Under the Orange Blossom is written by Cindy Benezra and this week’s Worth Reading Feature. Here’s her bio:
Behind the accomplished author, speaker, entrepreneur, philanthropist and advocate is a sexual abuse victim that is passionate about bringing awareness to the impact of sexual trauma through meaningful conversations and system-changing discussions.
Known for her strength and compassion, Cindy Benezra bravely faces the sensitive topic with courage and resilience, having a deep and personal understanding of how sexualabuse affects every aspect of a person’s life and a genuine care for those who have walked a similar path. She is well versed on and speaks to the many different avenues
for healing from trauma since she put in years of therapy and uncovered countless self-
help techniques.
Her charge is to break the chains of trauma while also breaking the cycle it can create. Her hope is to reveal the truth as well as the path to forgiveness, healing and freedom.
Here’s an excerpt form Under the Orange Blossom
I pop a warm orange slice into my mouth and methodically eat it to distract myself from the pain. I notice the texture and sweet- ness. It tastes the way sunshine feels. Everything about orangesbrings me a sense of calm. I’ve felt this way since I ran away to the orange orchards as a little girl. I read somewhere that an orange scent triggers happy endorphins. I’m living proof.
I stick my thumbnail into the orange rind, breathe in the bright, citrusy scent, and watch the ultra-fine spray be carried away by the balmy Mediterranean breeze. I sigh and release my hold on myself. I remember to breathe. Each time I break into the skin to peel it and expose the fleshy fruit, the spray permeates the air, leaving a slight residue of sticky nectar on my fingers and the floor below. I put an- other orange slice into my mouth and gaze at the horizon toward the sun. I’ve eaten oranges this way hundreds of times.
Since moving to Torremolinos, Spain, back in 1979, I’ve never missed a sunset. In fact, it has become a cherished family ritual. The best spot to take in the splendor is from our apartment balcony. Mom usually makes a brief appearance just before the sun dips below the horizon, and the world fades to black. For Sonya (my younger sister) and me, it’s our new religion. We sit for hours like an old married couple without saying much, but there’s no need; taking in the setting sun is monumental. While the sunset is an everyday occurrence, the Earth revolving on its axis and the sun’s dramatic splashdown is nothing short of miraculous.
Today, I can’t miss the sunset because I need to see something beautiful. Something to remind me that there is splendor in the world. Something to ground me in my body. I’m numb. Searching. Disconnected. I need to feel connected to something. I need a reason to wake up tomorrow. I need something to live for, such as the sunset that paints the sky in unexpected ways and makes you believe in the wonder of the universe.
I love my family, but they’re not enough to drive away my trou- bling thoughts and dangerous impulses. I’ve thought this whole thing through. Jumping from my bedroom window five flights down onto the red terracotta tile floor with the pretty red, white, and blue mosaic tile in the center seems like the only way out—the only way to stop the pain. I imagine my body striking the ground like a giant sack of flour, making a heavy, echoing thud. Would my head explode like a sack of flour, too? The only problem is that I’m not crazy about messes or drama. I imagine the sweet gardener stuck with the cleanup after my limp body is hauled away. He would shake his head and say, “Que lastima,” (what a shame) as he sprays down the sidewalk with pity. What’s left of me gets washed away into the drainage ditches and out to the sea. I can’t have anyone pitying me. No, I can’t have that.
As I secretively sit on my bedroom windowsill, my legs dangling in my faded bellbottom jeans, I can feel the hemline hitting my bare feet in the breeze. I wear a flowy linen shirt embroidered with flowers. If I weren’t so in my head, I would notice the view of the sea over red-tiled roofs and a tanker traversing the calm, sparkling water. I think of reasons why I should jump. I can’t live with the pain and nightmares stalking me. Then I think of why I shouldn’t jump. It would break my mother’s heart. It would devastate Sonya. I’d miss myself. My dad doesn’t cross my mind either way. I move my bottom a few inches closer to the edge and gaze down at the tile below. I wonder if I’d feel terror or physical pain before dying. The truth is it wouldn’t be any worse than the emotional pain I live with every day. But what if halfway down I change my mind, and it’s too late?
My shame is so intense that I entertain the thought of jumping to make the feelings go away. I do this daily for a while. I fear jumping, but I like the idea of all my memories going away instantaneously. I go through the steps of the foreseeable process of me jumping. One is that I would die instantly. Another is that I would survive and become a quadriplegic and live on life-support, trapped with my memories. Yet another is that I would have broken bones and a head injury then die from some horrible secondary infection. My mother always tells me so many people get secondary infections from being in hospitals, and she says that it is the worst way to go. I imagine this will probably happen to me, so I pivot my legs and bottom back through the window, step onto my bed pressed up against the window, and lie down to gather my thoughts. I realize I’m trembling from having come so close to the edge.
For months, I’ve been having horrifically disturbing nightmares— haunting and, unlike my usual surreal dreams, incredibly real. It’s as if I see spliced-together film footage of things that really happened. Is this what it feels like to go crazy? I curl up in a ball, hugging my knees to my belly.
A new dream starts in the shadows like an opaque movie with occasional dialogue—with fragmented and scenes that are out of order. Through repetition, the dream becomes clear and seemingly whole. In the dream, I’m the observer, watching myself from above. I close my eyes, and my last dream replays, even though I will it not to.
Under the Orange Blossoms can be purchased from the author’s website www.cindytalks.com or Amazon.
