It gets better. I know this is likely obvious to some, but for a long time, I didn’t believe that. I was certain that things would never get better. Harm and negative events infect the brain. Seeping it of any hope for development, mapping it instead to insecurity and fear. It’s only constants. It convinces you that there is no hope, that this feeling will be all you can ever have. It was deafening. But the silence now burns in a new way. The recognition that I didn’t need to live that way. The sorrow of what I’ve lost. Of how many never see better. Always living their life shrouded. But I can only save myself. Not you, not my mother, only myself. Which I must.
I still have concerns, but noticing the smaller things means progress. As I improve the smaller pains that used to not reach my radar are now able to. My broken spine now healing; leaving space to recognize the many other smaller wounds, and to give them attention as well. And though at times it may seem like I will never be done, too many wounds to count, but I’m okay with that. I want myself to look back on this and feel unrecognizable to the person writing this. This is my benchmark. I have much further to go.
You have much further to go. You are only just beginning.