239 Days

Today is the 239th day of my freedom. 34 weeks. Nearly 8 months. I’m still alive and kicking (although sometimes, I’m kicking myself).

For anyone that assumes that life is easy once you escape a trauma…it’s not. Thanks to PTSD, I oftentimes feel like I am reliving my past over and over again. I still get panic attacks. I still have parts that think we are living back home, and are scared of our mother. I still, in some sick way, miss being home.

It’s hard for people to understand why I do the things I do. In some ways, I am still a scared child stuck in an adult body. I lock the bathroom door because I feel safe that way. I lock my bedroom door at night for the same reason. I could live in the safest neighborhood on the planet, and I would still lock the door. I sometimes hide in my closet. No one can see me in there. I still wear 3-4 shirts and three pairs of underwear (simultaneously) every day. It is a habit I have had since I was young and even though I know I am no longer in danger, it still helps me feel protected. As an adult I should know better, but it’s not that simple.

I’m exhausted. I sleep for two hours and twenty minutes each night. Then I wake up, completely disoriented and not even sure WHY I am awake. If I’m lucky, I’ll doze off a couple of times before I have to wake up for work. My exhaustion is evident. My therapist even asked if I had considered taking my Ambien again. I realized at that point it must be bad, as we both believe that I have been better sans medication (in general).

Half the time, I’m battling a migraine. My feet are causing me excruciating pain. I go to the bathroom at work sometimes just to get a break for a few minutes. I hibernate in my room at night because I can’t physically handle going up and down the stairs.

A couple of weeks ago, my therapist called countless doctors, trying to find someone experienced in dealing with trauma patients. I give her a lot of credit. She worked her ass off trying to get me care, because we both know I need it, even though I deny it a lot of the time. Fortunately, she found a doctor who is experienced and is willing to take me on as a patient. The doctor is not even in my county, but I am sort of at a desperation point. My therapist has already filled her in on some of my problems and she seemed eager to help. I have an appointment on March 21st and I’m scared as fuck. My therapist keeps telling me that I deserve not to be in pain; but pain is something I’ve known my entire life.

Me and denial have been best friends lately. I still at times find myself denying my DID. My therapist talks about my parts and I go on as if they didn’t exist. I told my therapist in our session yesterday that I just wanted to be normal. I want to have a normal childhood. I want to have a normal life. I want to feel normal. I don’t want DID.

If that wasn’t bad enough, I am denying my past. Memories come up and I discredit them. That never happened. My mother would never do that. My therapist brought up a memory that came up in our session on Monday and I told her that it wasn’t true. I denied it. I didn’t want to acknowledge something so sick, something so vile. Even though on some level, nothing my mother did, does, or will do surprises me. But it’s just so much easier to deny it. Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen. Let’s just pretend I had a happy life. Please.

But we all know that never works out that way.

Denying my memories will only make them come to the surface more. Denying my parts will only make them louder in vying for attention.

But yet here I am, on day 239, still denying most of my life.

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