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Jul 2017
They told me what didn't **** me would make me stronger.
They lied.
What didn't **** me made me damaged,
Defective, unable to function at "acceptable" levels.
Traumatic experiences didn't build some great wall to fortify my resolutions in life
Instead, they shook my foundations with ferocity,
Slashing cracks down my walls, crumbling rooms to rubble

They planted bombs for later,
Little surprises once the aftershocks faded
With triggers tucked away safe, wrapped up like gifts.

No, what didn't **** me made me want to disappear
Over, and over, and over.
And even almost 7 years later,
There are still detonators being uncovered.

Sure, now I know the paths to avoid
The piles of broken memories, loneliness, and displacement
To keep out of sight.
And still,
There are some days, but mostly nights
When the bombs go off in succession
And I have to bring myself back from the dark
Over. And over. And over.

And there are some nights
Where I'm the one holding the switch
I'm the one willing my world to explode into shrapnel.
And someone else has to bring me back
Over. And over.

They lied.
What doesn't **** you doesn't make you stronger,
It makes you a survivor, even if you sometimes don't want to survive.
And it leaves you with the scars every survivor bears,
Seen and unseen.
Sometimes it genuinely surprises me what sets me off (and what makes me want to crawl up under rock).
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