Journey to heal myself

I sit here today feeling hopeful. So much of my time has been subconsciously given away. I've given it to the people who hurt me. With the help of a few youtubers, I'm learning to re-examine the self and my caretakers. It's a difficult task to want to break break behaviors that have been passed down from generations to generations. But although it is tough, I push forward. I keep thinking, there has to be something better than this. All of my trials and tribulations have made me who I am today. It has stolen so much of my time that I only know how to live in the past. In a way, the past has become my future on a subconscious level.

Lisa A Ramano, life coach on survivors of codependency and narcissism, explains beautifully in her youtube commentary, just how easily the behaviors that were imprinted on us from the ages of 7 years old and younger, have given our brain the only road map we can navigate with in the coming years of our lives. That blueprint directs us to who, or where, to run to and how to attach, however unhealthy it may be. We don't know any better, as we are children running amuck with the only tools that were given to us. Being a survivor of emotional neglect and trauma, one could say that I was lacking in eve a completed blueprint, and certainly no tools.

I say "survivor". I haven't fully accepted the gravity of that word. It paints a limited perception as if it only implies physicality to the meaning of living through a tragic accident. But in a way, some of our lives' are tragic accidents, hidden in the subtle and unhealthy ques and gestures in which we are programmed to either react in a subconscious or conscious fashion towards ourselves and the world around us. However, I am openly navigating with the context that I could, in fact, accept that surviving is exactly what I've been doing for as far back as I can remember. It's all I know how to do. To exist outside of the Matrix that was created for me, stripped me of my self actualization and hindered my growth for decades. When I used to hear mention of people surviving trauma or PTSD, my limited scope of perspective would often have me equate it to soldiers on the battlefield who'd relive their often inhumane experiences war. Or possibly somebody who had experienced domestic or sexual assault. My own personal shift in perception about PTSD wasn't tussled about until I was around 24 years old when an ex-aunt explained that she felt that I had the symptoms.


I wasn't having it. I took her advice and tapped into some research about complex trauma and PTSD. Even though it seemed to be a perfect fit, I was still living too subconsciously to understand the enormity in which it touched every aspect of my life. From being the super independent, emotionally cut off, ignored and unseen child thrusted into enduring the responsibility of being a second mother to my siblings in one home while walking on continuous eggshells in another, to being this isolated, agoraphobic, distrusting and hurt, adult child with perfectionism dominating most of my belief system. I continued to suffer and deny myself the truth. I stuffed down the part of me that would rationalize how befitting a diagnosis of complex-PTSD felt and I burried it to my core. It did not go without consequence either, because the mere pain of turning off the sizzling emotions of self-suffering that I managed up unto a point, I finally began to feel this all consuming truth.

Letting myself consider that I had experienced multiple forms of abuse from my caretakers throughout my entire relationship with them was too shattering. And yet, time and time again, life sent me gems to face it, leading me down this road of healing the self. Honestly, back then, I sort of knew that this had been the case to a certain degree. I guess, the obvious ways in which I was abused stuck out the clearest. What was actually lost on me was the subtlety in the ways I was manipulated, bullied, gaslit, made fun of and narcissistically fed off of for being "too gullible", abandoned, programmed to be docile and emotionally neutral, denied my right to be my own individual, depended on, denied a right to self interests, denied any form of freedom of expression without even a sprinkle of criticism. Cracking this egg open felt like slowly soldering off pieces of my heart, perilously disallowing myself to touch it.
I sit here today, 32 years old, freer than I've been in my whole life. There is still so much work to do, but I have started to accept, embrace, and understand who I am, wounds and all. I'm evolving. I am so eager to be healed. I constantly am doing "the work" because in my perfectionist mind, the quicker I do it, the quicker it gets done. That may be the reality of some things, but I've got to shake myself at times to remind my brain that logically, healing isn't linear, nor is it black and white. I'm learning who I am piece by piece. The puzzle is all here. Some pieces are rough and in need of sanding. Hell, some pieces need straight up glued back together. I am slowly gaining the tools that I should've started out with. I do have faith that one day, I will be "healed enough." I can erase, add to, scribble onto and finish my blueprint. And even better, I can learn to tweak it where it needs to be at any given time. I will one day let go of the pause button that I have stomped on throughout my life. I will find meaning in this and make it count -FOR ME. I will practice patience, kindness to the self, work on my rigidity in conversation, get in touch with my anger so that I may stick up for myself, learn boundaries, practice not seeking validation from others, and most importantly, remember the hurt. If I won't allow myself to feel it, then I can't heal it. I'm choosing to heal. I'm finally choosing me.