Feeling very much like my life is so piecemeal it’s impossible.
I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately: how compartmentalized it’s become.
Sometimes compartmentalizing can be a good thing, sometimes not so much.
A coping mechanism?
A tool to succeed?
A method to hide?
If it hasn’t been somewhat obvious, amongst my many issues lurks childhood trauma. Too often, I feel moved or motivated to share about that and I have to stop myself. Why? Well, for starters, there are members of my family who would be hurt to hear the truth and I just can’t do that to them.
The funny part about that is what it does to me. Keeping everything to myself and trying to get along with “extended family me,” “immediate family me,” “relationship me,” “me me,” “writer me,” and so on leaves me feeling like I am constantly struggling to please everyone but myself. Always weighing the pros and cons and always choosing for the greater immediate good rather than for my own mental health. There are little pieces of me scattered all about and lately I’m just sitting here wondering if I wouldn’t be better served by pulling them all in together and finally being able to feel whole.
What’s any of that mean? I don’t freaking know. I really don’t.