“I am destroying myself so other people can’t,” she said, “and it’s the worst kind of control but it’s the only form I know.”
― Sue Zhao
I’m back! And it’s a new year, so new me? You bet. A more determined, confident, and driven me.
2018 is kind of getting off on the right foot. Batman and I over, romantic relationship-wise. We’ll probably still be friends and he may be around in some aspect. He also may not. For once, I genuinely think I’m okay with that. More on that later.
Batman and I have also shared the same roof for about two years now. It certainly put our relationship into perspective. If anything, it highlighted how incompatible we are for each other. So, I’m currently looking for a new place. I was looking last month as well but got lured into staying by the amount of money I’d be saving by staying with him. What changed? Me. I’m not that strong to continue staying when I know he’s not good for me, emotionally. And I did not piece myself together as I am to have him undo it. I’m not perfect but I’m sane, I’m coping. He took me back to a version of myself that I never want to be again.
New year, new start, new semester, new me. I feel resurrected or as if I’m finally waking up from a long slumber and oh, boy, did I sleep. To 2018!
He says I do not think for myself
Perhaps he’s right
Perhaps I present to him a blank canvas
To fill with his words, wants, desires, dreams, disappointments
Paint me, make me, shape me, mold me, break me
It waits. It listens. It stalks.
It pounces. It attacks. It devours.
If I had to describe my depression/anxiety, I’d describe it as a gaping maw waiting for me, waiting to devour me, to drag me asunder.
It attacks out of nowhere, destroying an innocuous moment.
I just wish I could be normal. Sane.
I wish my mind wasn’t out to destroy me.
I have so many scars, physical, emotional, and mental. I’ve opened myself to so many people, only to be left out in the cold.
I wish I couldn’t feel.
I kind of don’t know what to say after that. My depression is hitting hard. I always wonder what life would be like for those I care about if I weren’t in theirs. I know mine would be a lot more bleak.
I just wish I could undo all the damage that has been done. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to be in my skin, in my mind, in my life.
Some things are ruined for me and I mourn their loss so keenly. At times like this, I hate him. I wonder if I’d feel better if he were rotting in a prison cell somewhere. If I came to him, damaged as I am, forced him to see what he’s done to me, would he care? Would it matter, would it change anything if he showed a sliver of remorse?
No. I don’t think it would.
“One ought to hold on to one’s heart; for if one lets it go, one soon loses control of the head too.”
I’m lonley. And depressed.
I don’t know why I stay most of the time.
My younger sister, my absolute other half, is in Texas with my mom. Most of my friends have drifted off and doing their own thing. I think that if I hadn’t met Garrett when I did, I may have slit my wrists a long time ago.
I think what I value the most is the companionship. I know in my heart of hearts that this isn’t going anywhere but I don’t want to be alone. Many times I’ve been on the verge of giving up and he’s beeen the voice of reason that brought me back. He’s become my rock.
I’ve been alone for so long, dealing with my abuse on my own, its nice to have someone to distract me from all that. He helps bring me out of my headspace. . . . . But at what expense?
Am I happy? Life is making it harder to say yes, to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I think my PMS sends my depression and mood swings into overdrive. I get really depressed close to around that time. But that logic doesn’t make the thoughts go away or cause them to lose their validity. I just only mediate on them when I’m upset. Otherwise, they’re just lurking in my subconscious, waiting to be given voice. I realize that I bottle a lot of things. It’s unhealthy but how else am I supposed to stay sane?
“It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane.”
― Philip K. Dick
“I knew I couldn’t keep you.” Unshed tears filled her eyes.
She thought back to a conversation they’d had not too long ago, that in hindsight should have been a sign of the end.
“What do you want?” He asked with concern in his eyes.
“You”, she replied.
A quizzical expression crossed his face. “What do you mean? I’m right here.”
She wanted to say, “No, you’re not. You’re here physically but in actuality you’re a million miles away.” She held tongue. He wouldn’t get it, just like he didn’t get it then.
But sometimes, she thought, he was there with her. He’d look at her as if seeing her after a long seperation. He’d see her, truly. And it felt so good to be seen. It seemed as if everyone but him looked right through, as if she was made of air.
“No one loses their innocence. It is either taken or given away willingly.”
― Tiffany Madison
I don’t know how to describe it. This feeling of. . . moving on. I’m minoring in Criminal Justice and came across this passage about victims of child abuse. It stated that in one study officers ranked dealing with an abused child as the most stressful kind of situation they encounter. It occurred to me, with a feeling of aloofness, that I was once that child. It almost felt like a lifetime ago to recall my experience of sitting in a cheery little house, that I later learned was an advocacy house, and explaining in detail to the female officer the extent of my abuse.
Is it a sense of moving on or just another aspect of PTSD, feeling separate from the abuse and the child I once was? I don’t feel like the same person. I think I’m coming into myself and know myself a little better. I’m not that scared little girl anymore that tried to escape into herself, books, the shadows, anywhere no one would notice her.
It’s like. . . my abuse was a safety blanket. The fear, panic, depression, insomnia, all familiar emotions and old time friends. I don’t know what to feel anymore. It’s like I’m looking back and kind of missing the old me. Everything was familiar. What lay ahead, the unknown, scares me a little more than the past. Maybe that’s why some abuse survivors don’t move on. The feelings become all too familiar. You don’t want to let go. Your fears bring you comfort at night, for they are valid. But once you’ve moved on, accepted the past and shrugged off it’s grasp, what else is there?
Just a thought. I guess I’ve been coming a cross a few triggers lately. I think I’ve been handling them a bit better than I used to. I no longer break down and have a panic attack. I just. . . still can’t bring myself to forgive him. I don’t think I ever will. Innocent acts they seemed, pictures, touches, etc. And yet they left such an impact and took so much from me. I think there will always be a hole somewhere inside me that nothing can fill. The place where my innocence used to reside.
“All of us are products of our childhood.”
― Michael Jackson
Do you ever wonder if your experiences color your opinion of something?
I know my triggers and yet I still let them affect me. I was scrolling down my social media feed and came across an article by Global Citizen. When I read it, I couldn’t help but feel a familiar pang of fear, panic, and empathy. Every time I hear or read about sexual assault or abuse, it hits me deep in my chest. Because I’d been there. I didn’t have the same experience as those women but I have an inkling of what they feel and could imagine what they’d been through and are continuing to go through.
I often wonder if sexual assault/abuse would have been a sensitive subject for me if I hadn’t experienced it myself. I think sex crimes are the worst and I believe that I feel that way because I’d been a victim of it.
I just think that some people, myself included, are in their own personal bubble and sometimes oblivious to the world around them. I just wonder if I’d be as oblivious to the epidemic that is sex crimes if I hadn’t experienced it firsthand. I can’t help but imagine who I’d be or what I’d be like if my abuse hadn’t occurred. I don’t want to admit it but my abuse had in some ways shaped who I am today. Your experiences as a child tend to stick with you, particularly traumatic ones.