As a child of divorce, I am Outstanding at Packing.

I am sitting on the floor of the shower, sobbing silently. I can't shake my feelings and I can't shower them away. The music blaring from the speaker is protecting me from my crying being heard. 

Years of trauma therapy, topic by topic, and still I struggle packing up my stuff- which could be just a toothbrush and hairbrush. The coming and going, the back and forth weekend after weekend from a young age has caused me irreparable harm. I have tried numerous times to 'get over it' but so far I have failed. Overnight bags, suitcases, and clearing all evidence of my existence is what my brain tells me even when it's not true. 

My friend reminds me how I used to bolt from my boyfriend's apartment in the early hours of the morning. Either I couldn't sleep or I would wake with a jolt. I always felt panicky if I stayed too long. Hiding it on weekends with long walks and excessive book reading when I couldn't leave. What if they stayed at mine? I needed to see no evidence of their existence, not a bag, not even a razor. 

It made it easier for me when they went home or left for good.

Left for good. 

That used to make so much more sense to me. I used to feel so much safer if they could just get it over with and end things. 

Without realising and absolutely not consciously or intentionally, I would pick a fight or behave in a way that would make them feel insecure. They never believed I was committed. Committed back then meant 'faithful'. I gave the most I could, and today that is not a comfortable memory. 

They dated a ghost.

You see I never felt welcomed at my Friday to Sunday home. The room where I slept felt like a spare room where I had no belongings, no clothing left behind except for something outgrown. The room where I slept Monday to Friday was not a safe space.

I always had to pack a case, unpack, pack again, unpack again.

It may or may not be true, but I only recall my yellow toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet that would come out for the weekend and return to its spot on the shelf Sunday morning. A little reminder for me that I existed somewhere else, but I felt my dad never thought about me when I wasn't there.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Here I am, significantly older, and this scar always comes back to haunt me and I don't want to be this person. I don't want to feel this pain. I want to be whole and healthy and have the past be just that. Instead, I am 6 years old again and I am sad, distressed and hurting. The upside of being a child going back and forth between homes and moving house too many times is that I am outstanding at packing.

I could pack up my house today and I would find it cathartic.

When it happens I have to catch my breath, message a friend, breathe through the nausea. I don't want to spend another second crying from my past trauma, and if I could, I would turn back time and take the toothbrush with me.

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