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The last thing I had during the 18 years of my abusive infant-childhood was freedom.  I was born my mother’s captive as much as I was born her victim.  If that had not been so, I don’t suppose I would have such thoughts while making myself a big bowl of guacamole and slicing a bagel to toast as, “Gee, I am choosing to make this food because I want to.  I am free to choose when and what I want to eat.”

This thought led to a next one, “Hum.  Maybe I can learn to pay close attention to everything I do at the same time I notice if I am doing what I REALLY WANT to do.  Is what I am doing more toward being harmful or healthy?”

That process is what inching toward freedom is about.  True, I’ve been out from under my mother’s roof for a good long time, 41 years, actually.  But my inner freedom didn’t come with my step off into adulthood.  I work for it every day of my life.  Every moment.  Every inch.  This is true for all the reasons I included in my previous post about how trauma changes physiological development for the lifespan.

The older I have gotten the more limited my range of ‘motion’ seems to be due to the difficulties these developmental changes have caused me.  But cancer didn’t kill me off and I am still here for another round at this event called life.  There ought to be something useful I can yet accomplish while I enjoy doing it.  I am certainly inching my way in that direction, even if it’s one avocado, one tomato, one bagel at a time!

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