Sometimes, stories don’t run in a straight line. . .they stagger, and you remember things in fragments as the past comes into the light of the present. Similarly, rather than just immediately continuing on with the story of how my sister and I left our home, I am going to talk about grief and self care and the courage it brings in today’s post.
The way I keep the demons of my past and the things that I could worry about in the present that I have no control over at bay involves self-care. I have found that for me, self care has developed out of trial and error, and like most things, comes from a combination of success and failure.
I cannot remember the sexual abuse I experienced from the age of 1–8. I could not figure out why my childhood during these years my dad was my primary caregiver for the most part were fragmented pieces — moments if you will: memories of my amazing great-grandfather, rolling out sugar cookies on Christmas Eve, my parents fighting, and of my mother’s depression. I…
