I spend a lot of time ruminating over the events of my childhood and those surrounding my dad's death. It returns, repeatedly, without choice. That's the nature of trauma from emotional abuse. And the impact when it's at its worst is frightening and can put me at risk.
Recovery's often a case of one step forward, two steps back. You occasionally make leaps apparently from nowhere, though progress is fragile, particularly when you've been conditioned to take the blame, or made to feel your pain's only real if the person who causes it can see it.
I hope this doesn't sound conceited, but yesterday, as I lay in the garden mulling it over, a statement came fully-formed in my head. And though I'd heard it before, at that moment, it had clarity:
"It's not your fault. You did your best. And if your dad were here, he'd see it."
I can't understate what a massive shift this is. And last night, I had a glass of wine to celebrate it. I know I'm likely to often forget it, but it'll still be somewhere below the surface. That can only be progress: thank fuck for that.