I have always had some moments after major betrayal and loss that I feel like I can’t and don’t want to go on. I pause, I rest. But the one thing that’s helped me cope with those feelings is writing, sharing truths, no matter how they make myself and others look, feel, react.
I tend to carry shame that isn’t mine on top of my own shame spiral and I’m easily convinced it’s mine. I used to be the woman who retreated in shame and never told my truth, but I have to remember I’m telling it for me…not for anyone else. My hope is it helps someone else, but that’s a happy by-product.
I have been diagnosed with severe, complex PTSD, partially caused by childhood shit, and a lot of it caused by a malignant narcissist who actually had me fearing for my life and the lives of people I care about earlier this year. It’s hard to type that out. It’s hard to admit that I allowed someone to take over so much of my life and I just handed it over. His ego was like Hungry, Hungry Hippo and everything that I found joy in, was proud of or wanted for myself were the marbles. And there were never enough marbles in the game.
The only thing that gives me courage to share this today is the fact that there are a handful of people in the world who have seen this firsthand AND know that I’m not just making it up or exaggerating. I wish I were. I thought I was…for years.
I intended to take a long break from writing when I already had lost the momentum to keep writing after the worst of this occurred, but it’s the only outlet I feel like I have and this is *my* platform. I’m going to use it. The truth is painful, it’s ugly, and it’s well overdue.