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If you’re a regular reader, you’re probably aware that I spend far too much time immersed deep in the recesses of my jilted brain, working through all kinds of strangeness to eventually end up as a well adjusted human. Or at least that’s the goal.

To be honest, the more work I do, both on myself and in my relationships, I am fear that I’m not making any progress. More often, I feel like I’m simply tearing up the well trodden ground over a mass grave of shame, torment, rage, fear and self-loathing. And, in this careful excavation, I’m stacking the bones into each designated pile, all dysfunction in its place and a place for each variation of dysfunction. I begin to wonder if it’s worth doing at all.

From the distance of time and growth (physical, not emotional), I feel more and more detached from the little girl who went through such things and mashed things down so deeply that the ground could grow over it into a veneer of normalcy. It is beginning to wear on me. The exhuming of the pain doesn’t do anything to purge it, but triggers the only response that’s ever been effective against it: emotionally checking out.

I guess it’s not that bad, as far as coping mechanisms go. It could be worse, I suppose, raging against the long passed experience or self harming. But, it is carrying over into my current emotional state, and good news or bad, I’m finding it difficult to muster any kind of appropriate response. I feel like it’s unfair to those around me, those who can feel correctly, and who feel disappointed when I can’t do the same. I feel like I’m letting them down.