The Last Groundhog Day

It looks like a duck, waddles like a duck, feels like a duck, and quacks like a duck. It must be a duck. Unless I’m the duck. In which case I’ll stare at my duck face and powder my beak in the mirror, ruffle up my feathers, and in my best Donald voice PROCLAIM, “I’m certainly NOT a duck.” I’m the exception. For years AND years... like 32, Ive lived this Groundhog Day. I’ve only memorized the storyline - it’s not MY storyline. If it was, I’d have to feel it. If I felt it, that would mean that it played a part in who I had become. That it has effected me. 

No! Not me!! I’m strong. I am the resilient one! (Insert hair flip here) For years I thought that honoring my past abuse (9.5 years of emotional/physical/sexual abuse) would make me powerless. I thought that seeing my struggle as a neurological injury would only shine a light on what makes me weak. I thought because God didn’t create me with CPTSD it just didn’t exist. Not accepting its existence would relinquish it of any type of power... I WAS WRONG!!! 

Not validating it’s place, calling it what it is, and learning about it’s true nature and place in my life robbed me of empowerment and gave place to self medicating with alcohol. When I drank I CERTAINLY didn’t feel any CPTSD symptoms... but I also didn’t feel anything else. I’m here to say, watch the frick out devil. Momma has her game face on and she’s getting wise. I’m picking up and taking my sword back to the beginning. I’m machete-ing the crap out of that root, one layer at a time. You don’t even know what’s coming (i mean neither do i) but it’s on its way, beeotch. The Groundhog is dead to me.