I am still struggling with the concept that I was left to fumble in the dark for 46 years of my life not knowing I lived with a disability or what it was, having no emotional support to deal with the enormity of it and being exposed to each of its elements.
Knowing about my disability now instead of when I was a child isn’t resting with me. Being alone with those thoughts isn’t easy. The realisation of what happened and the concealment involved never leaves.
Although I know why, it still doesn’t help. Perhaps I need to stop thinking about whether I will get over it and tell myself it happened, so I’m okay with it and so I can find a place. I still have a long way to go.
My story isn’t something you just get over given the time concerned, but is something I must reconcile. This is where my writing helps: but I’m still not sure I ever will.