It started with Donald Trump.
His words. His tone. His mindset.
It reminded me of never telling anyone about what I experienced.
Just looking at that sentence, the way the words are hanging in the air of an otherwise blank page seemingly uncapable of bearing such a worldshattering weighted statement.
He did. He raped me.
More than that, it is because I remained silent that he would be able to rape another.
When I hear Trump’s words, it all flooded back to me.
Being grabbed by the pussy. Being told he owned it. Not that way he would a more prized status symbol. He just owned me. Like husband’s used to not even 100? years ago? That’s how primative this is. That was his mindset. Ive seen it up close and personal. There is no way to spin it. It’s so obviously ugly … or it should be. This is the only “should” I am certain of.
The anxiety set in. The post traumatic stress. I couldnt sleep. I cut into my skin. I tried to snap out of it. I overcompensate for the inevitable low swing by trying to get as high as possible.
Movement. Endorphines. Hormones. THC. Humor.
I reach out to friends and who should reach back but one of my oldest, dearest friends. But she’s flailing and gasping for air. She is being confined to a small place by the love of her life. The father of her children. He loves her, but when the alcohol owns him, he owns her. He grabs her by the pussy mentally. A real mind fuck.
And I remember.
Once youve seen it for yourself up close and personal, there is no unseeing that. You become more atuned to where that frequency resides and how to avoid it, but it never goes away. It is very similar to a parallel universe. Just beneath the surface.
Why are women still having exposure to such an experience?
Are we still so uncivilized? Are we still so primitive in consciousness that we are unable to morally conceive that one human sbould not be, even in the mindset, owning another human?
When you have a mind where you overthink every little thing and anxiety twists and strangles your every single thought process, it’s difficult doing normal things like dating.
Even as a young woman, it’s difficult to allow myself to trust someone and just feel okay when I feel a bit crushed by it.
Best description of PTSD Ive ever read …
“It is as though some old part of yourself wakes up in you, terrified, useless in the life you have, its skills and habits destructive but intact, and what is left of the present you, the person you have become, wilts and shrivels in sadness or despair: the person you have become is only a thin shell over this other, more electric and endangered self. The strongest, the least digested parts of your experience can rise up and put you back where you were when they occurred; all the rest of you stands back and weeps.”
All day long, I worked on my essays for the tutorials today and tomorrow. Thankfully, one is finished and the other coming along. Looking at my work makes me realize that I should consider staying in academia. Although I love writing, research is probably even more exciting for me. After all, one of my 2,000-word essays had 10,000 words of research. Cutting down my material takes up a great deal of my time.
Anyway, the point of my blog today is to give you some uplifting but painfully honest quotes about PTSD. Having mine ratchet up the past few days has made life very stressful. However, I am hanging in there like thousands of other men, women, and children who suffer from this illness do each day. These…
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there’s no getting off.
its a never-ending cycle of shit that you’re supposed to survive.
but surviving isnt living.
i want to believe there’s more than angst to be felt. that people truly care.
but i dont. i dont believe in much of anything anymore. not even myself.
i dont believe that theres a reason for everything. bad shit just happens. a lot. and as much as people tell you that they’ll be there and always love you, they usually arent and dont. they love you when its convenient for them. when it means accepting a difference of opinion or going out of the way, people let their selfish pride rule. they tell themselves they’re too busy, they dont “owe you”. truth is for all the shame we feel over a life lost to suicide, very few people actually care enough to save a life when push comes to shove.
hell, maybe nobody is worth saving. if “god” cant get off his ass to save the lives of children dying and return them whole bodied to their grief stricken, heartbroken mothers, who the hell else is worth it?
how do you keep riding this ride?
I am incredibly symptomatic following Wednesday’s epidural steroid injection. I’ve been agitated and pacing. Broke out into a hot, rash all over my face last night. Had the hardest time sleeping, constantly being roused from the edge of sleep with palpitations and chest pain. My body seems to be feeling the need to get up and run, which I guess is no surprise considering how much I’ve been laid up with the back pain prior, but it’s not allowing me to let my spine heal so that I can.
I swear, I feel like I’m caught in a perpetual Catch 22.
Trying to avoid pain medication and the potential fatal mix that can come with my other medications which all somehow fall into the central nervous system depression category, but still it. Trying to workout and lose weight without adding insult to injury. Trying to eat better but not being able to eat the fruits and veggies I crave while on a low residue, gastroparesis diet. Feeling as though I was doing much better at self-medicating with marijuana when I was younger, but not being able to do so because of my contract with pain management from which I need these epidural steroid injections, oh and that illegal thing. The same steroids that exacerbate my mental health issues and insomnia.
This is why Im a strong proponent for, at the VERY least, medical marijuana. Alcohol would be a better drug to scheduled illegally. If we can do better than Big Pharm, naturally, we should. Bottom line.
I am done with this vicious cycle and I just want off this nightmarish merry-go-round.
I haven’t been around in the blogsphere lately. I keep trying to force myself to write something but the more I think about it, I just don’t want to. I don’t think it’s depression. It doesn’t feel like the kind of depression that I’m typically accustomed to dealing with but, then again, I seem to not recognize my depression as such until I’m past the point in which sitting down to write about it would be helpful. I guess maybe I’m not the best judge on the matter.
I’d like to think it’s more of a distracted state.
We had a hearing on our Motion to bring Pickle home last Tuesday. It was approved with flying colors. I spent the rest of the week running around trying to tie up loose ends and getting other needed pieces in place. He started back at the high school yesterday and is really happy about they way everything has turned out. I was probably more excited about school paperwork than I had ever been or will be. We even filled out his FAFSA for next year. That’s been the good distraction.
While I haven’t been dealing with Pickle stuff, I’ve mostly been laid up with this awful back pain. It has been all consuming, driven me to tears and the brink of madness and other than this brief little statement on the matter, I really don’t feel like diving into the cesspool of stuff surrounding it. I’m just thankful that my epidural spinal injection is tomorrow and that I can at least count on some sort of resolution where the pain goes buh-bye to follow. That’s the bad distraction.
What I’m trying to say is that I’ve either been too busy to write or just flat out not wanting to do much of anything when I don’t have to.
NO SHIT! You think I don’t realize it’s futile? I do. Don’t you think if I could stop this, I would?
But I cant stop the panic. I feel like its happening all over again. It’s called POST TRAUMATIC STRESS for a reason!
And THAT was probably the LEAST helpful thing you could’ve said.
This made me laugh pretty hard. I can relate.
I had one of the worst panic attacks in recent memory today.
This dude looks how I felt.