I'm not envious by nature. That's not who I am. But sometimes when I get so absorbed into the obscurity of my mind , I can't help but envy a certain category of people. That is, those who never experienced childhood trauma. I wouldn't care if they went through traumatic experiences as adults, for I know that those experiences wouldn't be as psychologically destructive as when they were children.
But God, how I'm I jealous, sometimes, of the people who had a happy, cheerful childhood! The children that lived, instead of survived. The children that felt safe instead of being constantly on guard. The children whose brains developed in a healthy environment, instead of being corrupted and degraded by their homemade toxicity. The children that viewed home as their serene place, instead of their prison, their horror, their worst enemy.
Because, I, my childhood wasn't happy. It was ruined by the terror of my abusive father.
I remember despising even the mere fact of kids holding hands with their...