Originally published in Six Word Memoirs
When your childhood foundation is built on quicksand, there’s an emotional deficit that’s hard to measure. Even as adults, after we somehow climb our way out from the murky depths of feeling less than, there’s residual damage – a poisonous venom coursing through our insides, sloshing around our psyche – whispering “don’t even try”, “you’re not good enough”, and “you don’t matter.”
The amount of therapy one needs to overcome childhood abuse (in any form) varies, but for me, ever since I got clean from a fifteen-year drug habit, it’s on-going. Weekly visits to my mental-health guru are what save me from the darkest parts of myself; when re-wiring my brain seems impossible and those venomous words seep in.
Recognizing achievements, forgiving my failures – allowing the ebb and flow of life without