sincerely dead
It's not me, it's you
- Jun 17, 2023
- 318
Here it is:
I don't really know how to say all of this, but I feel like I'm drowning and I need a space where someone might actually get it. So I'm trying.
I've survived a lot. I was trafficked. I was born with a deadly liver disease. Later, I had cancer. I've been told more than once I wouldn't survive. But I did. I've fought like hell to stay alive, even when it felt impossible.
About a year ago, I made the hardest decision of my life: I went no contact with my dad. I changed my name, my number, my address — everything — just to feel even a little bit safe. It felt like reclaiming something sacred. Like maybe I could finally build a life of my own.
But then my dog — my heart, my home, my constant — got cancer. And I lost it. I panicked. I broke. And in that moment of desperation, I called my dad. And just like that, he swooped in and paid for her chemo. It looked like help on the surface, but I know it was manipulation. It was him reeling me back in. And it worked.
Now I talk to him seven times a day. I hate it. I feel sick about it. I feel like I betrayed myself, like I let him right back in through the back door of my soul. But I can't seem to cut the cord again. I'm stuck. I know this is what trauma bonding looks like. I know it's Stockholm syndrome. I know it's not really love — it's survival. But knowing doesn't make it easier.
What's worse is that the few people I trusted — my friends — they're over it. They don't understand why I don't just stop. They think I'm choosing this. And their silence feels like another kind of loss. Like I'm grieving two things at once: my autonomy and my support.
The one person who still feels like safety is my therapist. But even that's tangled. He's been a lifeline for me — truly. I've felt more seen and safe with him than I ever have with anyone else. But he's also manipulative as fuck. I know it. There's a kind of control in him that mirrors what I've already survived, and yet, I still crave his care. I still long for those moments in session where it feels like someone might actually stay. I hate how much I need that. And I hate that I can't fully trust it.
I feel like I'm screaming inside a glass room no one else can see into. I just need someone to say: You're not crazy. That this happens. That slipping back doesn't erase all the work I've done. That being trauma-bonded doesn't make me weak — it makes me human.
If you're someone who's been here — or even if you're just someone who's willing to listen without judgment — I could really use a soft place to land.
I don't really know how to say all of this, but I feel like I'm drowning and I need a space where someone might actually get it. So I'm trying.
I've survived a lot. I was trafficked. I was born with a deadly liver disease. Later, I had cancer. I've been told more than once I wouldn't survive. But I did. I've fought like hell to stay alive, even when it felt impossible.
About a year ago, I made the hardest decision of my life: I went no contact with my dad. I changed my name, my number, my address — everything — just to feel even a little bit safe. It felt like reclaiming something sacred. Like maybe I could finally build a life of my own.
But then my dog — my heart, my home, my constant — got cancer. And I lost it. I panicked. I broke. And in that moment of desperation, I called my dad. And just like that, he swooped in and paid for her chemo. It looked like help on the surface, but I know it was manipulation. It was him reeling me back in. And it worked.
Now I talk to him seven times a day. I hate it. I feel sick about it. I feel like I betrayed myself, like I let him right back in through the back door of my soul. But I can't seem to cut the cord again. I'm stuck. I know this is what trauma bonding looks like. I know it's Stockholm syndrome. I know it's not really love — it's survival. But knowing doesn't make it easier.
What's worse is that the few people I trusted — my friends — they're over it. They don't understand why I don't just stop. They think I'm choosing this. And their silence feels like another kind of loss. Like I'm grieving two things at once: my autonomy and my support.
The one person who still feels like safety is my therapist. But even that's tangled. He's been a lifeline for me — truly. I've felt more seen and safe with him than I ever have with anyone else. But he's also manipulative as fuck. I know it. There's a kind of control in him that mirrors what I've already survived, and yet, I still crave his care. I still long for those moments in session where it feels like someone might actually stay. I hate how much I need that. And I hate that I can't fully trust it.
I feel like I'm screaming inside a glass room no one else can see into. I just need someone to say: You're not crazy. That this happens. That slipping back doesn't erase all the work I've done. That being trauma-bonded doesn't make me weak — it makes me human.
If you're someone who's been here — or even if you're just someone who's willing to listen without judgment — I could really use a soft place to land.
