So much has changed. And yet, despite my accomplishments, on the inside I still feel like that insecure young girl, who had every innocence ripped away from her. In many ways, I still am that girl. Despite my degree, my new professional life, my adult love-life. Despite the few more years I have stacked under my belt. While it conceals scars, they will never fully fade. My completion will always be tarnished. I will never have that porcelain face.
I still can't sleep at night. I still have to double check the locks on the doors. Triple check. I still have to maintain a stringent level of organization and order to get though my days. My weeks. My years. I still panic at seemingly insignificant events. I require even numbers. Matching colors. Labels. Disorder leads to hysteria.
Im conditioned to care for others. I'm a conditioned co-dependent. Self sacrifice. I'm happy when everyone else around me is happy. I'm an empath, and debilitatingly so.
In the debate of "nature verses nurture," I don't know how much of my being is innate, and how much of myself comes from things I've picked up along the way. I worry that I'm a broken specimen. That there is no fix for my all too common situation. Then I worry about changing. If I fix my inconsistencies, who would still love me? When I take a selfish moment, when I don't wait on everyone's beck and call, will I end up all alone?
As I wander through my memories, reading my tidbits of morose bloggery, I wonder about these things. I identify with my issues all too closely. I embody my imperfections. I am my cracked and crumbling facade.
If I am my disease, what happens to my sense of self if I ever do heal?
