The One Where I was Broken
In a previous post, I mentioned a time when someone knowingly and willfully hurt me. If I am being honest, they broke me. Shattered me. With no regard to my mental health, for which they claimed to be so concerned. To this day, almost 2 years ago, I still struggle to comprehend the how and why. I heard all the excuses. I don’t know what was worse, the actions or the lame ass bullshit excuses for the actions.
That day, that day… everything I knew to be true was nothing but a facade, for almost a decade. There isn’t a minute that goes by that I don’t think about that day. I have so many wishes. I wish that day never happened, that I never received that text, that I never received those photos. I wish we had gone our separate ways, that I had moved out of state — reclaimed my dignity and life — that they continued life with their new little family.
None of those things happened. All the things that happened after weren’t nearly that simple. They still aren’t. I am beginning to believe things will never be simple again. That day was not the first time I was broken; I trust it won’t be the last. Life doesn’t promise us unicorns and rainbows all the time. Less so when you live with bipolar disorder. The life I live is a constant state of “fight, flight, freeze, appease” (fucking exhausting). Trauma does that. A person living with bipolar disorder does not easily, if ever, move past this trauma.
