Every time I move- and it’s way too often- I have a surge of wishing. Like someone is going to magically appear and take me home, wherever that is. It’s merely the last vestiges of the childhood rescue complex. It’s tediously common for adult survivors, and it’s a difficult one to shed. Our culture perpetuates the idea, like prince fucking charming is going to come sweep us off our feet and solve all our problems.
I know no rescue is coming. I waited a very long time- my entire childhood in fact. It’s a beautiful myth, but a waste of time. Instead, I’ll finish packing, and move on to another chapter. I haven’t been too fond of this one, but I’ve certainly had worse. At least I’m not being preyed upon, or sexually abused, and hopefully I’m too old and hyper-vigilant to ever get raped again.
I know how to rescue myself, how to ask for help, how to check myself in when things crash like they did 5 years ago. It’s more scary when I don’t feel like I can talk, and I just want to hide the depression. It’s humiliating having panic attacks all the time, and people are often assholes about it.
Fuck, I’m just taking a deep breath and jumping, and hoping for the best. I did what I could, everything will be fine. Everything will be fine.