The other day I had a therapy appointment. My therapist was trying to identify where my anxiety had taken root in my youth. I laughed about some of the stuff I’d been through. She wasn’t laughing. I don’t like the look of pity and concern she gave me.
I keep telling myself that my childhood wasn’t so bad. I had a place to sleep, food to eat, and clothes to wear. Anything else is a luxury. Many people have it worse. Some kids get broken bones and hospital trips. Others get real mental trauma.
I can’t talk specifics about mine because people don’t like hearing all of it. Some can hear about the hours upon hours of fear I’d experienced. Kept in anticipation of bad things happening. Being told that bad stuff happens all the time. Being given the worst case scenario for no other reason than it’ll shut me up.
Some can hear about the why, that all of this was to make me a better person. To make me righteous. To help my eternal soul get to heaven.
Nobody can hear all of it. They’re both bound up in the same person, years of screams and tears and hopelessness trapped seething between two ears. And now I lost the one thing that was supposed to make it all worth it. It’s like being told you have to lose a leg, and then afterwards, they tell you they lied.
I’m the villain for being mad about it. Good people move on. Strong people move on. I haven’t moved on.
Logic tells me what that means.