Little things can be triggers. Things you have seen a million times. You’re watching your favorite TV show at midnight on a Friday. And the fight begins. Your mind is racing ahead, connecting dots to your experience. And it hits, the nausea. My dramatic childhood is a warm Spring day compared to so many others, and yet it is night terror to me. Little things trigger large emotions that suddenly flash flood my body and leave me reeling. My brother had a fight. This fight was a constant in our home, until the night that he left. I remember the yelling. The subject of the fight varied, but the subliminal current of struggle was the same. A very broken child struggling to reconcile the pain of the past, inflicted by those who were created to shelter and protect. It’s heart breakingly difficult to accept love and acceptance when you have been pushed aside, neglected and hurt. It’s damn near impossible. He couldn't find a way. He struggled and we struggled. We bent and twisted in a hurricane that came too hard and felt like it would never leave. And he broke. And when my brother broke he splintered me as well. My family will never be the same. We are healing, but still very broken. We pulled together, coped. My brother and I share that same struggle though, but I have chosen a very different path to beat. I was a very broken child. I still am, in 100 different ways, still that same broken child. Each day I reach out my empty palms and I expect them to be pushed aside. And each day I am learning to reach higher and expect my hand to be gently grasped by those I love. The ones who love me come beside me, holding me up when I need them to, hand after hand offering the support that I need. Hand after hand nudging and guiding me towards my Savior. This is the story of my addiction, and my journey towards healing.
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