I confess,
my trauma had a hand
in sculpting many facets of my character.
It is the reason I never knew who I was;
I saw myself as the ostracized outcast,
as someone whose company
was grudgingly accepted.
It is the reason I believed myself to be
an inferior human specimen.
I confess
that my trauma
is the reason I hid beneath baggy clothing
and why I had never looked at anyone
with even an ounce of romantic interest...
'least not 'til my early twenties.
It is the reason I would go so far as to
describe myself as gender-fluid
and that I still often feel
that it is clearly safer to be a man.
It is why I am apprehensive of relationships.
It is why I never truly felt safe and secure,
and why I struggle to fall asleep.
I confess,
my early source of anguish
has caused me to create
an elaborate, convoluted labyrinth of thoughts
that has kept me from believing
in my lovability, my deservingness, my worthiness;
a labyrinth that had me presume
that everyone in the world
was deserving of love except for me,
because I was the inferior human.
However,
it is also why I write.
It is also why I desire to,
and have a knack for comforting others.
I confess,
my severe moments of suffering
are also why I never retaliate
when someone verbally accosts me.
It is why I never hesitate to apologize,
or to shower everyone with kindness;
for I don't want others to suffer as I have.
It is why I sympathize and empathize
so effortlessly with those who feel alone.
It's why I question the veracity of rumors
and why I can look through
the caustic outward actions of others
and see the source of internalized pain.
Though many have hurt me,
I have never desired to hurt them back;
I never wish them ill.
And though this means
that I continually fail to stand up for myself,
I never hesitate to stand up for others.
There are plenty of positive aspects
of my character along with a plethora of flaws,
and I have no way of knowing
who I would have been,
what I might have been like
had the damage not occurred;
and I confess,
that I am curious to know.
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