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| Photo from The Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012), dir. Stephen Chbosky |
Content Warning: This article contains profanity and graphic descriptions of trauma. Reader's discretion is advised.
My memory only seems to
get worse as I grow older; there are days wherein I forget how old I am, or I
lose track of what I’m supposed to be doing even as I’m doing it. It’s a
frustrating thing, this shitty memory of mine, especially because of how
selective it is.
I can forget where I’ve
put my hairbrush seconds after using it, but I still remember exactly how an
ex-boyfriend broke up with me. I don’t remember what I had for lunch this
morning, but etched into my brain is every negative thing anyone has ever said
about me. I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t attached to my body, but all the
negative thoughts swirling around in it—never go away. Those, I think, will
follow me around forever.
It’s especially hard when
you have ghosts—remnants—of your trauma swirling all around you, touching every
aspect of your life. A song can trigger memories of heartbreak. A single scene
from a film can send you spiraling into a panic attack. Even being alone, you
can remember something: unwanted touches, silenced screams. Something,
anything, everything.
And sometimes you can’t
help but think that maybe you’re the problem, maybe something’s wrong with you.
Maybe you’re broken. But you aren’t. No matter how many times you may think or
feel that way, you aren’t.
You are not the cause of
your trauma, and your trauma doesn’t make you broken. It may become a part of
you and the way you live your life, but that isn’t all that you are. For so
long, I saw myself as “the depressed girl” or “the girl with an eating disorder”
or “the girl with horrible luck with men,” and I kept doing it for so long that
I forgot that there was so, so much more to me than the shit other people had
put me through.
You’re the person that
holds the door open for the people behind you, the person that hugs their
friends when you can tell they’re feeling sad even if they don’t tell you.
You buy your mother the dress she likes when you have the money to spare, and
you don’t hesitate in holding a drunk girl’s hair up as she pukes even if you
have no idea who she is. You are full of kindness, and love, and there is so
much of you that you do not see—so much of you that you don’t even realize is
there.
I have a long way to go
before I can see all of myself. Very often, I still see myself as nothing but the
things I have gone through, but I’m doing my best to change that. I’m dealing
with my problems one day at a time, which is much easier
said than done. But it’s a little bit easier because I know I’m not alone; I
know people are going through the same thing, and that makes everything more
bearable because it makes me feel like I’m not going insane.
The trauma’s still
there. I don’t think any of it will ever fade away. So I’m doing my best to
move away from it all—not to forget, just to get through them.
