Discarding the old, ugly fabric that was me, while I figure out what I really am.
Casting off the old trauma has been slow, five years with the help of therapists. 21 years of PTSD, 16 undiagnosed, and it's finally becoming clearer to me. I spent a lot of time telling myself I had recovered because the nightly nightmares had stopped, that I had come to terms with what happened, but in denial that the very poison had perpetuated my entire being, like a knot weed pushing it's vile roots through the rest of myself, taking over and snuffing out the good.
A life built on being invisible, to avoid conflict, attention, and denying myself to and from the world, and denying myself to me. I don't know what I'm gonna find, but I know it's different.
Perhaps when I'm done I can finally be happy?