When I Was You

by Minka Kent

Bad people don’t sit around thinking about all the ways that make them bad.

Now I know with absolute certainty that people are selfish. They lie. Cheat. Steal. Hurt. Manipulate. Keep secrets. Wear proverbial masks. Even kill. Some of us can’t help but be self-serving, letting our egos and ids drive the car as we sit powerless in the passenger seat.

But once the body’s fight-or-flight response is engaged, there’s no shutting it off until the threat to safety has been removed—something I’ve learned during my recovery.

I’m convinced somewhere, deep down, that version of me is still in there. I’m still working on digging her out from beneath the pile of psychological rubble and emotional ash. I haven’t given up—it’s just taking longer than I expected.

That seems to be a theme in my life . . . people leaving without explanation.

People get too comfortable living with their own assumptions. I’m convinced most of us prefer to shun the truth for reasons of our own.

“Money talks, wealth whispers,” and it’s a motto I’ve always tried to live by.

“Kate, you have what’s called dissociative identity disorder.”

My stepmom once told me that privilege is an illusion.

it almost feels like I’m outside my body, watching all this from somewhere else, but I continue on, undeterred.

In the end, it’ll all be okay. And if it isn’t okay, it isn’t the end.

They say a brush with death will do that to a person: give them a new lease on life, prompt them to make drastic changes and do the things that once terrified them.