My mind is broken

Sometimes I wonder if my mind will ever heal. Will it ever be the same?

The same as what? As when I was 8 years old, free and full of life? Or when I was 9 years old, sexually abused and full of fear? Or the same as when I was 15 years old, angry and hurt, lying constantly to anyone about everything, and not knowing why?

Why? I had repressed my memories from the age of 9, after all.

Maybe the same as when I was 21, struggling to accept and flourish in a healthy relationship. Unaware of my own toxic traits, and where they came from. Maybe it was in my mid 20s when I was in an emotionally and psychologically abusive relationship, systematically estranged from my family and supports, left to flounder and drown alone.

Or was it now, when I am in my early 30s, having remembered my trauma, accepted my abuse, and found a partner who loves me despite this?

My brain, now, in my mid 30s, is oh so critical. She is angry, some days. She is sad others. She is reminiscent, and turbulent, aggressive, productive, dominant, passive and broken. But is she broken? She makes me think that I am.

Am I?

My brain tells me many things. I’m weak, I’m fat, I’m ugly. I deserve my trauma. This is karma. I must be better, Do better. I must aim higher, fly. I must study harder, and be good at everything.

But I’m not good at everything. Not even close.

I don’t trust anyone. Not me, not him, not her. Not my fiancé, nor my best friend, my mother or my sister. Not the way they trust others, or others trust them. I don’t share my darkness. My deepest hurts. Who would love that kind of darkness?

I would.

I just can’t love it in me.

So, I crawl. I stumble. I climb. And they don’t know. They don’t see. My worst trait is my negativity, apparently. “Just be positive”. My least favourite phrase.

Be positive. Yes. That will change everything. Nothing. All at once. It won’t change the feeling of too big hands on a too small body. In my body. Before I even knew what in my body meant.

Be happy, they say. You have food, and clothes, and a roof. Yes, I do. I also have antidepressants, and a nasty temper. I don’t hit, and I don’t yell. But I’m snappy and cranky and short. I don’t find joy in moments. I don’t see my fiancé laugh and feel warm and fuzzy like you do. I wonder what darkness I will bring that will take that away. Because he doesn’t deserve for my darkness to take his laughter away. But it does. Because I am volatile. I am like a match, with gasoline that no one knew about. And if I light, I will burn the world around me.

I am broken. My mind is broken. I see a man on a street, doing nothing. Just minding his own business. I cross the street, looking down, like hell hounds are on my heels.

The hell hounds, are on my heels.

And did you know? If I am in an elevator with one man, I will pretend to have pressed the wrong floor. I will press the next available, and hope I can just hop off. And if the next elevator arrives, and it’s a man, I will refuse that elevator: I can wait. I might be late to work, or home, or the toilet. But I will wait.

And I wonder if you knew that the reason I didn’t want to walk myself to the car that night, is because demons exist in the dark. The demons of my mind. And they don’t haunt my sleep, but they do dog my every step when on the street. And no matter how good my night was, I will go home afraid and tense and angry. Because hell, shaped like the ghost of a man, was on my heels.

And when he touches me with love, in ways I’ve always dreamed of, I have to consciously remember, that I am here. I am here. I am here. Because this should be good, and it is. Oh, it is. He is fantastic. And the orgasms are fantastic.

But no, we can’t do that. And no, that position won’t work. And no, I’m not up for that. And yes, I need the control. And no, I won’t let you take that. But please, let’s mix pleasure and pain. But only like this. Just a very specific way. Any more, and I might break. Any less, and I feel fragile.

But I’m not fragile. I won’t break. Did you know that? I know I’m difficult, and seem hard to please. I just don’t know what to expect of me. My mind is broken, but the scars are real. They are hard, and glued shut. And they make me strong.

And I might not seem strong to you. I cry too much, I’m not positive enough. I am not what you think I should be.

But I am here. I am alive. And I am healing, no matter how slowly.

And I am strong. And I don’t need you to see.

Because I am strong enough. Despite what he did to me.