Normal

``` I know it happened.
I don’t know exactly what. I don’t know all the details. Probably never will.

I know it happened. I have the marks. I have the scars. Not on the body, but on my mind Not on the skin, but in my soul

I have the traits:
The self loathing.
The self deprecation, the blunted emotions. Parts at war deep inside.

I have the traits I don’t like crowds.
Don’t let people get too close. They only betray, and let you down.

I have the traits I won’t engage. Always wary.
Threat analysis.

I have the traits The blank periods of dissociation. Numbed emotions. Faceblindness.
The autistic traits, the ADHD traits.

I know it happened.
My T tells me, "It happened.
Why would you make up THIS kind of story"

And yet... and yet...

Some part of me says, "It wasn't so bad." Some part of me says, "You're making mountains out of molehills." Some part of me says, "Others had it far worse."

It is not a contest. There is no prize for “Best Trauma Survivor” No prize for “Regional Worst Trauma” Even if Trauma Survivor is the main part of your self identity.

And so I go back to the evidence:
The nightmares, the change in behaviour, the "normal" childhood that others tell me isn't normal.

(Have you ever told a funny story, A story from your childhood That time that you mother had to write Write to to the Capital, ask the question “When was my child born?” “Please, kind sir, when was he born?” “What day did he spring from my womb?” “What day should we celebrate” “Our thanks for his presence with us”

(It mattered not. No rejoicing No one cared when I came It hit me when I watched TV A cake with candles set before one, Who blew them out. And I realized that I don’t remember I don’t remember ever doing thing.”

Because she couldn’t remember my birthday? And you didn’t know either?

You tell the story, a funny tale You tell the story, mocking yourself. You tell the story to get a chuckle.

And are met with silence. Are met with the Great Pause And a sudden change of subject.) And you know once again You are not normal.

We didn't celebrate my birthday. Is that odd?

We didn't celebrate my achievements. My parents were sick a lot.

But I wasn't criticized for mediocre grades. They had more important things to do.

I never got in trouble. That would be a burden My parents had many burdens. I was one. And it would get attention. Getting noticed is bad. Getting noticed is pain.

I don't remember hugs from my dad.
I do remember wanting to impress him. I remember wanting his, “Well done” Wanting his approval.

I don’t remember many hugs from mom either. I do remember her judgement. I do remember the putdowns, The small deprecations that became so normal They slid like water off an otter’s back.

It's normal to dress your own wounds, right? It’s not strange to never brush your teeth, is it? It’s not strange to wash your own clothes Starting at age 12. Or was that 11?

It’s ok as a kid, to not spend money.
Don’t most kids take a buck to summer camp, And come home with most of it unspent? (Candy bars were a nickel then)

My paper route money that first month Purchased a slide rule. Then a bicycle. For the next year it was saved. Save only what I shelled out for hot lunch at school. And buying most of my own clothes.

That’s normal, right?

I never learned how I was wrong. I never learned why I disappointed. (Not very often I can use that verb Transitive and in active voice) All I knew was “Not Good Enough”

I don’t think I wanted their love. I didn’t know what love was. But you could have accepted me. Accepted me for who I was.
Accepted me for what I was. Maybe ask me what I dreamed.