The Truth Is
my brain wasn’t “playing tricks on me.”
The truth is I can’t pull a man who weighs 230 pounds more than me off of a bed and onto the floor. I can’t make him land on top of me, make him bruise me badly.
The truth is the tiny voice, which sounded like my own, had been there telling me to leave for so long, and I played relationship self-help books loudly to drown her out, and I played dead.
The truth is that yesterday, my therapist gave me a test to see how intense my complex PTSD is, and I scored 57-58/60.
The truth is I barely know what safety feels like. I am always on high alert, and it is fucking exhausting.
The truth is I forgot what kindness felt like.
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