Most of my life, I’ve heard, Things were never THAT bad . . .
You were never ACTUALLY sexually abused; he just touched you
inappropriately. It wasn’t rape. He didn’t penetrate you, and you got away. Stop
feeling sorry for yourself . . . You didn’t really have an eating disorder; it’s not like
you got below ninety pounds or needed to be hospitalized. Don’t all girls and women
have body image issues? . . . You didn’t have postpartum depression; it’s not like you
ever wanted to kill your babies . . . You’re definitely not an alcoholic. If you are, then
I am. It’s not like you drank everyday. Those meetings are for old men who smoke
cigarettes and end up in jail . . . You seem fine to me . . .
I needed someone to hold me and to tell me I would get better. I
needed somebody listening, paying attention, and checking on me to ask
how I was doing. People are so afraid to ask. They dislike upsetting someone
or merely want to avoid discomfiting inquiry. True compassion can be
accompanied by silence—by just being there, listening, with knowing eyes
showing concern for someone else. We never have to be problem solvers;
there is never always a solution to every problem, anyway.
Because I believed at an early age that I had no concerned, judicious
person to consult and to share my dark secrets with, I had started a journal
when I was twelve years old. Mom had always encouraged us kids to record
our thoughts and feelings, anyway, and modeled the positive behavior by
journaling every morning before we woke up. She sat on the light green
suede couch in the living room, pen and journal in hand, listening to music
on her bright yellow Walkman while sipping hot coffee, cherishing a busy
mother’s quiet time.
My journals came in handy later on, because the desire to write a
book had always been a long-term goal of mine. I was unsure of the process
and had not yet chosen a topic. One ordinary Saturday morning, I decided
to rummage through some old boxes in the basement. I riffled through
trips down Memory Lane, all the while dancing and singing to Florence
and the Machine’s Shake it Out on repeat, sloshing a large mug of piping
hot Joe, occasionally managing between moves to guzzle the black liquid,
simultaneously keeping beat with the music by tossing staccato laundry
items into the washing machine. And it’s hard to dance with the devil on your
back, so shake it out. I like to keep my issues strong, but it’s always darkest before
the dawn. Laundry loaded, I tossed some sweater-filled boxes around and
suddenly espied nearly twenty journals, my journals since early adolescence,
forgotten in adulthood, reflecting feelings, thoughts, anxieties, experiences,
and lifestyle themes. Stumbling upon this cache was another example of
serendipity and was the birth of the ideation of MY Self and of my business,
SERENDIPITOUS PSYCHOTHERAPY, LLC. www.kelleykitley.com
I present to you . . . ME . . . myself . . . withholding nothing, hiding
nothing, ashamed of nothing. I stand naked before you fully sober in body,
mind, and spirit. I am eager to share my gratitude for my well-being in
hope of inspiring others to become the best version of themselves. The testimonials
and stories of others helped me heal; my storytelling continues to
help me heal by sharing my experiences, newfound strength, and hope for
the future. I’m a visual and auditory learner; I must see and hear in order to
trust and therefore could never have succeeded alone. My hope is for you,
too, to find and to be your authentic self. Own your story, because I have
too, to find and to be your authentic self. Own your story, because I have
learned we all have a magnificent one to tell. I’m not suggesting you should
tell the world your story for others, as I am doing, but do it for yourself. Baring
yourself is incredibly inhibiting, yet also liberating, providing a triumphant
rush of adrenaline, the free, natural, high that I call joy. Write your story in
its entirety. Leave nothing out. Choose one person you fully trust to share it
with. Present your gift to yourself.
I continue to be a work in progress. The past four and three quarter years, I have
been predictable, accessible, consistent, true to my word, soul searching, and eager
to help others. I believe in the power of a balanced life rather than a neurotic
one, and my goal is striving to make life happier for my daily contacts
while inculcating my life with the fullest capacity for joy. My Catholic
education and the overriding example of selflessness, Mother Teresa, mentored
me into a deep, abiding sense of social justice spurring me onward to
serve others benevolently.
I write this book for you. My volume of words documents my earnest
desire for you to heal, to learn self-love and self-appreciation, and to dump
your load of shame. Drug and alcohol addiction, sexual trauma, eating disorders,
and postpartum depression are shame-inducing, insidiously secretive
illnesses, and my job is a sense of responsibility to heal their survivors. In
these pages, I hope you find strength and shame no more. The mountain
CAN be moved! Obviously, there are occasional days in the valley of doubt
and insecurity, but I am too strong to surrender, because I finally learned to
love myself. Please learn to love yourself, too. It’s a rough hike, but take one
step at a time, one day at a time, and when you reach the mountaintop and
touch other victorious stars, you, too, will soar with heavenly joy.
MY strength