“Until you bring the unconscious into awareness, it will steer your life, and you will label it destiny.” ~C.G. Jung
I spent a dozen years believing I had fashioned an ideal existence. I earned a “Summa Cum Laude” degree, pursued a respected career in human services, shared my life with a loving husband, and raised two healthy daughters. I thought I had put my past behind me.
Yet, trauma persists. It doesn’t disappear when you ignore it. It lies dormant, like a background application waiting to be activated.
At twenty-one, I exited a decade-long, toxic relationship that had overshadowed my teenage years. I lacked terms like “narcissistic abuse” or “gaslighting” back then; I merely viewed him as a man unable to get his life in order. He went to prison, and I moved on, erecting a fortress around my life.
Then, after twelve years, I faced him again. Let’s refer to him as X.
The Reappearance of the Known
It was not a planned encounter. It was an unexpected meeting that felt electric. Within weeks, the stronghold I had constructed over a decade began to crumble.
I performed the unthinkable: I abandoned my family. I disrupted the tranquility I had cultivated to return to the man who nearly obliterated me as a girl.
From an external viewpoint, it seemed irrational; from an internal perspective, it felt like an irresistible pull. It was a biological “homecoming” for my unhealed nervous system. My mind and body gravitated towards the familiar trauma, disguised as “true love” and a “happily ever after.”
In less than a month, X’s mask slipped. The same jealous tendencies, mind games, and gaslighting resurfaced. But this time, I had changed.
I was now an adult, a mother. I was completing my master’s degree, focusing on abusive relationships, and had spent years in human services.
Then, I experienced a revelation.
The Gaps in the Walls
I vividly recall being in a cramped, shabby apartment—where I relocated to be with X. I wasn’t creating a dream home; I was equipped with a putty knife, repairing holes X had inflicted upon the walls.
As I covered the destruction with spackle, the absurdity struck me. I was a high-achieving professional, teaching others about empowerment and boundaries, yet concealing physical proof of my own collapse. I was attempting to hide the gaps in my life, believing that if the surface appeared unblemished, I wouldn’t have to confront the underlying decay.
My “success narrative” throughout the decade was merely a layer of spackle. I encapsulated achievements over my “younger self,” but ignored the initial trauma, rendering my foundation weak.
At the first encounter with my