Thoughts Over Coffee via @survivingchildhoodtrauma ☕️
The other day on a whim I responded to a story tag on Instagram that gives direction on a photo to share. I shared one of the few photos I have of myself as a child, I’d say I was around 2 or 3 years old.
Born Into Trauma
That sweet little girl had already learned how to adjust herself to the emotional abuse and neglectfulness of her father, just a few years later she would be fully groomed and actively abused by her grandfather.
Her trauma compounding over the continued years of abuse and neglect without proper support or safety.
A tragic, infuriating, and senseless story. 💔 A story that I am still learning to connect to; she is me even though I don’t really remember her.
You’re Not Alone
I can’t keep up with the messages I am receiving from so many of you who don’t recognize yourselves in your childhood photos either, or who don’t have many/any photos at all.
For so many of us, our childhoods are filled with black holes leaving our memories broken, scattered, and confusing. These blank spaces rob us of connections to our younger selves, and of continuity in our lives.
I can’t remember anything about my entire 6th grade year. I can’t remember what school I went to, my teacher, any of my friends, where I lived, nothing.
I look at photos of myself as a young child and I don’t remember myself at that age. I know it is me, but I don’t remember looking like that, or owning the clothes I am in.
I don’t know exactly how to explain it; I don’t think anything quite summarizes the feeling of looking at yourself as a child and not recognizing who you are, does it?
Sometimes I am grateful for the memories that have been lost to time and dissociation, other times I grieve deeply for the lost connection to my memories of myself as a child. 🥺
The older I get the more I must accept that time is not my friend in this regard.
There is a lot of grief work in trauma healing and this is part of it. I am walking with you brave warrior. 🔥
On goes the journey 💪🏻
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