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Going Home

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I have the privilege of reading many talented bloggers via this blog. It is sadly comforting to connect with people that have experienced the same things I have. I wouldn’t wish my issues, or my past on anyone. But it is reassuring to know I am not the only one who feels the way I do. And that my reaction to my past experiences is normal.

But I as yet have not read someone discussing what I want to talk about today. The idea of home.

I didn’t have a home growing up. I lived in a household full of abuse and anger and sadness. I was not safe there. I was not comforted there. And I never felt at ease.

I think having a home is one of the most important things in the world. I think it is what we are all looking for in finding a partner. Someone that gives us the sense of security that we ideally felt as a young child. But that so many of us never had (including me).

So what do we base this idea of home on? I certainly don’t want to recreate my childhood home with someone. I don’t know what I want my home to be. I have never been in a happy home.

I have these ideas in my mind of how I think it should feel. But it is hard to know if they are even things that exist. Maybe the things I want are things that nobody has. I don’t know what a home should be like.

To make matters worse, I have been very abusive towards myself. I wasn’t able to create a home for myself, with myself. It is only now that I have worked so hard to be kind to myself and to care for myself. It is only now that I am making a safe place for myself.

And yet, I want to be in a relationship with someone. I want to keep this home that I have made for myself. And I want to share it with someone else.

I keep my home within myself. It is inside me. It is safe there. And nobody can ever take it from me. But I also want it to be outside me. And I want someone to share it with, someone that will protect it as I have.

I don’t want to be a self contained unit forever. But I am afraid I will never meet someone that is safe. I am afraid my home will always be inside me and never shared with someone. Like one more secret I carry around with me.

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Past Lives

Today, someone asked me what I was like as a child. I had to think about it for a long time before answering. But it really depends on what age we’re discussing.

I did nothing but cry for the first 6 or 7 years. I was unhappy and morose. And suffering from PTSD from many physical, emotional and sexual abuses. Eventually my family punished me for crying enough that I stopped.

I spent the next few years like a wild animal backed into a corner. I had zero control over my emotions. I was angrier than I have ever felt in my entire life. My anger was like a separate being trying to violently claw it’s way out of me. This is when I began punching trees. A lot.

Finally, around 10, I completely shut down all my emotions. I began working out compulsively, reading obsessively. I had an eating disorder and began journaling. I was extremely secretive.

I had severe insomnia and depression. Some weeks I would sleep less than 5 hours the entire week. My life was kind of a fog of blankness. That is really the best way to describe it. It was like being on drugs that took away everything it was possible to feel. But I wasn’t on drugs.

All I ever felt was sadness, despair and anger. And the safest place to direct that anger was on myself. It led to getting into and staying in many abusive relationships; platonic, romantic, and familial. It also was the partial driver for some of the emotional/mental issues I have.

And that’s basically where I stayed until my health problems at 25. Like I was frozen in place. Frozen emotionally. And I was. I only allowed myself to feel the barest tip of what was wrong. Only the strongest, most persistent emotions came through.

It has taken a few years to even realize that things were wrong inside me. And it took a few years to get help. I have been in therapy for just over a year.

I am amazed when I look back on the changes I’ve been through this past year. It actually impresses me. People that have known me very well can hardly believe I am the same person. Neither can I.

I can’t believe the life I was accepting for myself all that time. I can’t believe those past people, those horrible past lives, were all me. I look back on how much I’ve changed this year. And I wonder how unrecognizable I’ll be to myself by this time next year.