What if the fact that I need healing is a myth planted in my brain by the therapy community?
What if the fact that I’m traumatized is a fable co-created in a well-appointed therapy room?
What if my childhood, while not ideal, was just normal? What if I’m whipping up drama where there was none?
What if I’ve been barking up a tree, digging down its roots, but it’s just an innocent, normal, everyday tree?
What if I’m living a story that is not really mine?
But what about the perpetual tension — jaws, fists, thighs, toes, my very body —the crippling anxiety I can no longer unsee? Does that lie?
But what about the waves of pain that storm my chest and pound against my heart? Do feelings lie?
But what about the pit of dread, the “What’s the point” that paints my days in drab hues of gray? Does depression lie?
But what about the walls I live in? Does isolation lie?
What about the care I refuse, time and again, as I remain shuttered in the dark? Is it a lie?
Maybe this is the story of my life.
And not some fable I fell into.
Not some rabbit hole of nightmarish wonder, but the hole that was begging to be explored all along even while I was blind to reality.
Maybe.
