Jun 072018
 

Faking it can be easy.
It can also be the absolute most draining thing one will ever do.

It’s like being an actress through most of my waking hours. Smiling when I am spoken to, being polite, saying everything is great, flirting and doing life, in general, all while there is this demon inside of me, telling me I’ve got to beware.

Beware of the guy who said hello, he could rape you, you are a stupid girl, don’t you know?

I have the scars, inside and out. On my wrist too many to count. I am the pale girl who has had too much sun in an attempt to appear a little more healthy. My eyes are often glistening bright from the tears I hold back, or dark and soulless as I give up the fight.

The house is trashed, and I mean trashed because my motivation is lacking. I look around and see the piles of stuff, the dust and I know it’s a fast job to do but can’t make myself do it. I write the lists and those do help. Seeing the checked off boxes of things seems to be a decent motivator.

My meds keep me overweight, so it’s more than easy for me to pass on food or forget to eat and no one even notices. There are days where I binge and get 2000-3000 calories (can we say pizza?) and there are far more days where I am down in the few hundred range at best. I don’t worry about my weight, it’s just another thing to do. Cooking drains me a ton. Even the easy things. Thinking about what to make is like doing an algebra exam. I try to remember to have a protein shake every day, so at least my body gets that.

I had a flashback earlier today about the house we were in. The basement had a sump-pump and there was a cement ridge built up around it with wood covering it. It always reminded me of a coffin. This morning the nightmare/flashback was based on that hole, only in this daydream, he threw me in and closed the lid. Laying there I wondered how long it would take for them to raise the lid to find my body.

PTSD is real. I die 1000 different ways every single year, all in my head, all in traumatic ways that feel oh so real. Much of the time, when I am startled out of my head, I wish that I hadn’t fought so hard to be the survivor girl, that I would have been better off if I had just not lived.

I’ve always been one to have extremely vivid nightmares and flashes of things while awake. When I was little I wouldn’t sleep because I could hear and feel planes flying overhead and dropping bombs. I remember looking out the window one day and panicking when I saw Saddam Hussein’s face staring back at me, the war hadn’t even begun and I am in Canada, and more importantly, no one was even there, just the sunshine.

Once I was held and raped and used and sold, all of those things became even worse, more intense. Because then I realized that evil really did exist. That it was alive and well. That I could be a victim, because I was a victim, and the victim still lives inside of me with extreme guilt. With intense fear and with a logic that doesn’t make sense to anyone but me.

I take a half dozen different prescribed meds and they take the edge off, but they don’t make it go away. I spent years in therapy and eventually had to quit going, the anxiety of having to bring the negative thoughts up each week was just as bad as keeping them inside. The last time I went, I left and cut my wrist in the parking lot. And, I had a great therapist whom I loved. I was ashamed.

My reports say that I am a masochist, among other things. I don’t argue with that at all. When you are taken at 15 and enter into an abusive situation with no escape, it is easy for you to become accustomed to being punished. When I feel like I have hurt someone, or I am useless or no good, the masochist comes out big time and demands the pain. I need it in order to know I am alive.

“And I don’t want the world to see me
‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s meant to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive”

~Iris, Goo Goo Dolls

 

Jun 062018
 

Panic attacks have been progressively getting worse. The past comes back and haunts me in the weirdest places. I think I have become a bit of a hermit in a way. My phobias and anxieties over certain things have progressively become worse over the last year or so. I think when I lost the baby I lost more of myself.

The idea of ringing the dr for an appointment causes my heart to speed up, the cracked or broken tooth I have hasn’t been checked out or fixed because I can’t stand the idea of feeling trapped in a clinical setting, even though I’ve known my dentist my entire life. I struggle to even bring my kids, but for them I can do it, because I have too.

Having to go into stores and pick things up or run errands like getting the mail drains me, like a soul sucker drinking me up from a giant straw.

My fight or flight has never left, but I did go a good year or two without cutting myself, now I bare more scars and the mere idea of certain things causes suicidal thoughts to flash into my head as the way out of something as simple as running an errand.

Mom helps me a ton. She is the one who goes places with me and while I can still force myself, it really drains me until I am sick with migraines and feel like death has already come.

When I got pregnant over a year ago I had stopped several of my medications and was handling things “okay”, not great, not even perfect, but “okay”. I thought I could push through, but have realized that pushing through isn’t living life, I am fearing life.

I got up to close the curtains the other night and sheer panic kicked in. I ended up sobbing, hard, until I fell asleep. My fears of things I love dying are extremely high. The idea of any sort of change is paralyzing.

I started two of my meds again yesterday. I know that with them I will be tired, likely to gain weight, and have less spoons to help me through the day. But, without them, I don’t know how much longer I can keep pushing myself through these murky waters.

I often feel like I am in a state of mania, where I am hyper and unstoppable, followed by a depression that keeps me in bed for several days as I recoup that energy that was wastefully spent. I’ve never been one to be balanced. I struggle to even know what happiness is. I see glimpses of it, but I am not familiar with it.

If anything, happiness is an enemy, taunting me about what could have been and never was. I envy it. I loathe it. It is what I am not.

The degenerative disc disease and arthritis in my back, hips and pelvis are a constant reminder of the trauma my body has experience and it’s protesting against, standing, sitting, laying for too long is a painful one. Tylenol will likely kill me before anything else.

In summary, I have been, and I still am, a rancid mess.

 

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...