First my story was dictated by the adults around me. Mainly my parents, but their narrative about me was wrong. But their narrative was the only one I knew. Now, I am changing that.
Usually my panic attacks occur at night. I guess I should be grateful that I lose my mind in the quiet solitude of my own bed. But DAMN it still sucks.
I’m sorry. The words rattle around in my head until I speak them. If I try not to speak those words the urge to do so becomes much greater. It’s like having OCD, I have to say I’m sorry.
Success and failure are all wrapped up in who we think we should be. But what does that really mean to me? I never thought to ask myself that question.
I used to think I was just snarky and that it gave me an edge. I guess back in the day; I thought it made me cool. Now it just gets in the way. But there is a reason for it. I just had to dig deep enough to figure it out.
I have moments that I feel like a fraud. Because I don’t have all of the memories, all of the details of my abuse. Do I really need those memories? Those details?
Memories. We are told they are fallible. So what do I do with fragmented memories of abuse?
Last week it felt like everything triggered my anxiety. Packing up the condo, moving into the RV, with the deadline of having to leave on Saturday. We left on Saturday, so win, but my anxiety kept telling me that I failed.
Happy Father’s Day! How do I do that? Celebrate a person that was not a father, but an abuser? I still grapple with that.
What happened to me? I have learned that is the question to ask myself. For so many years I would ask, what is wrong with me? Turns out, that is not a helpful question.