I was always expected to be present.

Regardless of the weather, how I was physically (or emotionally) feeling, or whatever was going on in my life, I was expected to be at school every single day.

While PTSD still blocks the first eight years of my life, I can clearly remember that from age eight and beyond, Monday through Friday was for school and Sunday was for church- no excuses.

However, my trauma consumed every fiber of my being. It impacted my home life, prohibited me from focusing in school, and forced a relationship with God and me. And, yes, I do mean forced. My initial attendance at church was because my mother believed that it was the place for me to be. She had a friend, Mrs. Ida, pick me up every week because she (my mom) didn’t drive and worked every Sunday. It was Mrs. Ida who held my hand and escorted me down the aisle to be baptized. My mother was not present when I made that walk, and I’m not too sure that she was there when I got baptized, but she made sure that no matter what- unless I was dead or dying- that I was present for service each week.

In hindsight, not only did my brother steal my innocence and my voice, but he also stole my choice. From the first time he illegally violated my body, until just last month (some 32 years later), I have lived my life to please others, choosing to do what I believed would make them happy because I stupidly believed that my joy was linked to theirs. However, that line of thinking left me exhausted, depressed, and overweight- literally and figuratively speaking. Today, I desire nothing more than to be free from those thoughts and feelings. I desire to be free from the urging to always do what is asked of me, with no boundaries and an annoying inability to say NO.

Even as I type this, the tears flow without limit. My mind is recalling 32 years of active memories, and all I see are moments when I silently broke under the weight of pleasing others. One compromise here and there seems inconsequential, but over time, it becomes debilitating. I sacrificed who I could have become to be the Michelle that everyone desired me to be. I may have been dying on the inside, but at least I was present.

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Fast forward to today.

There are moments when I sit in judgment of those who are not present when the slightest situation arises in their lives. I remember when I was a teenager, my best friend lost her grandmother, and I could not understand her tears. One, her grandmother (may she rest in peace) was that typical, less-than-nice Christian mother that you hear so much about. In one breath, she’d look you up and down in judgment, and in the next, she’d pray for you. Two, I had lost all of my grandparents at a young age, and I was fine, so I couldn’t understand why my best friend wasn’t, too. Even as an adult (as recent as a few weeks ago), I could not understand why students stopped showing up to school when their parents divorced. My father had walked out on my mother when I was four years old, and I still went to school. In fact, I had perfect attendance until about my sophomore year of high school, and I was on the honor roll. So, why couldn’t they be present?

I inaccurately saw their trauma through my own very warped lenses and equated my [forced] presence (often perceived as strength) as a marker to determine that all others could and should be present in the midst of their own storms. However, my trauma, though similar in some ways and different in others, was not better or worse than someone else’s. This was not a competition or some weird measuring stick of “betterness”; this was someone’s known world being turned upside down. Their reality changed in the blink of an eye, and it was traumatic for them. I was present out of obligation, not out of true desire. My trauma was a lot for me, and theirs was/is a lot for them. We were different; no competition needed.

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At present, I sit in spaces where just my presence brings immense joy to others, and I wonder how I even ended up here. The distinction between what I actually love and what I’ve been made to believe I love is nonexistent. Months on my journey with medication for my ADHD have revealed that I am still identifying who I am after decades of wearing a mask for the appeasement of others.

Who am I when I am not living to satisfy the desires of someone else?
Who am I when I don’t respond to the challenges of others, but instead the calling on my life?
Who am I if those who once were near leave because I no longer live to please them?
Who am I?

We are 47 days into the new year, and I can honestly say that my own identity is somewhere beneath the mess of my life, and I just pray that God will reveal the real M.E. to me… and soon. In the meantime, I will simply do what I do best- be present- and trust that God will do the rest.

Be blessed.