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I knocked nervously on his door. We had been seeing each other for a bit now. He knew I was a virgin. I wore it like a Catholic cloak protecting me from - well, everyone. I trusted he would respect me; I just needed a place to sleep. I adjusted my favorite hoodie by pulling out my pony tail. I rolled my eyes at the memory of my roommate asking me to leave for the night as her boyfriend was coming over. My RA was out for the weekend.

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I don’t know where to begin. “Staring at a blank page” to quote the song Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield. Yes, now that song is stuck in my head, thank you. The reality is: I was unwritten. Leaving more than thirty years of marriage left me questioning every aspect of myself.

There is an episode of Gilmore Girls where Lorelei is questioning her entire life choices. Does she really like Poptarts? Or was it because her mother would not like them?

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“I don’t understand,” I replied, my face flat as I stared at the psychiatrist.

He set his notebook on the side table and turned to face me directly. We were sitting in his office high in the tall tower of the hospital. I could see the distant bridge of the city as the grey sky rained on another winter day.

“Your mind protects itself. Some events, memories, can be too traumatic to remember.”

I nodded. “So that is why I have so few memories of my childhood,” I extrapolated, “Or why it can be difficult to remember the time raising the kids. And so on.”

“Yes. As you work through the trauma though, process it, there is a chance those memories will return. With time. With your nervous system adjusting and feeling safe,” he expanded, “But they may not all come back.”

Slumping a bit in my seat, I watched my fingers trace the edge of the upholstery. “But you told me to look in all the corners. We talked about the rape in college. You said that is how I would heal.”

“True. Memories are tricky. Not wholly reliable,” he said, “Not that I don’t believe you because I do know that you have experienced trauma. I am not sure that the shirt you remember wearing was blue or pink for example. And we are not in a court of law here.”

Inside my mind, I could feel the wall come down hard as I tried to poke and pry it. I felt the anxiety rise within me. I felt the tightness in my chest and I closed my eyes to breathe. 1, 2, 3, 4. I counted my breaths. With each breath I visualized a ..

It wasn’t working. I leaned forward clutching my stomach. “I can’t breathe.” I muttered.

He quickly dropped to his knees and placed his hands on the arms of the chair, careful not to touch me.

“Marie Ruth, what do you hear?”

“What?” I muttered.

“What do you hear?”

Slowly, I raised my head as the panic eased. “Your voice,” I answered in a small utterance.

“What else do you hear?”

I shifted my attention and brushed back my hair. “The air conditioner. A door closing.”

So it goes. He asked me what I tasted, saw, touched and smelled. By the end, the panic was gone.

“Maybe I’m not ready to go all the way back,” I admitted. “Maybe, I need to leave it where it is. The OB said the treatment given to me then was proven to be invalid and today those issues would automatically trigger an investigation into sex abuse of a minor.”

The words felt like vinegar in my mouth. Sour and foul.

“I do have some memory fragments that, well,” I stammered. “They are memories. I can’t pinpoint the exact age - just the bottom of the ceramic water fountain was over my shoulder. And it was the holidays.”

He returned to his chair with his face impassive - just waiting for me to continue.

“I have in the past woken up from a nightmare and that is the image I remember. It lingers.” I spread my hands out in defeat.

“I asked my family for help in pinpointing who and when but they were clueless. My parents are gone. It’s been more than fifty years. I doubt anyone is still alive from then.”

We sat quietly for a few moments as the emotions of the moment ebbed away. He picked up his notebook and made a few notations. “There are people I can refer you to that work with children. They may have more tools than I do. You can also just let this sit. Until you are ready to look. Your choice.”

I nodded, turning to look at him. “I think that it would be best to let my mind protect me.” As I said it, my anxiety quickly stopped. As if the deal was struck and the memory quietly locked the door. No one admitted. Shut it down.

Welcome to Burning Sage. We are Marie Ruth and Renr Noll, writing under pen names to protect our children and grandchildren. We appreciate your curiosity and ask that you understand the difficulties in revealing identity. We admire the individuals who bravely reveal their identity as they speak about abuse. Unfortunately, in our situation, it is difficult and could be life threatening if our real identities were known.

Today, we are safe. Everything we write here is true. It happened.

We are writing this exactly for the purpose we state. We want to heal and to grow. We want and need to move on to a place of peace. We are looking in all the dark corners so we will acknowledge our part. And their part.

If we can help another, that is a lovely bonus.

Why the name Burning Sage?

The act of burning sage in modern spirituality originates from North American Indigenous communities. Burning incense and herbs can be traced back throughout time through all cultures. The act is called smudging and there is a scientific basis for the ritual as it can remove 94% of airborne bacteria.

So that is the background of smudging. Why did we choose it as our name? The act of smudging is used in modern culture to ground a person. The ritual is calming and centering. It is meant to remove all the negative from your life.

We each burn sage in our homes from time to time. So the metaphor felt appropriate as we burn our past to heal ourselves for our future.

What is the purpose of this exercise?

We want to look in all the dark corners to heal from abuse. By doing this as publicly and safely as we can, we are also holding ourselves accountable for our own healing.

With the above in mind, we know that healing also flows from helping others.

In that light, we accept subscriptions on Substack. The Substack articles are an in-depth narrative of our lived experiences.

We are committed to donating a portion of our profits to causes that have helped us along the way. Nonprofits such as our local domestic violence shelter and outofthefog.net. If you are a founding member, we welcome your suggestion for an organization close to your heart that serves the survivor community.

Our purpose is not to make money. But we acknowledge that someone, somewhere may feel inclined to help.

We thank you. We appreciate you.

In addition to Substack subscriptions, we hope to build a community of support for survivors and those in the process.

All comments will be monitored. Only positive comments will be kept.

Be kind.

We have been through enough, as have many in our community.

We will not tolerate sass.

*Please use the site safely remembering that not all information can be deleted.

*The hotline has a database of local organizations that can be searched via zip code.

*Use their safety plan to plan your exit

*1-800-799-SAFE (7233), text “START” to 87788

https://outofthefog.website

*A comprehensive resource for family members and loved ones of people who suffer from personality disorders. Includes a list of vocabulary terms; communication tactics and an anonymous forum to connect with others.

rainn.org - The Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network is the largest anti-sexual violence organization in the United States.

*1-800-656-4673

joinonelove.org - A national non-profit with the goal of ending relationship abuse.

http://bit.ly/4uglgDq - Everytown.org works toward ending gun violence. Because so often gun violence goes with domestic violence, Everytown created this comprehensive resource to aid domestic violence survivors.