Update...sort of
So. Here we are. A bit later than expected. A bit more tired. I have been struggling with exactly what to write next. Because a lot has happened. That being said, one thing stands out. For most if not all of my childhood I grew up with an innate sense of wrongness. I was convinced and told in varying ways, if not directly, that I was wrong and needed to be fixed. Special classes, braces, doctors, tests, and specialists proved this. I became an expert at hiding my cracks and broken parts so I appeared “fixed”. I was still broken but in an acceptable way that could be understood. Coping mechanisms abound. Grinning and bearing it because it was probably this or that. I was “fixed” to an acceptable level. I worked twice as hard in College. Twice as hard at masking. Twice as hard at finding remedies for the PTSD, depression, and anxiety that seem to influence my daily life. My family was convinced that I was okay and unbroken. Part of me, that niggling voice in the back of ...