(Trigger warnings for violence, abuse, rape)
I’m not self-centered enough to believe that my life story is any worse than anyone else’s. We’ve all got trauma in our pasts whose tendrils have woven themselves into our lives.
It’s kind of horrifying thinking back, evaluating the things that’ve shaped my attitude toward things most. More often than not the bits come back to me in clipped memories that I shake off with a frown. Other times my mind runs away with itself, bouncing from one nightmare to another until my brain takes over and tells me to calm my frantic heartbeat, nagging at me until the adrenaline flow finally slows, making me relax my now-tired muscles.
I don’t think my parents were meant to have children. I don’t mean that in a spiteful or angry way at all and I understand that they’re humans like everyone else. We all have our faults. For the most part, I’ve been able to give up on being angry at them; it’s done now and we can’t correct the past.
My sister and I learned pretty early on that we were better off as best friends. No one could understand the world we lived in at home. From outward appearances we were part of a family other people would love to have - my dad was always popular with the neighbors and their kids. He especially did a lot for the poorer single-parent families we lived near, which I give him a lot of credit for. My mom was pretty and funny and people enjoyed being around her. But our family was very Jekyll and Hyde. As outsiders looking in, we were to be envied; on the inside looking out we were anything but. […] Read More