I think about you every day.

I think about you every day. Do you know that?

I think you probably don’t. It’s my biggest fear that you think that I don’t

think about you, every day. You’re in my memories and my stories and my

therapy sessions. So many therapy sessions dedicated to you. It’s all dedicated to you—

not the damage you’ve done, not always, not mostly. Just you, mostly.

How are you feeling how are you doing how unhappy are you really and is it my fault?

I guess that’s really about me, then, and how does that make you feel? Bad, probably.

I worry about you incessantly.

I worry about what I do to you incessantly.

I worry that my life hurts you incessantly.

I worry that my refusal to change my life to better suit you hurts you incessantly.

It scares me, how much I worry. But you scare me, too. You’ve always scared me.

What’s that called? Here I look up the definition of victim, think,

That doesn’t sound right.

But it’s your voice in my head telling me I’ve been neither harmed nor injured,

neither tricked nor duped. It takes effort to acknowledge that

I have been. It takes effort to acknowledge that

I am the victim. I can feel you roll your eyes at that.

I roll mine, too, when my therapist asks,

“How old is that part of you?”

The answer is never now, 31, an adult, grown stable emotionally mature.

I become a child again every Tuesday at 10am. I was a kid once and I am still:

Small. Terrified. Desperate.

Resilient. Brave. Capable of more than I know.

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