Healing is a really interesting thing. I feel like I don’t ever talk about it because it’s just happening. I don’t want to talk about it because I want time to heal it organically, and I feel like if I acknowledge the healing, I’m acknowledging the damage and trauma. I’ve come such a long way, and on most days, I feel almost normal again. Small tasks aren’t insurmountable with reminders of what happened, words or phrases no longer teleport me back to each time I found out.  I no longer cry in dim corners of bars when I reach that certain level of drunk. But I still find myself white knuckled, gripping the steering wheel on my morning commute, driving over bridges, or when I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, looking older, more defined lines tattooing my forehead. There is still so much more healing to go, and these reminders assert that.  I don’t like to talk about the healing because it acknowledges the hurting. It gives something to the pain, and I do not want to give another piece of myself to that ever again.


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