Friday, March 20, 2015

Another article

Saturday, March 7, 2015

Why I didn't turn in my rapist...publication

Please share this around. This was incredibly difficult for me to write, and I want other survivors to know that they are not alone.

Monday, November 10, 2014

Jumbled mass of thoughts....

Well hell. I should probably preface this post with a warning: Epic drama.

I am just trying to not be homeless. A homeless agoraphobe is a suicide looking for a place to happen.

Obviously, and I have to say this way too often, I'm not suicidal.

A cherished friend recently found a way to help me remember that I used to be a real person and for a brief moment in time, I felt like myself again. Which is awesome, because I never enjoyed hating myself for the blank slate crazy I've been over the last few years and in particular the last few months. Of course, it was only a temporary reprieve. Inevitably, the fresh memory of having a real personality instead of functioning on medications with the least negative side effects, has thrown my current...state into sharp contrast.

I would like to stop and take a moment to bask in awe at my own depth of resilience. I used to be a person and now I'm a wreck bouncing from one awful symptom to another. And I have survived this for 7 years. I've listed and described my symptoms here for years. I kept writing what felt like extremely repetitive narratives of what my life has become. It's hard to quantify how much I've lost and therefore survived. But I did survive, although, at times, I really hated my own tenacity.

I am back in full on survival mode. Displaced again, although this time of my own choice. I took my cat and my clothes and walked away from everything else. I left my medals and my paperwork. I left my knick-knacks and my treasured collection of books. It's all gone now. I have my cat, my car, my computer, and my clothes. I'm running wifi off of my cell phone in order to publish this and then I have to turn that off because my cell phone bill is going to be astronomical. It's not like I can't afford it. Despite having spent 75% of my savings over the last year, I'm still doing alright. Realistically, worrying about money, might actually kill me. The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.

I've turned off all non-essential systems mentally. I don't try and regulate my impulses. I don't filter my thoughts, so if I think it, I say it. I don't think about tomorrow.

I just wrote about a dream I had, and basically, I need a fucking vacation. Reality  needs to go bother someone else for awhile and leave me the fuck alone.


iPhone post, so short, sweet, and ignoring good sentence structure.

Go here, read this. Thanks ��

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Observation of before and after

The Mall..
Going to the mall was overshooting. I don't know if I was testing myself or punishing myself. My motives regarding these adventures are never clear to me. I had two panic attacks, but didn't run screaming. So there was good and bad. Admittedly, there was more bad than good, but the good was real and it existed. It's important not to let the bad drown out the good upon reflection.
I used to love the mall. LOVE. I loved the bombardment of the senses, and the inevitable overstimulation. I remember this feeling of excited anticipation that was far disproportionate to the average person's. I wanted to see EVERYTHING, smell it, and if possible touch it, and when I did, I saw countless possibilities. (Most of them were dreamy unrealistically positive.) It was almost like being tipsy happy drunk.
This time I saw a potentially deadly, definitely dangerous, and unquestionably stressful obstacle course. My objective was only to get in and get out alive and in record time. Just another thing I had to survive.
Looking back I can almost pinpoint the exact moment of my disillusionment. I got a job at the mall straight out of the army. Security. Every day that I went to work my anxiety grew and my enchantment dissipated. Partially due no doubt, to the fact that WORK has to ruin every good thing ever. But this was the beginning of my new identity as a PTSD patient? survivor? nut? Lol.
It's sad. It's like the day when you truly stop believing in magic, miracles, and santa claus when you were a kid. You stopped looking for four leaf clovers, and you didn't make wishes on shooting stars anymore. Everything magical eventually becomes mundane. It's part of growing up.
Should I cling to the slender and fragile positive side that I did get SOME pleasure out of the experience, despite the fact that in retrospect it is nearly invisible, hidden behind so many bad feelings? Should I write off trips to the malls as something I will EVER enjoy again? Shrug it off as something I outgrew, and try to ignore the significance of this as the perfect example of what PTSD has been for me?
This is nearly a decade of PTSD. 7 years of non-stop therapy and medication. 7 years of losing one battle after another, and losing pieces of myself and my life to this disease.
I used to be a real person, and now I feel like a fragment of a reflection of a memory.

Friday, October 17, 2014

Writing in this blog has become like screaming into a black hole for me, utterly futile.

So here are a few things I've learned:

1. When people tell you they love you, you should run, because people cause the most destruction to those things they purport to care for.

2. Never trust ANYONE with the things that are the most important to you, because someone will find a way to ruin it.

3. If you think someone is different, you are wrong, because they are all the same.

4. The system is not set up to help you. It claims it is, but this is a comfortable lie to keep everyone from panic and or disorder. When you truly need help, you are truly alone.

5. Helping people is a waste of time. Granted you get a little buzz of self-satisfaction and some affirmation from it, but make sure you use a clean needle and wash your hands after.