The power of letting go of childhood trauma.

I watched the waves crash against the side of the ferry as it skirted between the two Thai islands that I had spent most of my summer. This trip must have been my fifth between the two islands. The sky was clear, but there was subtle violence to how the waves smacked the boat pushing it side to side as it jetted on the crystal blue ocean. I was seated on the second tier, alone, which had never happened before. And I stared out the window; I realized that all the pain, suffering, abuse, torment, and healing was me. I understood it, and maybe it was due to the moment of zen, but nonetheless, in this very moment, as tears streamed down my eyes, I felt that I had finally done it. I’d let go.

I spent most of my 32 years of life to that point being angry at the world. And why wouldn’t I be? Anyone who came from where I came from would be too. Not to mention that statistically, I should be dead or in jail. It’s mindboggling that a zip code can determine so much of your path in life. I sought refuge from myself more often than not, drinking and smoking myself numb. I rather enjoyed the nothingness that came from it, anything to not feel the torment. And that worked until it didn’t, and when it stopped, I understood that I would have to deal with some shit.

Fast forward a lot of years, therapy, and money later.