Parenting my own autistic child while suffering from Complex PTSD from the trauma of my own childhood as the most important thing in my life is also my biggest trigger, is the hand I was dealt and I don't even have my poker face now in order to do it. I don't even know which face is actually the one I was supposed to have as I have mimicked so many that I lost track of which one might possibly be my own. I literally am an image in one way as I went through a windshield at 23 and they used my driver's licence to figure out what to do with the face I was brought to the hospital with. A copy of a copy,,who relies on being always ready to copy what ever is around that is me, ,the one that Sister Phyllis told me was her wild card, a chameleon to fill what ever sensitive hole that was open in that semester's volatile committee. I loved everyone,,but I was no one. So how does no one help what I have created become who they really are? Perhaps they will teach me who I really am instead.
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The Sound of Crying Hurts My Eyes
- Author Angela Tangent505
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