As I’m sure you can all relate, in one way or another, writing about our past trauma can bring up a whole mess of feelings.
I started this site in a self-righteous act of bringing healing to others. I had no idea that I still had so much to heal from myself. Reading all the stories posted on here, and I read each one, I see strong women moving on.
And I’m jealous.
I lost my drive to do anything productive after my “relationship”. I felt that I had nothing to contribute to society. I was one of “those” broken people who will forever spend life getting back to square one, while all of the regular people get to start there and move forward. They get to contribute wisdom, and works of art, and all-things beautiful.
Not me. Nope. I’m stuck being the person charity programs are targeting.
The last eight years of my life, I’ve felt like this. As if all of my potential was just sucked right out of me. And it’s not even because of him. In fact, it has absolutely nothing to do with him.
And this time, I can say that with absolute confidence. I have spent eight years wondering if being the victim was my fault. It wasn’t. I know that. I have also accepted that there were definitely better decisions I could have made. None of which would have made him less of a controlling person. I could have left sooner. I could have never gotten in the car in the first place.
That relationship wasn’t my fault. But this everlasting aftermath of depression- of believing my life was over before it even started. That’s on me.
We all have to heal. We all have different timelines. I’m not saying that after eight years, everyone needs to just “get over it already”. No. What I am saying is that I know myself very well. I should- I’ve spent eight years over-analyzing every emotion and decision I’ve ever made.
And from all of that, I can now say that I’ve moved from healing to self-pity. I have a purpose here in life. I have a reason to be here, and to be alive.
Not just breathing. Not just the opposite of dead. Not a lump on a couch unable to motivate herself to be somebody.
I had plans. I had dreams. I had hopes, and visions, and motivations! I had so much that I’ve spent so long blaming someone else for stealing from me. And he did, for a while. But now, it’s me.
I’m no longer surviving. Just getting by. Going through the motions.
He killed me. That night- when it finally ended, I was dead. The person I had been was gone. I’ve spent eight years on life support. Unable to see the point in breathing, and some days so depressed I wasn’t even sure I could.
He took many things from me. But, I’m taking them back now. I’m taking back my smile. My joy. My drive. My passions. My family. Everything I lost, I’m getting it back now. And if I don’t, it’s no longer on him.
That’s on me.