Leaving — a severance of forty-four years

Leaving — a severance of forty-four years

I’m preparing to leave. This isn’t one of those posts about a new chapter full of hopeful turns. It’s cleaner — and crueler — than that. When I say I’m severing the past forty-four years, I mean exactly that: a final, necessary cut. I don’t want to look back because looking back only brings pain now.

There was a time when my life looked full of color and beauty. Even with trauma and all the nonsense I’ve lived through, I could once see light in the edges. Those colors have gone. When I think of my life — from childhood into adulthood — what comes up first is the hurt: being left, being dropped, hospital rooms where no one stayed, the feeling of abandonment threaded through everything. The brightness has faded until all that’s left is the damage.

I’ve started to map everything and it all looks the same: rooted in trauma. It’s rooted in being left. It’s rooted in feeling disposable and transactional. That’s not an exaggeration or a mood — it’s the lens I see my life through now. Every kindness, every attempt at connection eventually returns to that same place. I can’t pretend otherwise.

That lens has broken my ability to pair-bond. I know it’s damaged — extensively. The smallest thing can trigger me: a misremembered color, a cancelled plan, a quiet space that used to feel warm and now feels like the beginning of being dropped. With me it’s either all or nothing; the tiniest hiccup and I feel erased. I can’t keep pretending my reactions are proportional when they’re wired into survival.

So I’m done fighting to be in other people’s lives. I used to believe. I used to fight for people, to be present and to insist on being part of someone else’s story. I’ve learned that no one has ever fought as fiercely to keep me in theirs. That realization changed me. I refuse, now, to lift a finger to be part of another person’s life if it means exposing myself to the next inevitable abandonment. It’s not courage; it’s a boundary born from being shattered too many times.

This isn’t self-pity. It’s a statement of fact. I’m naming the damage so I can act from clarity. Leaving isn’t simply a physical exit — it’s an act of preserving what’s left of me. It’s a refusal to keep bleeding into spaces that won’t hold me. Severing forty-four years doesn’t mean erasing memory or pretending none of it mattered; it means choosing not to be defined by the ways I was harmed.

If this reads as raw or angry, it is. If it sounds lonely, that’s true too. I’m not asking anyone to fix it. I’m simply saying what I can’t carry anymore and why I’m letting go.

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