A Little Healing Journey of my Own

I’m gonna be honest: when people praise and publish the person who inflicted the most painful, vulnerable and mentally damaging trauma you’ve ever had in your life, it’s not easy.

Understandably, just not an easy thing for me.

And you can be five years out and so different and greatful they’re gone. I mean, you’ve become this full force of a person that no one can mess with: a shot gun for a tongue and an unreadable unattached essence, who’ll be no pawn to lose in any lover’s game (thanks Taylor Swift)

And still break down

Because in one stupid moment, today, I felt  the full force of 5 years of mental anguish at the trigger of my own unforgettable memory. It hurts to recall how soft you were and how you could love and did, so honestly and genuinely. And in some sing-song epiphany you expose another layer of pain that your brain chose this moment to feel, even though logistically you’ve long been aware of this truth: that the only way to survive that horrible undeserved wound was to frankenstein together some half-dead person, who is so scared to love she can’t breathe and who fights every hint of someone else’s desire, with sharp, blunt, cold callouts of inconsistencies with verbal clap back and a hyper-vigilance and mental obsession with reading what people are actually intending, there so much you don’t trust because words can be filled with absolute deception.

I mean, the level of compulsion that went into the study of non-verbal communication, noticing  and interpreting accurately the meaning of micro-expressions, behavioral patterning, personality theory, language analysis and emotional expression, deception, narcissism, social engineering, hacks and tricks of human psychology. The giveaways of the nervous system from preening gestures to pupil dialation. Understanding and influencing perception, and sociology and experimenting to see how people respond socially to see what it means.

And it’s just so pathetically true, that the reason I can read people to near freakish precision is unquestionably for my own personal protection.

And I have a near constant dialogue, mental assessment and anxiety that is ever present, this pervasive question: Do you even want me in your presence? And it’s exhausting.

I’m exhausting.

How is that for authenticity, this little healing journey:

Screw the damn twisted victim narcissist  inspirational author who did this to me. He broke love for me.

And I no longer want to feel this way. It’s so lonely. But, I don’t know how it’s possible for love to feel safe. I’ve done every kind of therapy, self-work, personal growth. but that still can’t beat how mentally healthy it can be to have been loved properly.

That’s next level grief.