It’s tough to really know who I am without knowing me through the lens of my trauma. I try not to think of this as a particularly negative thing; it’s just information. Backstory that’s important to the current plot.
After all, how could you truly understand why I cry at the smallest kindness without knowing I spent five years being brutalized, manipulated, and taught I was unworthy of tenderness?
Don’t mind me, sometimes I just can’t comprehend the breathtaking warmth of affection without a bruise attached.
Without me telling you, how could you guess that I often over-explain myself because I’m so used to my every move being tracked, interrogated, and used against me?
How would you be expected to know not to invite me to that loud, crowded bars because it overloads my every sense with triggers; vaulting me nauseatingly into distressing memories of my violent, alcoholic ex?
The ex who refused to learn to cope with his own trauma, so he passed it on to me.
My abuser. My would-be murderer.
The one whose new girlfriend recently popped up on my “People You May Know” on Facebook.
My blood ran cold at the jarring sight of his bloated, putrid face leering at me from her profile picture, heavy arm slung around her.
She looks sweet, his current victim. I worry about her.
I hate talking about my C-PTSD, yet it’s all I can do to try to protect others from the same fate. They deserve that, especially because they may not be in a situation where they feel safe to share the trauma they’re currently facing.
Sharing our stories of domestic violence helps both victims and survivors feel like they aren’t alone. It can also help others recognize the signs of abuse and learn how to safely intervene.
So I’m going to keep oversharing in the hopes that it might one day help others get out from under the overbearing grip of their oppressors.
Here’s to keeping it uneasy.