I’ve never forgotten the day I started numbing my pain. I think I’ve shared this before, but given my current state of mind, I’m not sure of much lately.
I was about eight or nine, home alone with my—for legal intents and purposes—siblings. The older of the two, the one they’d call my twin brother, decided it would be a brilliant idea to put a doll on the lightbulb. Naturally, it burned, singed the synthetic hair, and filled the room with that awful smell of melted plastic. I didn’t do anything. But apparently, that’s why I was getting punished. Equality was the bullshit mantra.
At first, I hid under the dressing table—where the stool usually goes. As my name was called, I closed my eyes and swore I wouldn’t cry. Not over something I didn’t do. By the time I reached the sitting room and saw the belt waiting for me, I had steeled my resolve. I would not cry. I wouldn’t give that angry man the satisfaction of thinking he’d hurt me.
Of course it hurt. But I didn’t cry. I dissociated instead. I left myself.
For years, I suppressed my emotions. Naturally, that bled into every other area of my life. I didn’t realize I was shutting people out—people who wished me no harm. I couldn’t talk about what I was going through. Not when my uncle tried to speak up, and not when Ellen—the most legendary helper we ever had—told my mother what was happening. (Ellen left us in the middle of the night. Her greatest act of rebellion? Eating the pack of chicken meant for dinner and leaving the bones in a bowl on the counter. I hope she’s well, wherever she is.)
The truth is, I masked everything so well. I’d break down occasionally, especially when I witnessed physical abuse, but mostly I kept everything locked away. So well, in fact, that when the time came to express myself, I didn’t know how. Honestly, I still don’t. Writing is the only way I know how to speak.
Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—pregnancy rewired my brain chemistry. And that’s not an exaggeration. I started feeling again, and it was the strangest thing. A switch flipped. I began reacting to pain with tears instead of laughter. It was bizarre and unsettling. Eventually, I snapped—where my adoptive mother was concerned—and sent her three novel-worthy paragraphs. Fifteen years of bottled-up frustration poured out. And, of course, she acted like she had no idea what I was talking about. Nothing new there.
I made the mistake of confiding in someone I thought understood me. But when there’s a power dynamic—like a familial breadwinner versus a “child”—people will always believe the hand that feeds them. A tale as old as time. This person said everything was the angry man’s fault, that we were all victims of his abuse, that everyone acted the way they did because of him.
I’d already considered that. I tried to give this woman grace. But I came to realize she was still herself, even in her newfound “freedom.” Some people don’t change. They just evolve into different versions of the same hurtful pattern.
I learned what I needed to learn. I stopped hoping she’d be different. I realized she’s not so different from the angry man she left behind. They’re two sides of the same coin. And I’m no longer begging to be heard, believed, or understood.
But I am losing my mind.
We’re back to living together for the foreseeable future, and I just can’t cope. It feels like all the progress I made in therapy has vanished. My therapist once told me the real work begins outside the sessions—and I’m trying to hold on to that, to remember who I am—but it’s getting harder every day. Between the constant migraines, the weight of everything else, and the never-ending tension, I feel like I’m hanging by a thread.
I’m not as strong as people think. I have my limits. I know when to tap out. The difference between now and then is that I actually have something to lose now.
Living with someone who triggers you is like existing in a war zone where the bombs are silent but the damage is loud in your body. Every footstep, every door creak, every glance holds potential danger. It’s exhausting in a way that sleep can’t fix. You become hyper-aware—constantly scanning for shifts in mood, tone, body language—trying to gauge whether the day will be survivable or whether you’ll need to shrink, hide, or disappear inside yourself again.
And the worst part? Even in the calm, your body doesn’t trust it. You don’t breathe easy—you just wait.
Survival mode isn’t living. It’s rehearsing your escape plan while cooking dinner. It’s mentally checking out during conversations because your mind is monitoring for the next emotional ambush. And because the threat isn’t always visible, people assume you’re overreacting. They don’t see the bruises anxiety leaves behind. There is no peace when your nervous system is constantly screaming. You become a ghost—present, but unreachable.
Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of who I used to be… or who I could be, if I felt safe. But it never lasts long. Survival doesn’t make room for softness or hope. It just wants you to make it to the next moment.
And when you’re stuck in that cycle long enough, even hope starts to feel like a threat. Personally I’m exhausted already. But I’m hoping for the light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe the universe will be generous.
🫂❤️
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