I Hate the Word Trauma

I hate the word trauma.
I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I haven’t dealt with what others would probably call my own trauma. Most of the time, I think that’s fine. I’m doing okay. But then something happens, and I realise — actually, it’s far from fine.

I want to date, but I don’t think I approach it in the right way. So I shy away from it. How do you move on from what still feels like unfinished business?

Don’t even get me started on the issues with having a toxic parent. Just when you think things are going relatively okay, no major dramas, just getting along the best you can, they’re quietly building their little grenade. And then they launch it when you least expect it.

You’re left wondering if the laughter a few hours ago was genuine, or if you were just being played. You remember why you’re guarded around them. Except there’s always that inner child somewhere, confused, still believing you can trust them because they’re your parent.

How do you explain that to the inner child? You try so hard to make it make sense. But it doesn’t. Because it’s not the way things should be.