Though I have been brutally abused both sexually and physically as a child, the pain of those instances is not what keeps me sick.
Those injuries play through my mind daily in one detrimental way or another for sure, but they are not what ruined me.
The psychological warfare done to me as a child has definitely left its mark, but still, it is not this that leaves me broken.
Abandonment.
I am sick, broken, and less than human because of abandonment.
My pain from, and fear of new abandonment, is what rules my days. It keeps me paralyzed, scared, and sad all rolled up into one messed up package.
I would like to think the blatant abuse by my parents and other adults is what has ruined me, but it is not.
The well of my pain stems from people turning their backs on me. People treating me as expendable. Instilling in me that I don’t matter, and that others are always more important.
This.
Recovering from humanity’s deep abandonment of my soul.
Surviving as either the walking dead or the walking wounded.
There is no beating it. It’s encoded in my DNA. Each and every subsequent betrayal reinforces the idea that I am only worthy of abandonment.
No matter how hard I try, I always find myself getting abandoned by those I need the most.
I try so hard to be “good enough” or “nice enough ” or “smart enough,” but I always land back in abandonment purgatory.
The therapists and spiritual philosophers always try to convince me I am not a bad person, and somehow this repetitive abandonment has nothing to do with me.
Of course, that’s not true.
It has everything to do with me, which is why it repeats over and over in my life.
If this is my final destiny, I am confused as to why I keep carrying on trying to prove it won’t happen again.
It always does, though.
Sometimes I see it clearly and try my best to stop the inevitable, and other times I am blindsided and never fully understand what happened.
Ah, back to my parents, and the others who created the permanent scarring of my brain. The deep state of confusion I am always meant to live in.
That’s it, you know. The deep abandonment wounds that can never be understood.
Healing. No. That doesn’t exist for me.
Only the slow drip of confusion and pain serves as the morphine of my life.
mistakensurvival.wordpress.com 
Everything you write resonates- it’s horrid to be hurt by strangers or loved ones, and hurt being such an inadequate word. But the pain of those who walk away, turn their back, avoid you when they could do something- even a quick hand squeeze or wink woulda helped- that I wouldn’t have known they see me, they know. This sounds so counter-intuitive, I hesitate to write. But the harder the experts or anyone who cared tried to persuade me I was good, I deserved good things, I wasn’t responsible, the more resistant I got. I did not believe them at all. I used my energy fighting against them, to prove they were wrong. One day I said, ok, I’m tired of fighting. I admitted, accepted, I am a bad person. I am worthless. I was responsible, it was my fault. I did nothing to stop it. I was brutal to myself, but I just said the worst things about me I could think of and said, ok. I am. All that. You get the picture. The crazy ironic thing was that I started to feel better- I started to feel my own power. Instead of fighting off all the well-intentioned others, I accepted myself. Period. Now it was me and me- it was about me, and I was in charge of me. I know it sounds crazy, but when- I think- people try with all their heart to tell us how we should feel about ourselves, it’s a very subtle message that you aren’t doing it right. That you aren’t ok the way you are. That you have to be what they want, and you must be what you are not to get their approval or support. You are selling your authenticity, your integrity, your sense of who you are. They can’t convince you of anything. At least for me, it was a hopeless and frustrating, maddening way of relating to myself and others. I decided to be who I was, shit and all. And now I’m kind of liking myself, cuz it’s mine. Mine. And nobody can take it away from me. I wish I coulda done that as a two year old! But I’m doing it now. Probably this way isn’t for everyone, and I’m not saying it’ll work for you or anyone else. It’s the only thing that has worked for me, but I have had to be around compassionate people who like me however I am. I wish you the best. Your aching heart is so expressive of the nails that we got pounded into our souls. And I am so so sorry this happened to you.
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Thank you for this. Sadly, I haven’t figured out how to live in the world and be authentic. When I am, it backfires. People prefer the fake me, and the older I get, the less I feel like doing fake me, so I don’t interact nearly as much as I used to.
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