I’m glad you don’t understand the kind of pain I’m struggling with. But I’m tired of explaining it to you.
It’s almost too much to bear some days — and every time I try to explain it, it rears up at the sound of its name, its habits.
My trauma is vain that way. Perks one ear up like a dog does when it’s sleeping and you start shaking kibble into the dish.
So I’m tired of explaining my trauma to you — or anyone else.
All I want you to know at this point is that I’m not as confident as I seem. I’m not acting humble. This isn’t acting. I don’t think I’m great and have a hard time understanding why anyone else would think I am.
It’s frankly a surprise that I’ve stayed as healthy as I have all these years. That I haven’t fallen down even farther than I did when I “hit bottom” once upon a time — and taken a lot of other people with me on the way down.
I don’t know how to explain to you why I’m afraid of such strange things. And I don’t want to anymore.
I just want you to trust me when I tell you that there’s a lot that I’m struggling with, a lot that I’m healing from.
I want you to trust me when I tell you that I’m doing the work — even if it looks weird to you.
If you can’t, I understand. I get it if you have to leave. Obviously, I’d rather you stay — because I’m awfully fond of you.
But I’m tired of explaining who I am over and over. I can’t make you feel this pain — and trust me. You don’t want to.
You don’t have to understand in order to help me. You just need to be there. And not judge me.
Thank you for being there, even if you don’t understand.