Reclaiming Wonder Woman: A Journey of Self-Discovery

By Windy Bond

The stories we tell ourselves can be a source of trauma. But when we find out that they are just stories, just smoke and mirrors, ghosts of our past haunting our present moment, we can break free from the trap that binds us. What if you could find peace, love, and joy, no matter what you have been through?

In Reclaiming Won

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: Mar 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889266914

Book preview

ReclaimingWonderWoman-COVER.jpg

Reclaiming Wonder Woman

A Journey of Self-Discovery

Windy Bond

New Degree Press

Copyright © 2023 Windy Bond

All rights reserved.

Reclaiming Wonder Woman

A Journey of Self-Discovery

ISBN 979-8-88926-690-7 Paperback

979-8-88926-691-4 Ebook

For James, who I’m pretty sure has been by my side for many lifetimes.

Contents

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Author’s Note

Part I. The Innocent and the Orphan

Chapter 1. Wonder Woman

Chapter 2. Lady in Blue

Chapter 3. Tattletale

Chapter 4. Barbie

Chapter 5. Roaches and Roses

Chapter 6. Hide and Seek

Part II. The Martyr

Chapter 7. Garden of Eden

Chapter 8. Mirror Maze

Chapter 9. Bridesmaid

Chapter 10. Little Jesus

Chapter 11. Skywalker

Part III. The Warrior1

Chapter 12. Box Truck

Chapter 13. Slipping and Sliding

Chapter 14. XIII Tarot

Chapter 15. Frat House

Chapter 16. Brown Corduroy Couch

Part IV. The Wanderer

Chapter 17. Nuclear Family

Chapter 18. Ignition Wire

Chapter 19. Paradise Lost

Chapter 20. Paradise Found

Chapter 21. Bible Study

Chapter 22. House of God

Chapter 23. Body Snatchers

Chapter 24. Sunflowers

Part V. The Magician

Chapter 25. Golden Cord

Chapter 26. Tangerine

Chapter 27. Boardroom

Chapter 28. Van Down by the River

Chapter 29. Killing Buddha

Chapter 30. Reclaiming Wonder Woman

Acknowledgments

Appendix

Disclaimer

The events in my book are based on true events, though in some cases names and other details have been changed.

Trigger Warnings

Themes found in parts of the book that may be triggering for some readers include sexual abuse (including child sexual abuse), drug use, and the death of a child.

"If I looked inward

I would see only infinite mirrors

staring into myself for eternity.

I would stay here for the rest of time

in the ocean

which was the universe,

which was the soul,

which was all that mattered."

~ Neil Gaiman ~

Author’s Note

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I spent most of my life feeling like something deep inside was cracked and defiled, withered and dim, rotting away. A part that’s somehow essential to being a real human and without it, you can’t join in the game. So, I faked it while I mingled with those around me, their centers whole and pure, strong and brilliant, full of life. Sometimes the act was so believable, I convinced myself I was one of them.

Over time, the mask began to crack and then crumble, and the facade could no longer conceal what was hiding inside. I tried to run from it, but it followed me everywhere: to the sandy shore, to the boardroom downtown, and to bed every night as I pulled the comforter up to my chin.

By the time I turned thirty, panic attacks threatened to unravel the thin tether to this world that I clung to, and my body transformed into an outward expression of the brokenness I carried inside. In a moment of desperation I vowed to embark on an inward journey, hoping to discover the home of this beast threatening to devour me.

The deeper I searched, the more I discovered.

I started with a commitment to self-care, so I joined an expensive gym with a robust yoga and meditation program. Twisting the body into unusual positions and using the breath to hold them steady was strangely calming. Within exertion and sweat, I found release. Each twist loosened the beast’s hold deep in my belly, and each exhale seemed to let out some of its power, like wringing water out of a wet rag.

During one meditation class, the instructor guided us through a visualization.

Bring the image of a child you love dearly into your mind. Imagine that the child has fallen down and scratched a knee. How would you respond? he says, his voice soft, nurturing, coaxing.

The image of my daughter as a toddler came to mind and my heart filled with love as I visualized picking her up, wrapping my arms around her small frame, and hugging her against my chest to comfort her.

Next, we are instructed to hold on to those feelings but to replace the child with our child-self.

I saw my own small frame, haunted eyes, timid movements, and withdrawn demeanor, and tears swelled up, spilling over onto my cheeks, dripping off my chin and onto my shirt. My heart saw her pain and it ached in my chest. With great tenderness, I picked her up and held on to her. I saw her light beneath the pain and, in that moment, I knew nothing could diminish her value. She did not have to earn it and could not lose it. She was precious just for being her.

All these years the beast had told me stories about why sexual abuse plagued my childhood.

You are not worth protecting because something is wrong with you, it said.

You are weak and incapable of doing what it takes, it said.

You got exactly what you deserved, it said.

When I finally looked at the beast, I found only the wounded child. When I started observing and listening, the fangs shrank, the claws retracted, and the roar quieted into a gentle sob. It is understandable why people believe a damaged child will be a damaged adult. It is so difficult for one to turn toward the beast inside and observe it objectively, much less transform it.

David Finkelhor is a sociology professor at the University of New Hampshire and Director of the Crimes against Children Research Center. He began researching childhood victimization in 1977 and since then has published a number of books and articles, cofounded national databases to collect information on child victimization, and received grants from several government agencies to support his efforts (Finkelhor, n.d.).

David’s research shows that one in five girls and one in twenty boys is a victim of child sexual abuse, children are most vulnerable to CSA between the ages of seven and thirteen, and three out of four adolescents [are] victimized by someone they know well (NCVC, n.d.). The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported even more dire statistics, claiming one in four girls and one in thirteen boys in the United States experience child sexual abuse and that in 91 percent of these cases, the abuse is perpetrated by someone known and trusted. It goes on to say that these estimates are likely understated because many children wait to report or never report child sexual abuse (CDC 2022).

Children may not report abuse because they are afraid no one will believe them or that they will be blamed and punished. If either of these things occur following a report of abuse, it is unlikely the victim will report a future abuse, which only exacerbates negative consequences of the abuse. These responses may occur because of the adults’ own shame or fear. I imagine that confronting such an accusation is just as difficult for them as it was for me to turn toward the beast, especially when the accused is a loved and trusted relative.

Sometimes I wonder what caused more damage to little me, the abuse itself or the lack of an appropriate response by those I loved and trusted. After the abuse occurred, I knew if I could muster the courage and find the words to tell, I had a huge family that would protect me. When I did tell and nothing changed, I was heartbroken and lost, faced with an overwhelming realization: It must be my fault.

As the abuse continued, my body and mind found ways to protect me, sending me to the inner sanctuary when things out there got to be more than I could handle. Over time I spent more time in the sanctuary than outside of it, and I found it increasingly difficult to escape from that place of respite.

By the time I was grown enough to run or fight, I could not resist the pull of the sanctuary door opening and inviting me in at the slightest of offenses. Defending myself became impossible. I felt responsible for what occurred during these years because I did nothing to resist. Instead, I quietly submitted as I slipped into the sanctuary and the door slammed shut behind me.

As an adult I learned that this experience is called dissociation, [a] survival mechanism that […] physiologically […] involves neurochemicals that numb feelings and sensations (Schwartz 2020). It helped me to understand why yogic practices were so effective in overcoming this tendency, as they work directly on pulling the mind into the body and building strong neuropathways to feelings and sensations. Yoga taught me to stay present and embodied, and that is when my life started to change.

It wasn’t until I was forty-five that I discovered Arielle Schwartz’s book on Complex PTSD and was able to name the whole host of symptoms I’d experienced throughout my life. Schwartz references the World Health Organization’s International Classification of Diseases, which states a diagnosis of C-PTSD includes the symptoms of PTSD, but also has three additional categories of symptoms: difficulties with emotion regulation, an impaired sense of self-worth, and interpersonal problems. C-PTSD is associated with intrusive flashbacks, feelings of panic, overwhelming feelings of rage, debilitating feelings of hopelessness, chronic feelings of shame, a harsh and unrelenting ‘inner critic,’ and a lack of trust in other people (Schwartz 2020).

Abuse that continues for long periods of time often results in low self-esteem, a feeling of worthlessness, and an abnormal or distorted view of sex (NCVC, n.d.). Victims are left dealing with a lifetime of physical, mental, and behavioral consequences such as heart disease, obesity, cancer, depression, PTSD, drug use and abuse, risky sexual behavior, violence, and suicide. According to the CDC, The total lifetime economic burden of child sexual abuse in the United States in 2015 was estimated to be at least $9.3 billion.

These children are our mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, daughters and sons, nieces and nephews, cousins and friends. As you look across your family, your daughter’s kindergarten classroom, your son’s soccer league, the faces sitting around the boardroom table, it is hard to imagine so many of them may be struggling to overcome the beast.

Trauma has a ripple effect across society, impacting interpersonal relationships, physical health, and mental wellbeing. Consequences of trauma seeped into every detail of my life, including how I raised my children. How much of my fear and mistrust, anxiety and depression, self-loathing and shame, did I pass on to them? What did my parents endure and pass on to me? How do we break such cycles and liberate a society plagued by intergenerational trauma?

I fully recognize the importance and need for open dialogue and education on appropriate responses to reported child sexual abuse, but the scope of this book is primarily an examination of the experience of abuse from the mind of the child, through adolescence, and into adulthood. From the depths of despair, through the healing process, and on to liberation.

Though the consequences of abuse and trauma are real and dire, they don’t have to determine the future. Seriously traumatic events can be a gateway to immense joy, love, and fulfillment in life, beautifully explained by Viktor Frankl in Man’s Search for Meaning. Victor wrote, When we are no longer able to change a situation […] we are challenged to change ourselves (Frankl 1985, 135). This is the moment the inward journey begins, which leads us out of the darkness.

The stories we tell ourselves can be a source of repeated trauma, but when we find out they are just stories, just smoke and mirrors, ghosts of our past haunting our present moment, we can break free from the trap that binds us.

My stories were a walled city filled with towering structures, large and looming overhead, firm and planted in the bedrock. That single childhood meditation began to melt all of it away like the wax of a burning candle, revealing a vast emptiness waiting to be explored.

The abuse began with my earliest memory and continued through adolescence. On top of this, I witnessed the death of my little brother when I was eight, my parents’ struggle with life after death—ultimately leading to divorce and abandonment—and my dad’s downward spiral into meth addiction and homelessness.

Long after the abuse ended, my mind could not let go. Rumination created a huge reservoir of anxiety and stress, planting seeds in the body and watering them daily. The seeds grew into debilitating back pain, muscles twisted up so tightly I couldn’t walk, panic attacks and disassociation so severe I had out-of-body experiences, inflammatory bowel disease that led to two surgeries, and a surgical recommendation that could have left me incontinent—all before thirty.

I hated my mind and body and despised the invasive thoughts and uncomfortable sensations, so I used drugs to cope. I gave up the drugs after getting pregnant in my twenties but found that over time I relied more heavily on alcohol to quiet my mind and numb my body. The medicine became the poison and eventually, there was no relief to be found.

In a moment of desperation, forced into a corner as thoughts of giving up entered my mind for the first time, I decided to try something new, something radical.

After experiencing the power of yoga and meditation to heal and offer insight, I signed up for a yoga teacher training course with the hope that I could deepen my understanding and strengthen the mind-body connection in a way I was never able to in talk therapy. Requirements for the course included a pledge to refrain from drugs and alcohol, a daily meditation and yoga practice, a simple diet of plant-based whole foods, and to refrain from all stimulants, including caffeine. At this point, these lifestyle changes were far less scary than continuing on the road I was on, so I signed the forms and wrote a check.

These changes taught me first how to be comfortable with discomfort, then to be fully embodied, and finally to love my body. Pranayama and meditation taught me to still my mind and to breathe through difficult moments. All of it taught me that my body is capable of so much more than the stories my mind makes up. It taught me that I don’t have to agree with these stories, that I can see beyond the mind’s limiting thoughts, ideas, and beliefs to see something much bigger and more expansive.

Stories are powerful. They kept me locked in a cage for thirty years. They also helped me find the key hidden in my own pocket. Besides meditation and somatic practices, I spent most of my healing journey reading the stories of others. Through them I found connection, community, and a dissolving of separateness. I found myself, even when the details were vastly different. I found all of humanity in their vulnerability and bravery. I found insight, acceptance, and the will to act.

Today, I am mostly free from disease. In the moments I struggle, I have the tools necessary to get through. Instead of despair, I find beauty almost everywhere. I’m grateful for this second chance and aspire to spend each moment with awareness, purpose, and gratitude.

Sharing my story is important to me because I recognize that, in order to heal, we have to tell our story.

This is my effort to let go of the trauma and move on, just as much as it is to let every person who reads my book know, I see you. You are not alone.

Healing begins with reframing the story, shedding the blame and shame, and connecting to something deeper. After the childhood meditation, I discovered the part of me that could never be broken no matter what happens to the body. I saw it in my three-year-old self and most people can recognize it in the face of a child. As we grow up, we forget how that pure light still resides within each of us. This realization changed everything for me, opening me up to a new life filled with intense experiences of bliss and a contentment I never knew was possible.

My story is every story. Every story is my story. This is the human experience and the more we can connect with it, staring into all dark corners, the more we see the light, the beauty, the love.

I wrote this book for every human who has experienced trauma. I hope my story can help you heal, just like the stories of others I read during my healing journey helped me.

I wrote this book for parents and guardians of children who have faced trauma. I hope it can help you to understand what might be happening to them and to better equip you to support them.

I wrote this book for the general public. We need to open the discussion on trauma and find ways to heal from it. Since the beginning of the pandemic and throughout the years since, the whole world has gone through a mass trauma, a collective injury that will have ripple effects in years to come.

I wrote this book to break the silence. If we don’t name the problem, we cannot work toward protection, prevention, preservation. When so many of us are injured, it is no wonder we injure each other. We are in dire need of collective healing.

The wellbeing of all is determined by the wellbeing at the lowest rungs, and we have a lot of work to do. That childhood meditation was my first step toward peace, and this book is one step toward helping others find their way out of the dark and into the light.

Part 1

The Innocent and the Orphan

Chapter 1:

Wonder Woman

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Wonder Woman as a symbol of female power dates back to my earliest memories. Lynda Carter, donning an eagle-emblazoned red bustier, blue shorts awash with white stars, and a lasso affixed to her belt, diverts bullets with golden bracelets, lifts cars with superhuman strength, and forces the truth to come out by her lasso’s embrace. She stands against injustice and holds accountable those responsible. She is strong, confident, and capable. She is all that I would grow up to be. That is, until Wonder Woman was shoved aside.

I am about three feet tall, judging by the height of the TV box with the rabbit ears towering overhead. Its glass dome bulges toward me, emitting a glow that deepens the shadows in the corners but casts a bit more life onto the objects it touches, like my white patent leather shoes and the man in the armchair behind me. Uncle Melvin’s sharp jawline and brow jut forward from a dark abyss that his eyes seem sunk into, absorbing the light like a black hole. Thinning white hair circles the sides of his head, giving him an almost-halo and his shiny crown dances with the colors on the screen.

The sun tries to peek around the drawn curtains but is no match for the gloom inside and succumbs to lingering just at the edges. Yellow light radiates from the kitchen like a lighthouse beckoning a lost ship with the promise of a warm meal and shelter from the storm.

His large hands wrap around my waist, and I am lifted off the ground, white patent leather shoes dangling in the air beneath me, catching muted reds and greens from the TV glow. Seconds later I am set onto a bony lap.

On the screen, Tom chases Jerry over a couch, under a table, into a lamp that crashes onto the floor, a xylophone crescendo culminates into a trombone scream as a hammer smashes Tom’s now red, enlarged, and throbbing hand.

In the kitchen, Aunt Jeannine makes her own melody with clinking pots and sizzling pans, producing the sting of onions now mixing with the damp and sour smell of old people and their home.

My golden hair hangs in long braids over each shoulder, tied with a white band at each end to match my white scalloped edge dress. The TV illuminates a wrinkly hand, covered with blue wandering bulges like little rivers forking and bending over knuckles and metacarpals, brown spots like tiny islands in the swampy terrain, resting on my left thigh.

His breath is heavy, deep, like when you are trying to hide but you think the sound will surely give you away. The heat of it brushes the back of my neck, spilling sour milk into the air all around. Wrinkly fingers, like flickering, slithering snakes, slide in between my legs and hook onto my Wonder Woman underwear, shoving it aside and exposing a part of my body I am quite sure no one is supposed to see or touch except Mommy and the doctor.

I become rigid, unmovable, as an arctic freeze settles into my muscles and bones.

Am I in trouble?

I watch Tom chase Jerry a bit more intensely, finding safety in something familiar and a bit of mental distance from the real world.

Are you okay? he whispers into my ear, dragging me back into this forbidden moment, filled with sensations I cannot name and a fear that has swallowed my voice.

I bite my lip and signal with the slightest nod because I am a big girl like my cousins and don’t cry over scratches anymore. But I feel like his question has somehow made me complicit in something naughty.

I watch Tom and Jerry with concentration intense enough to mentally launch myself out of my body and into a hiding place, a sanctuary deep inside where it is still and quiet like in the eye of a cyclone.

Minutes pass so slowly that it feels like I age a hundred years sitting on Uncle Melvin’s lap, and in many ways, I did. Tom and Jerry are no longer safe and familiar. Everything is strange and foreign, especially my body. I long for a beacon of light to lead me back home.

This is our secret. Now go see Aunt Jeannine. She has some treats waiting for you in the kitchen, says Uncle Melvin as he spews hot breath in my ear again.

He plops me down and I venture away from the passing cyclone, heading for a haven, toward the only lighthouse in sight. A single overhead glass dome illuminates Aunt Jeannine, dressed in a slim, long pink dress with her gray hair pulled up into a neat bun, sitting on a small metal chair at a mint green table in the corner of the kitchen.

Though she is near, she seems far. The look in her eyes is like she is watching Tom and Jerry’s chase on a loop in her mind too, like she hides in her own sanctuary when things out here get to be too much. Something in her hand crinkles as she extends a long, thin, pale arm toward me. When I see the bag filled with Skittles, Nerds, and SweeTarts, I realize this is not the lighthouse I had hoped for.

As I aged, this memory never faded. It retained the vividness of an event occurring in the present as if I am looking through that little girl’s eyes, hearing through her ears, smelling through her nose. The simple act of recall catapults me through a portal and delivers me to that dark, musty room, with Tom and Jerry on repeat for eternity. I used to wonder if that little girl really is still trapped there, waiting for her path home to be illuminated.

What I found strange about the memory as I aged is that for all the vividness of sight, sound, and smell, the emotional and sensational quality was muted, flat, one dimensional. Like all the air was sucked out of a balloon with a vacuum sealer and the tension of the emptiness could be seen in the tight ridges and folds of the rubber. It felt matter of fact, just a chronicle of events, nothing more.

The mind does strange things when there are no means of escape. I recognize all these years later that this is a superpower, just one that can be difficult to control. Once it was let loose, it protected me from everything, even the good stuff like love and pleasure.

That day at Uncle Melvin’s was just the beginning. The years pressed on, and he continued to find ways to strip me of my worth, my voice, my power, sentencing me to live in a constant state of flux between the sanctuary and the real world. I spent a lifetime trying to claw my way out of that dark, numb place, and anchor myself in the sensory rainbow that is the world where my husband and children live, where I could feel again, and offer them something more than a shell of existence.

This is the story of how I reclaimed Wonder Woman.

Chapter 2:

Lady in Blue

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Throughout my childhood, I spent a lot of time at B-Mom and Pop-Pop’s house. If ever there was a lighthouse in the world, this was it. Most of the time.

The small split level, with white aluminum siding and red brick, sits on top of a long hill next to a rolling meadow dotted with pylons, canopied with power lines,