My therapist seems to think my mind is coming unhinged because I am unable to sit with the idea of how little control I had over all the abuse that happened to me and others during my early childhood.
I admit, logically, the sense of responsibility I have for me and others getting abused doesn’t make sense.
My mind has taken a sharp turn into the land of everything was under my control, and I should have some how stopped it all.
I know the problem lies in that I am taking my adult brain back in time to look at these horrific events as if they are happening now.
My adult brain feels like it is all my fault. Everything.
I don’t know how I got to this place, but I am here.
Just last week I knew these things were not my fault. Today, my brain doesn’t comprehend that belief.
Today, I found myself telling my therapist she just doesn’t understand. Because there were no boundaries between anyone in my family, what was done by my family members is my fault because we share the same blood. I am at least equally guilty for sharing their blood.
I guess it stems back to that old notion of evil. If my family was evil, so must I be.
Regardless, my mind won’t allow me to believe it was not my fault. The atrocities I witnessed, my fault because I froze and did nothing as a child.
I don’t always save myself as an adult, but I do save others. I am that person you can count on. I am that person who will stop a bullet coming at you. I am that person you want in the fox hole with you.
How did I become the adult version of me after growing up frozen in the face of danger?
Frozen. That awful word from my childhood that plagues my being as I wrestle with my past.
I should stop trying to be logical about all this, I suppose.