“I am not ok, I’m barely getting by. I’m losing track of days and losing sleep at night, so if I say I’m fine, just know I’ve learned to hide it well.” — Jelly Roll
That song suits me. After years of abuse, therapy, and major mistakes, I know exactly who I am. I’m a mess, a dumpster fire, a train wreck waiting to happen. But at least I’m aware of where the damage comes from, and I’m determined not to repeat it.
The realization came slowly — painfully slow. My choices in relationships have been my downfall. It has always been easy for me to hand my life over to someone else, to let them steer, to let them decide who I should be. I didn’t understand that I wasn’t choosing partners; I was choosing familiar patterns. I was choosing what I had been trained to accept.
My earliest memories with my parents were full of demands, punishments, and the constant reminder that my worth depended on obedience. I was taught to be a puppet. My father once told me, “Be a good girl and it will all be fine.” I believed him. I believed that being good meant being quiet, compliant, and grateful for whatever scraps of affection I was given.
So I grew into someone who thought being shaped by another person was love. I thought being controlled was safety. I thought disappearing into someone else’s needs was what a “good” partner did.
The realization didn’t arrive all at once. It crept in through missed sleep, forgotten days, and the ease with which I handed myself over to someone else’s expectations. Control felt easier than choice. Being molded felt safer than trusting my own mind.
I see that now. Awareness doesn’t erase the damage, but it changes where I stand. This time, I’m not handing myself over. This time, I’m paying attention.
This time, I’m choosing me,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 