For the past week, I kept going back and forth – should I go, should I not go?
To my cousin’s engagement party, that is.
My husband told me not to. He just wanted to keep me safe.
And even though I’ve been pushing my therapist away lately, I know she would’ve said the same. They both care about me. They didn’t want me walking into a situation that could break me.
But I wanted to show up.
Because I fear that the more I stay away, the more people will stop inviting me.
I imagine them thinking:
“Don’t bother inviting her – she never comes anyway.”
“Waste of an invite.”
Or worse, they choose for me:
“Well, her parents are invited. I won’t invite her – I’m doing her a favour.”
It’s happened more times than I’d like to admit. And while they might think they’re being kind, what they’ve really done is choose my abusers over me. They’ve disregarded my feelings. They’ve excluded me.
And after inviting me:
“Let’s not invite her next time. She’s the mood killer. Brings her heaviness everywhere. Kills the vibe.”
Still, I went.
My parents were going to be there – the same people who abused me my entire life. I haven’t seen them in nearly two years. The whole event felt like navigating an emotional landmine.
My goal was simple: avoid them and try not to get triggered by anyone else’s careless words.
I was just trying to cope. Doing what I do best – pretending the pain isn’t as bad as it really is, just to keep everyone else comfortable.
Because sometimes, pretending is easier than facing the truth:
That no one really gives a shit about me – not in the way I need them to.
I deserve to attend gatherings without being forced to face the people who made me feel like I shouldn’t exist. The ones who convinced me I was worth nothing. Who poisoned every relationship I’ve ever had. Who made it impossible for me to feel like I mattered.
That entire morning, I was on high alert. My nervous system was hijacked.
I even went to the sauna to calm down – it didn’t help.
My body was preparing for war. I knew I might come face to face with my abusers.
When we arrived, I ran upstairs to my cousin’s bedroom – trying to hide, trying not to be seen. My husband guided me gently, trying to protect me.
But even that small act of self-preservation was interrupted by the overwhelming chorus:
“Have you eaten? Come eat! Come eat!”
It was relentless.
They expected me to just walk downstairs, stand near my abusers, and act like everything was fine.
Don’t get me wrong – I appreciate hospitality. But real hospitality is about tuning into someone’s actual needs. Really seeing them.
Not just ticking a mental box that they’ve been fed.
I was in survival mode. Flooded with adrenaline.
I couldn’t taste food even if I tried – my mouth didn’t feel like it belonged to me.
I don’t need a full stomach. I need a full heart.
My husband had said maybe I shouldn’t go. Maybe he was right.
Maybe I am too much for people.
Maybe I ruined someone’s special day by showing up like a storm cloud.
I sat awkwardly in a room full of inside jokes and easy closeness I didn’t belong to – feeling like an idiot.
Maybe everyone would’ve preferred I stayed away, like I usually do.
Then one of my cousins – trying to be empowering – said something like:
“You should just go downstairs, get your food, and live your life. Don’t let them control you.”
On the surface, it sounds like good advice. But that’s not how trauma works.
You don’t just “live your life” when your abuser is a few metres away.
You don’t just “go downstairs” when your nervous system is screaming at you to run.
That’s not weakness – that’s survival.
And hearing advice like that – no matter how well-intentioned – reminded me just how little people understand trauma.
How often we’re told to be strong, when what we really need… is to be safe.
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