Wounded

I have no ideas today.  It’s easier to admit it and after that admission to start.

I’m very worried.  There is the election in the United States.  I don’t know which you prefer, but I believe Donald Trump is going to kill us all. (A day after I began this post, there is less uncertainty.)

I have a big sore on my arm.  It is a bacterial infection.  Skin infections are very common in children here.  I don’t know why I get sick with them although I’m an adult. It is very disgusting.  And besides, I feel sick.  My body hurts.  I’m tired.  I feel like sleeping.  The wound will heal, but I’m not happy to feel sick.

These are my complaints.  The complaints are real.  I am really worried about the election.  I don’t like the wound on my hand.

But also I believe that my emotions are the results of past experiences when I tried to be seen and to be recognized.

I’m talking about disorganized attachment and abusive relationships that distort my thoughts and expectations. I am more aware of my little problems because I feel hurt. I feel hurt because I was hurt in the past when I tried to be seen and to be recognized most likely by my parents and my mother in particular.

I mean we anticipate that the past will happen again in the same way as it has before and the anticipation is so strong that we see the wounds before they are inflicted.

But why did my mother hurt me?