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B.N. Harrison's avatar

This was beautifully written. But I swear you're not at the boundary yet. You haven't been safe for long enough to know how much better you're capable of feeling. Eight years isn't long enough but there will come a point. I have similar nightmares, right down to red clay stains on my knees and humidity that chokes me and family who want to live in a different reality and don't understand why they can't have me and their delusions both. I'm happy now, though. Secure in my innermost being or whatever. I spent my entire life feeling like I'd been split open and all my guts were hanging out and I just had to go through life holding my guts in my hands, trying to write and work and have a life while my innards were spilling everywhere. Like I was somehow continuously bleeding out but never dying. I thought that was going to be me until I died.

I turned out to be wrong. I thought the damage was permanent because nothing seemed to help, not therapy or sedatives or writing it out. But it turned out, I just had to be truly safe long enough. It took a long time. I won't pretend that it was a totally passive process, I was always thinking about how bad I felt and dissecting the abuse and reading books about trauma psychology and writing stories that would never see the light of day, and that was all part of how I processed the shit in my system. I can't say, do what I did, because who knows what was helping and what was just passing the time. I don't know what the path is for you but I know there is one. The sickness rests in the belief systems that developed under abuse, and people don't change much but beliefs do, and I think that's the key. You just have to keep on keeping your distance from the people who take you right back to that place just by looking at you.

Sorry to be oversharing. I literally can't contain myself around other survivors.

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Nic @nml_dc's avatar

Oh sweet person, I have so much love in my heart for you. This path you walk is one we all have to walk alone, but I like to think we are walking them together, in parallel, criss-crossing. Maybe in our dreamscapes we escape together. Maybe your Alabama connects to my Indiana and we sometimes get out of the woods. We find bodyworkers and therapists and loving friends and we voice that it was monstrous, never funny, and together we grieve the people we could have been and try to love the people we have become instead and can never not be. We hold the lines we can hold and live. I'm sorry you're going through this now and bottomlessly filled with rage that you went through it then. ❤️

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