After years of destroying my skin in times of
desperation/crisis/ stress, I thought that I’d managed to replace it with better/healthier/ safer coping methods. I thought I had finally started to stabilise.
I should have known better.
I’ve been thinking about things that have happened to me a lot lately, and I have realised that I am stranded, stuck, lost, alone in this world now.
My parents, as much as I love them dearly, have no idea about what I’ve been through, and wouldn’t (couldn’t) understand if they did.
My friends don’t understand why I am not the same, why I am not the old me. They have noticed that I am not miraculously better, even after being given time and space.
The only one who does know, is the one that left me like this, and they don’t care. They just went back to their life, to their family, to their friends and just cast me aside.
I don’t know if the fact that they can all go about their lives being the same, being steady, being them, makes me mad or sad.
Yeah, it’s both.
Is toxicity transferable? Does it run through the veins of those it poisons, to be then passed on to their children?
Or, is it just a case of toxicity being contagious? One person is patient zero, then it spreads to whom ever they come into contact with?
Or, can the same argument be said for it, as the old nature vs. nurture debate? Is it the environment that surrounds them, or how they were raised?
Or, is it everything and none of it? Bits and pieces of all of us soaked in it, choosing whether or not to let it define us?
Maybe it’s all of them. Who really knows, except toxicity itself?
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