus on the man's words whom I talked over the phone the night before. I didn't care a bit or had any nervous breakdown for the job test. I was more worried if I would be stalked anymore. I was worried if I am forced to do some things which I shouldn't. Nevertheless, I tried to strengthen my inner me. I focused and remembered what the Cyber crime expert had told me- 'If that lunatic calls you from a thousand different numbers for forcefully loving him and getting physical, then without any second thought, do not cut or block his number. Just take up the call and threaten him with all your might. Nobody in this world can force someone to love someone, and getting physical is a far off thing, it's a crime. And if you cannot stand up to face such dirty mind freaks then in no way, you can ever grow up to be a brave woman. Face him, speak up and lash it out whatever is keeping you up from spitting it. Show him who you are.' Yes, and I did it. The night before when this friend of mine was chatting, I felt like there is a connection between us. I felt like love is blossoming. I knew he too had the same feelings as mine. My happy moment was abruptly disturbed by that monster again. It was from another new number. I was shaking unimaginably. But be it God's grace or maybe some super energetic charge that popped up in me, I took up the call and spoke with such enigma alongwith some unimaginable dirty words that hardly gave him any chance to speak. It was the moment when he was the rat and I was the lion, no actually, I was more of a dinosaur. Never have I ever spoke so badly in my life. I would kill him if I were ever to see him. The torturing sick guy vanished! Although I didn't get selected in that job test, yet I could pass the test of testing myself- my inner strength and my defense capability. I was weak at first. Weak because that person was a mutual friend of mine. I had trusted him blindly, believing that helping people specially friends, is a virtue. Yes it is. But, what I had misjudged was that people don't take it the same way. There are some who feel that if someone helps them or supports, then they might support them in their 'other' needs also. Nevertheless, always help the poor, the needy, the other creatures etc but be fearful when some sick mentality tries to take advantage of it.

If you have the privilege as a woman to never have been sexually abused or assaulted, it might be difficult for you to understand the mixed emotions you might have towards your abuser. Let me explain better. When someone you love or admire assaults you, you might not hate them immediately, heck, you might never hate them at all. It's difficult to go from admiration and love to hate. It's also a very exhausting process. When my favourite person in the world, outside of my nuclear family assaulted me when I was barely 8 years old, I didn't know how to feel. I was pretty close to my mum so I just had to tell her. Before I did, I made her promise to not flair up. I didn't want my abuser to feel ‘bad'. Obviously, she flared up and banished him from visiting or sleeping over. This was very difficult for all of us because we really loved this person. His mum (of blessed memory) was my favourite aunt and my mum's closest sister. My brothers also didn't know what happened at the time so they didn't understand why he was banished. The next time I met him at a family function, I was worried sick that he would hate me. To give context, this man is about 20 years older than me. I remember how relieved I was when he smiled at me. It meant he didn't hate me. It's been about 15 years since this thing happened and although he took the time to apologize to me when I was much older, I almost can't stand him. It was like one day, a switch flipped in my head and I instantly became angry. But even then, sometimes I still admire him. It's really exhausting. While interning in a broadcast outfit when I was 18, I went to get this exclusive interview with a (now dead) well-known and loved musician. Apart from the fact that he was loved by the general public, I also really loved his music. The interview took place in an apartment. First, we watched him play his instrument and I videoed the whole thing with a smile plastered on my face. I couldn't wait to show my father. I was watching this man play live! This legend! Throughout my stay there, this entertainer kept looking at me funny and making inappropriate sexual comments. I was starting to get uncomfortable but we were so many in the apartment so I didn't really feel threatened. While trying to leave the apartment, this man rushed behind me, held me behind and groped me. I tried to get away from him but he held me firmly. I almost had to be forced away from his grip after I raised an alarm and I immediately ran outside. I really admired this man. I loved his music but I was highly irritated. When I got home, I still showed my family the video before I dropped the bomb. I went to bed that night watching the videos of the talented musician that I really admired with mixed feelings. The days that followed weren't any better. I had to conduct vox-pops on this man, asking people what they loved about him. I didn't even know how to feel. When he died and I kept seeing the news everywhere, all I could remember was the humiliating incident. My best friend asked me if I was okay, and my mother told me how uncomfortable she felt seeing everyone worship the man and was wondering how I felt about it. How did I feel? Was I glad that he had died? Did I hate him or dislike him? Honestly, no. Do I still think his music is great? Yes. Would I listen to his songs? Maybe. Sometimes I think about these unfortunate experiences and I'm angry with myself for not hating my abusers. I should hate them right? Imagine not knowing how to feel about a terrible thing someone has done to you because you remember all the good that they have done. If you're feeling this way, I just want to let you know that it's okay to feel what you feel. Sometimes you hate them and sometimes you don't. But don't ever beat yourself up about feeling any type of way. If you feel like you can forgive them, it's fine but if you can't forgive them, that's equally okay. I've heard people talk about how it is impossible to heal from abuse if you don't forgive your abuser but I've also read too many articles that say otherwise. People shouldn't tell you how to feel about these things, it's pretty complex so it's okay to heal at your own pace.

It happened to me as a child. I felt no grievance on it until I reached the age when I learned about sex and the cultures that revolved around it. Not just that, really. I discovered how sacred it was in my culture and I had my innocence stripped out from me just like that. My childhood consisted of crying myself to sleep with my mouth pressed against the pillow to contain the wail. Filipinos practice respect through taking an elder's hand to our forehead, and whenever I took my mother's hand every time I came home from school, I kept my head as low as like gluing my chin to my collar bone so that she would not see the breaking of my eyes. My mother saw through me. I could not tell her how it went because I was ashamed—I did not even know how to be ashamed of anything yet but I knew that I was. My mind spun like a dying moth. My mother could not save me because she did not know what was going on in the first place. There was no council nor therapy—we knew nothing about it then. I was a really happy kid so she assumed that perhaps it was only a phase. The one thing that I could remember her telling me was, "keep yourself busy." It was supposed to distract me from recurring thoughts and episodes. So I did. I graduated valedictorian. I got into a prestigious high school that taught me adaptability. I made many friends yet I did not let them in too close to my past. I was welcoming but resistive. I knew there was a mask I carried through which I hid almost all of my childhood away from the world. The person I created myself as was a hustler. I got into college, maintained good grades, and I was everywhere. I directed plays and films, danced, wrote music and performed poetry. All that happened within freshman and sophomore years alone. Yet some days, I found myself sinking in my own stomach. I kept myself busy for the sake of it and the wounds nevertheless persisted. Underneath the victories, I developed all sorts of behaviours and mechanisms. I was easily angered at myself, distracted, and I was impatient and insecure. People did not see my hurt and anxiety because I invested in them. I put my happiness in them. I wanted to cultivate love in relationships because I could not do it to myself. I was aware of how I had become and how tired I was getting yet I also knew that I had to do something about it. But I was in the race and stopping only meant plunging back to the darkest corners of my mind. It took a pandemic to pin me down to my seat. I was once again alone with myself. I tried to recall how that one single incident had led me to so much distress in all the years. He was only a boy, a playmate, who knew enough to sway me into something I did not understand. Its ripples had thrown me as far as the ocean could go and everything good about my life disintegrated in the water. During the quarantine, the topic on sexual harassment trended on Twitter. Experiences of women in my country, including my own friends, surfaced and created a chain of upsetting stories. It broke me to pieces. It broke me because I realised that I was not alone. A lot of them had even gone through worse situations. Some cases happened more recently—by strangers, friends, boyfriends or even their own teachers. Some experienced it when they were still kids as well but with cousins, uncles or family friends. It was horrific to realise that a large number of women had bottled up their trauma while their perpetrators roamed freely and perhaps had not even fully recognised their actions and the impact they made to the victims. I was angry at why we normalise not telling. I was angry about people's refusal to communicate these problems—especially to kids who cannot fully understand their own actions. Why do institutions turn their faces away and neglect narratives of women that were sexually assaulted, harassed or raped? Why do people continue to try to point the blame on how women dress or behave? It happened to me as a child. No little girl deserves a life lived inside a shell because she fears what people could do. She does not deserve to experience such terrible events in her childhood that could damage her mental stability. No woman deserves to carry wounds for the rest of her life just because men want to pleasure themselves in such a way that results to thieving women's sanity and peace. No teenager deserves the weariness of feeling guilty, ashamed and insecure. Toxic patriarchal cultures still continue. No woman has to repeat herself over and over again about consent and respect. Women had gone too far off the edge and it will always be a valid reason to speak up. This problem exists all over the world and if we do not address issues on women; teenagers; little girls or anybody who falls into the pits of sexual predation, we allow the world to believe it's okay. I have a baby sister. She is three years old. My justice begins with her.

In January 2018, my housing provider referred me to a new surf therapy program which was being piloted. I was sceptical; how on earth could surfing be therapeutic? Wouldn't I drown? At that point I was willing to try anything to help my ever-worsening PTSD. I turned up with no expectations. I didn't really speak to anyone, just showed up, put the wetsuit on and listened. As soon as I caught that first wave that was it. I was hooked. The feeling of riding the wave was something else completely. Even before I tried to stand up on the board, the sense of freedom was unreal. I didn't attempt to stand up until the second session, and before I knew it I was surfing twice a week and then nearly every day over the summer. Even on days when the sea was flat I would paddle out just to get that sense of calm that the sea brought with it. I knew that whenever I was in the water, all my problems would disappear ; the flash backs, nightmares, anxiety and fear. For those few hours I could be a different, worry-free person. The hours I spent in the water were my form of mindfulness. When you're surfing you cannot afford to think about anything else. If you lose focus for even a few minutes you can end up swept out in a rip, colliding with another surfer or on top of a reef. Even when you have a ‘'bad surf'' it's still a complete distraction. It gave me a focus, something to aim towards. When you're up against something as powerful as the sea, it's a huge challenge but even when getting absolutely pummeled by the waves it makes you feel like you're really achieving something. In July I started volunteering with The Wave Project, a surf based charity which helps children with emotional and behavioural problems through surf therapy, It meant I could get in the water on both Saturdays and Sundays and pass on my skills to children who really needed that escape. It was great that I could use some of my experiences to help others. I could tell when they first turned up how anxious they were, and I knew from starting surfing myself how scary that was. The Wave Project also meant I got to meet loads of like minded people; positive people who constantly building each other up. I turned up one Saturday morning after having hardly any sleep due to noisy neighbours and was in the worst possible mood. Instantly they knew. I was inundated with hugs, offers of brews and practical support. The Wave Project is like a big family, no one gets left behind and even on your worst days they can make you feel like you have really achieved something. I always made a point of telling the children who seemed especially anxious that I had been through a similar surf therapy program myself, with the hope of easing their nerves. It was great to have some of them open up to me and trust me with some of their worries and fears. At the beginning of November I did my surf instructor course which was an amazing experience. I passed everything apart from the timed swim. So that's what I'm aiming towards now, passing my timed swim so I can spend the summer teaching kids how to surf and passing on my enthusiasm for the sport. When I speak to the instructors who led that first session I went to, they mention how I wouldn't even make eye contact with them at the beginning , let alone speak to them. It's amazing to look back and see how far I have come and the things I am now able to do, mainly because of surfing.

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I was more intrigued than I was afraid— and like a tiny white mouse, I crouched down inconspicuously, behind the kitchen door, hiding, the way a photographer might, when trying to capture the perfect cover for National Geographic: With guiltless awe, I watched my father tear into a chunk of raw chicken, like a hairless over-fed vulture, sev/er/ing and p-ulling apart greedily the flaccid pink breast with clawed fist, bits of flesh tumbling off his chin, and clinging onto his chest, exhaling with such fervor, as if his lungs had been picked off his torso like some dried, decayed fruit— And in his breathless satisfaction, he ventured forth a primitive sound from parted gates of brutal red, a sinking growl, a guttural groan, the kind that bends the skin, and shatters the skeleton of a small animal surrendering its own entrails in defeat, the frequency discernible only to that of the tongue of crude beasts with cavernous eyes, a pair of gaping holes where the air collapses and rushes back in a stream of black tar swallowing the universe. I thought I knew hunger— But I'd never known an appetite so voracious, so urgent, so fluent in savagery, it was almost as if his desertion of us in his whiskey-fueled form, was more a rebellion against his own humanity, so as to bypass the guilt, the pain, the agony, of living as man.