Survival Mode—
As a child, I learned to fawn. Every breath was a careful negotiation to appease my mother, her moods like changing weather—sunshine one moment, stormy the next. It was born of her emotional clench, the jagged edge of her words piercing deeper than any physical blow. I danced on the edge of her wrath, longing for her approval, trembling under the weight of a love that twisted and stung.
When passion ignites, I fight. I lash out with words, fierce and unrelenting. It’s a desperate struggle, a wild grasp at hope—an ember in the dark. I contend with the shadows for a glimmer of light, a whisper of possibility. In those moments, I am a warrior, standing firm against the tide, even if the ground is crumbling beneath my feet.
Then, there comes the flight. I recognize when the air has grown too thick, when the light dims, and the shadows draw near. In those final moments of clarity, I abandon the fight. I retreat, silent, slipping away without another word. My heart beats steady and resolute as I leave behind the fray—a ghost walking away from the living. Easily.
As of late, I find myself freezing. When overwhelmed, I slip into a state of dissociation—the world blurring around me, the colors dimming. It’s a dark sanctuary where my mind retreats when the present overstimulates, a barricade against the noise of a life grown too loud. My thoughts feel distant, like echoes, and I am left in the stillness, a husk waiting for the storm to pass.
Like the ebb and flow of healing, life is not linear; neither is survival. I come to each of these with an open-mind, ready to embrace what my soul calls for. I am but a willow tree bending in the breeze, but never breaking. I am a survivor, no matter how you flip the page.
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