Memory loss sucks ass sometimes. There’s a thousand things you can’t remember about your own childhood, a thousand times you were let down and you can’t prove it. Subtle or overt manipulation, gaslighting, and an inability to identify or process those things leading to having near nothing left of who you used to be. Time over time you keep finding yourself in friendships that emulate the emotional abuse, sometimes trapping you in like a spider and nearly destroying any support network you had with other friends. Keeping you isolated by framing everyone who wasn’t chosen by them as disrespectful, out to get you, or some sort of undefined evil trait that they never really took the time to understand themself, much less explain to you. Time and time again, you have to reinvent yourself to feel normal again. And yet somehow, your most recent understanding of your reinventions makes you a part of that undefined evil. You’re doing it wrong, because you don’t go to a therapist to get the thing that saved your life “diagnosed” and “cured”. You’re happy to have the reinvention happen, and now that you’re aware of it, you sometimes induce it in an attempt to help yourself function better under light of new stress. Your past reinventions still live inside you, and they care for you in ways that nobody outside your own mind could. You’re alive, because of them. But nobody wants to hear about it. Nobody wants the joy of you being loved. Nobody wants you to be happy or comfortable cohabitating with your reinventions. You need “cured”, even if the reinventions became the cure the moment you realized they could love you and they realized they could love you.
If the “cure” is to kill the people who have loved me for all the things I am hated for, I don’t want it.