To My PTSD

I only discovered that I had you a year ago, yet I already wish I could give you cement shoes and toss you in the ocean. Life is hard with you: going to stores is hard, being around people (even those that I love dearly) is hard, sleeping is hard.

Part of me hates you, hates what you've done to me. You've been a part of me since childhood and that had changed me so drastically that I can't help but mourn the child I could have been. Despite all that, I care for the child I was, and by proxy I care for you. Unfortunately, there's no turning back, there's no way to see what I could have been like if not for you. No matter how much I despise you, I have to love you for making me who I am today.

It's strange, paradoxical even, that I can say "I love you" to something that has given me flashbacks, depression, anxiety, and panic attacks. It doesn't make sense for me to love something that makes regular outings terrifying, yet here I am, loving you. You're something that must be cared for, coddled, and loved. I can see you for what you are: you're just protecting the me that couldn't forget. So, PTSD, in spite of how difficult life is for me because I have you, thank you for what you've done for me.