A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Blind-folded, and spun until I was dizzy,
but this was no pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey,
no pinata full of little candies. A maze
like something from dystopian fiction,
a shape-shifting labyrinth mined with traps,
and losing my way here meant losing myself. 
Stockholm syndrome of sorts: this intricate
escape room must be my fault, and somehow
I appreciate your apparent efforts to make
this dangerous quagmire feel like home,
as though that is the best I deserve, as though
it’s normal to spend every day fighting off insecurities
like humming mosquitoes, carrying shame like a day-pack.
Constant empathy, constant sympathetic activation.
Fight or flight gave way to freeze and fawn 
once my subconscious learned it could neither
win the contested strength check, nor run fast enough.
I remember fighting off the guilt
as I tentatively shared my story, I know 
you will see this as betrayal, but I tried
to protect you (benefit of the doubt, 
unconditional positive regard) and if just one,
if a single friend had told me I was deluded,
over-reacting, I think I would have believed them,
retreated back into my cage.  Not one.
The only ones I’ve seen are your performance checks.