My Life Isn't a Story Book?

I spent the first half of my life entranced with the idea that my life was simply a book, my psychiatrist later told me it was a "trauma response." I narrated each move made, each emotion felt to the most minute of detail. People would assume I had ADHD, when in reality I was just mulling over the overwhelming wall of text that had become my life. I was 23 when my psychiatrist told me, while I sat sequestered in my room at the mental hospital, about the book theory.

"It was easier for you to deal with the reality of your situation as a child facing horrific scenarios if you thought you could be fictional. Part of you would not allow yourself to accept that real people could possibly be so cruel. So upsetting. So, you hid away from it, that's what we see a lot of the time with childhood traumas of this level." His cold analysis of the situation was oddly calming, and all too familiar. He came to see me every day and this was now my 11th day here. He hoped to release me soon, something I found myself fearing greatly.

"So, it's normal to have that?" I asked while crossing the room to my journal in order to rifle through with no clear intent.

My psychiatrist cleared his throat slowly before beginning "Well, not so much 'normal' as expected. It's not considered within the parameters of a 'healthy' brain, but it is a natural response to the trauma you experienced."

"Oh, thank you, Doctor...See you tomorrow?" At that he left the room leaving me to start writing the story of my life for the millionth time since leaving my mother's house. I never get past grade school, but I continue to do it for myself. I have never allowed anyone to read it, despite it being quite a wild ride. I always seemed to get writers block when writing about it all, it felt like a lack luster therapy visit as I moved through the motions of my past.

I remember spending time alone simply narrating my life in my head as tears would well up in my eyes. I would often feel the fear come up like acid reflux as I pondered the thought that maybe, just maybe what I experienced was "real". I found it nearly unfathomable that someone could be as cruel as those that I had experienced. It burned to think that those who hurt me, were actually the same as me, that they were human and the worst monsters are all human. All so tangible.

I imagined myself to be invincible, just the edge I needed to get me through the hot coals of my traumas. Come to think of it, I often wonder how I made it to adulthood alive, something I failed to appreciate in the moment. I would leave the house in which most of my traumas took place at twelve, causing a divergence from my usual script as the savior. I no longer had a purpose to protect my family, all I wanted was to die at some point, I want to say around thirteen was when it really peaked.

I felt as though I was the damaged heroin in a story created on some unknown authors desk as they worked through sleepless nights. I found myself rather enjoying my attempts to envision the author of my book, to understand what they may be like, may look like. I would complete chores thinking of how it must feel to be real, how it must feel to be a writer, to be free. My reality just seemed far too horrific to be a reality on so many levels, put simply, I needed an escape.