I know something is wrong with me. I don’t know how to explain it other than that this can’t be normal, this can’t be how life is supposed to be and how people are supposed to feel. Every time I’ve gone to therapy in the past, as soon as they start questioning me about my childhood and my parents and everything, I stop going. I haven’t been able to process it. I’ve been hesitant to call it trauma but increasingly I realise that it is. It was traumatic. I was just a child. I felt so grown up at times but I was a child, and everyone around me who was supposed to keep me safe, didn’t.
I just went to Naples on holiday in October and had to wear my headphones for most of the time because all the city noise triggered my anxiety. I felt like I might have a panic attack, so I shut it all out so I could enjoy the city. I felt somehow weak or strange, that this was how I had to experience somewhere as fantastic and lively as Italy. I was slow to leave the house in the mornings, I found it hard to experience real joy. I’ve wanted to go to Italy since I was a kid. What happened?
When I search for what’s wrong with me, there are too many things that kind of fit and don’t fit at the same time. Depression, anxiety, bipolar, BPD, CPTSD. I used to have hallucinations and I didn’t even realize at the time that’s what was happening, I knew that I heard voices and saw things that weren’t there. But it stopped. Was it just stress induced? It stopped when I moved away from him, away from them. I realised how much it affected me when I went to Edinburgh and saw all the same street names. It felt like home, like that version of “home” that everybody calls home, but that’s a place in name alone to me. That home is a house of pain, of disappointment. I only started seeing it when I saw other people’s reactions, when I tell people how I was treated. I told A. at a dinner the other night, just one tiny piece of the story, just one small thing, and she cried. What’s going to happen when I tell her all of it? I feel so alone.