I have no idea where to even start with what I want to say. Writing it makes me feel better and knowing it might make someone else feel better is an even better feeling.I’ve said this before, many times, that I don’t like to blame what happened to me for the things I do now, but there is no denying that it affected me and affected me for life. I don’t get to turn it off. And to some people that makes me damaged and they don’t understand or they lash out at me for being upset or touchy or too sensitive. I get it…I really do, but at the same time if I’m that much of a burden on someone’s life, please, by all means, leave. The last thing I ever want to do is be a burden to someone. But the fact that I am this burden to someone should not be seen as my fault. I have spent most of my life fighting the residual effects of these horrible events. I have been beyond proactive in caring for myself.
And I am not a failure. What happened to me made me so determined to not be a failure that I pushed harder than I think I ever would have to be who I am. I’ve done some of the most amazing things in my life (and I don’t intend to stop) because I believe if you want to do something do it. Find a way…and face the fear…do it. And there were a really good few years there where I felt invincible. My depression was not quite as bad as it can be, my anxiety level was down and I took chances that got me places that some folks dream about. And knowing I was doing things was an even bigger boost at the time. I know I’m not a failure.
BUT…of course there is a but, the times that I do fuck up, or fail (and not all of the times, but the times when I’m just not having a good day or week or whatever) that ptsd kicks in and there’s that voice…my stepfather “You’re ugly.” “You’re stupid and no one can ever love you.” “You’re useless and should have your throat slit and be thrown to the side of the road. No one would miss you.” there are plenty more but these are the ones I hear most. These aren’t random voices, they are like a recording from a part of my mind that as a child, gets imbedded and honestly never leaves. So when I do have a bad day or week or I do manage to make a big mistake…I become exactly what he said I was. I question myself.
This past week I fucked up in a bigger way than I ever have. Usually I handle my mistakes fairly well but this was big to me and not something I can see an easy way out of. While it isn’t the worst thing in the world, it is a humiliating thing, mostly because I was usually pretty proud of myself for being where I am at, surviving and making it work. But this just triggered a flood of self loathing. I get overly sensitive, people get angry because I get overly sensitive.
So yeah…past abuse or rape or whatever it is someone went through, trauma, doesn’t go away. And when that trauma just doubles the depression and anxiety you already have, it can be unbearable. That kind of unbearable that has you thinking you’d be better off dead. And that is tough to fight. I think the hardest part of my recent issues is that I found out that I can’t afford to see my therapist, at least not for a long time. I rely on that, I have for many years. Talking helps me a lot especially to someone not so tied to me, someone outside of my life. That hurts. I mean that only made this whole situation harder. And I’m doing my best to keep it together but every day is a struggle ten times worse than what my usual struggle is.
I love the people who do allow me to have my moments. They are rare, but…this is exhausting.