I know, with increasing precision, what I want my life to contain. Meaningful work. Financial ease. A home that feels expansive and alive. Books everywhere. A table with people around it. Work that travels further than I do. Time to think. Time to write.
A crazy part of Complex PTSD is the realization certain events in your life were really traumatic, but you didn’t even consider them as such because they weren’t as bad as everything else you’ve had to survive.