Nine years ago I embarked on a journey that would completely and utterly change my life and send me into a spiralling cascade of horror while simultaneously putting me onto a path of happiness.
It's difficult to say whether or not I would change any of it, if given the chance, due to the eventual outcomes.
My path to happiness often has cracks in it, some bigger than others. These hurdles take my mind back to the fear, the self-hatred, the loneliness of those times all those years ago.
The damage to my sweet little brain was catastrophic and I sit here, almost in tears, as I recall some of the worst of it.
The holes in the walls will never be adequately filled, just as the holes in my brain will remain open.
I so often wish, so often dream that I could pour my heart out to that vile monster and scream until my throat tears itself apart; but then I remember how much he enjoyed my screams.
My futility. The control he could exert.
And still, almost a decade on I feel that press. I cry those tears.
I battle with a mind torn between what I thought was normal and a mind striving to reach a surface that tells me that all below is wrong.
This is a never ending fight and I don't understand how I have continued. How I stand every day. How I buy milk. And all of a sudden I feel like the nightmares of my youth were a warning.
Milk on a damaged brain.
Lying down is not an option. If I were to fail, others would have to cease the existence I have maintained for them for the last decade. Sometimes it's so hard to do what is right.
I look at the photos on the wall in front of me. Smiling faces and a happy family. A world I have created through this struggle. And somehow, through the pain, I can be thankful for one thing.
Thankful enough that I couldn't change the screams or the fear or the futility, though I wish with all my might that it could release me and my world. My happy, little bubble. I just want freedom.