This face is old. It's promise wanes as the eyes dim. It never did make it onto the cover of anything. A magazine, album or most wanted list. Perhaps most unwanted would be more astute.
Growing up in an environment of constant fear leaves deep scars. Membranes sit between the abused and a world that's not designed for broken, weak, damaged souls.
Then there's the body, with it's hideous sensory experiences. Such feelings leave me clinging to reality. This activation dictates a loss of rational thought, inability to focus or function. Any vague threat to my safety flicks a neurological switch. In an instant I'm somatically transported back to an abusive childhood.
As for the mind, well it conjures daily story's of epic drama. Fights, suicide and betrayal. I play two parts supremely well, persecutor and victim. The third, rescuer, I struggle with. After all why would I be rescued. I deserved everything that happened to me. I was responsible for my maltreatment. He wouldn't have had to do that if I hadn't have been this would he?
That's the way it is. From my first memory to my fourth decade my quest has been to get 'better.' Does it get better? Slowly yes, if your willing to make recovery a career path. Analyse every thought. Try every therapy you can lay your hands on. But before that's a possibility one must find a shard of value in oneself.
Progress comes in stages. So numerous and minuscule I struggle to recall any bar the most recent.
Currently I've reignited the fight to separate somatic triggering from what's actually occurring. Which is tricky. I also struggle to accept myself as I am. The shame, as a side to everything, is compounded by common 'public' perceptions of mental health issues. It really isn't acceptable to struggle with life, is it?
Why am I telling you this? Because you may judge me. I wish for your judgment less than your misguided pity. Also it is my desire to advocate for those with dark shadow like mine.