You’re not who I thought you were.
But I wanted you to be.
So I softened my edges. Laughed a little less.
Chose safer restaurants. Wore clothes you liked.
And when none of that worked, I tried being invisible.

If I can’t feel my body, I can’t feel the hurt.
If I can’t feel the hurt, I must be healing, right?

NOPE.

Numb isn’t the same as healed.
I thought it was. 
I thought a lack of emotion meant a lack of pain.
A lack of anger. Disappointment. Fear. 
All the stuff we try to avoid. 

But it was all still there. I just couldn’t feel it.

I don’t need to stand at the edge of an ocean or see pictures of space to feel awe and wonder.
I just need to observe my breath.
To remember I woke up this morning when others didn’t.
That I get to move, think, breathe, and live for another day.
That’s a miracle.

But pain broke through the numbness.
It became a friend—because it let me feel something.
It stopped my days from blurring into one another.
From survival mode being my only mode.
It sounds backwards, but pain gave me something to look forward to.

I had escaped the home, but I hadn’t escaped the patterns.

I was still anticipating his reactions.
Still creating exit strategies in my mind.

I still heard his voice telling me I was stupid—
And worse, I thought it was mine.

It took me years to realize trauma behaves a lot like glitter. 

It settles in places I didn’t expect. It clings.
It shimmers when the light hits it.
And even after I’ve scrubbed everything down in therapy—
I still find it in the corners.