Lizzy Burnam 🐞

I used to be a lot more open about the specifics of my trauma than I am now. I stopped, because at some point, I realized it was only attracting voyeurs and sociopaths; they liked hearing all the gory details, while somehow convincing themselves that they were coming to my rescue.

There were also times I used it to my advantage, soliciting pity and charity when I was worried about being abandoned. But that didn’t feel right either. I decided I’d rather be chosen for my strengths than coddled for my weaknesses. 

Part of me might always feel like a hurt child. I want support and sympathy as much as anyone. And I understand that the squeaky wheel gets the grease. But I also don’t want to make a spectacle of my pain, as I have in the past.

I’m not saying it’s better to suffer in silence, but I think it’s important to be discerning about who you share your trauma with, and what you do with it after the fact, because opening up to the wrong person can kick you right back into the hole you just worked so hard to crawl out of.

The hardest part about asking for help is knowing who to ask for help from. Some people will expect you to taxidermy your pain and display it behind glass, grotesque and stagnant like a rotten tooth you never pull out of your mouth. Others will help you compost your pain, give it a proper burial, and use it to nurture some sort of life. 

I don’t have the authority to say which option is right or wrong. I’m not even sure I’ve successfully managed to do either. Learning how to trust others has been a lot more difficult than learning how to trust myself. But I want to choose life, as much as I can. 

I love everybody so much already. I’m just so scared of all the ways we can’t help but hurt each other. 

Anyway, I painted this in a bit of a fervor today. “Avoidant Attachment.” Acrylic on canvas. Almost used up all my googly eyes.