I think there are people in this world that just can’t be helped.

I think I am one of those people.

I tried. I really did.

I took every pill the doctors prescribed. Every anti-depressant that left me more suicidal than before. Every anti-psychotic that failed to stop the voices or the impulse to self-destruct. Every anti-anxiety pill that only took the edge off. Every mood stabilizer that sent me spiraling deeper into depression. Every sleeping pill, every stimulant, every off-label medication they tried to help me with has failed.

There is no pill for this. There’s no magic medicine, no chemical imbalance to correct.

My mind is broken in a way that can’t be fixed. You can’t put a splint on my brain. You can’t put a cast on my memories. You can’t fix something that’s been broken too many times for too long.

Maybe if someone had caught it early, I wouldn’t be this way. If someone spoke up instead of saying silent. If someone had questioned my mother instead of letting it go. If someone told her to stop instead of helping her. If someone feared her as much as they feared God. If someone had saved me, instead of leaving me behind.

But no one did any of that. And now I am here, shattered pieces held together by watered-down glue. Forever unstable, the slightest touch breaks me all over again.

There is no cure for this. There’s no way to undo what’s been done. I can’t hit rewind. I can’t start over. I can’t erase the pain in my heart because it’s been written in permanent ink.

Every time I was raped, molested, assaulted, beaten, burned — another piece of me was broken. A tiny crack on the surface was all anyone could see, but beneath that was complete brokenness. A soul left to die, a mind left shattered, both hidden underneath the face and body of an innocent child, an innocent child who didn’t know her innocence because it was stolen from her before she ever had a chance to experience it.

How does someone get over that? I think I would have rather been hurt by a stranger. Maybe I could have handled it better then. At least I would have known what love was, at least I could have had someone to turn to. But I didn’t have that, because the one person that should have loved and supported me and kept me safe was the person that hurt me night after night and taught me how to be afraid.

I tried to be helped. Every school guidance counselor, every social worker, every therapist. They tried. But they couldn’t help me, either. I took one last chance. I told myself if this didn’t work, then that was it for me. Fifteen years of medication and therapy failures is fifteen years too many. I didn’t want to go through it anymore. I gave up everything for this one last attempt at healing.

But I don’t think it’s working. The cost of my freedom has been permanent fear, a fear that can’t be helped. No matter what day it is, no matter where I am, I am living in fear of her. I’m afraid every morning when I try to take a shower without her. I’m afraid every afternoon when I’m walking home alone, waiting for her to come and kill me before I can get in the door. I’m afraid every time I go to bed, because I don’t know if she will come in and hurt me. I’m afraid every time I get sick, because I’m scared it means she will have to take care of me.

I’m in two worlds. One that’s the present and one that’s the past. One where I’m living and one where I’m dying. One where I’m grown up and one where I’m growing. I can’t tell the difference anymore. I don’t think I’m in one or the other. The worlds collided and now I am stuck in the middle, walking alone. I just want someone to walk with me. I want someone to understand what it’s like to be inside my mind. But that can never happen.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair for me to put other people through my chaos. My therapist can’t cure me. She can’t go inside my mind. She can’t walk with me. She can’t help me.

So maybe it’s time to let therapy go. Maybe I’m just supposed to live with the fear and the panic and the pain and the shame and the confusion. Maybe I’m lost because there isn’t a way home. Maybe I’m just supposed to exist like this.

Maybe they were right all along. I am too complex. I am a puzzle that can never be put back together because the pieces have been torn up, burned, and thrown away. And no one ever wants to put together a puzzle that doesn’t have all its pieces. It’s an effort destined for failure, no matter what you do, the puzzle can never be solved. I can never be fixed.

Help came too late.

11 thoughts on “Terminate

  1. I heard everything you said and I know the desolate feelinng that that can bring. It is a lonely feeling and a defeated feeling that I have felt as well. I wanted a pill to help me. I wanted therapy to help me. I want that for you too. Today I go to therapy and talk about this very subject you have written about. I just wanted you to know you are not alone!

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I clicked “like” despite the fact that there’s nothing like-able about what you describe. My heart hurts for you – no child deserves to be hurt – and YOU *certainly* never deserved what your mother did to you – nor are you “just supposed to exist like this”.

    You visited my blog today and liked an article designed to help folks with FAR less complex issues than yours (thanks, by the way, but I doubt you found it helpful).

    Come back and search for “Complex PTSD Awareness” in the top right search box. Click the title of the first article that returns and read that one. It’s long, but that is CLEARLY what is going on with you, given your history as outlined above – and you will recognize your own struggles as the article continues.

    The information in this article will help you understand WHY nothing seems to work for you: the time-frame expectations are VERY different. But with the right kind of help, people do heal, able to move on without fear as a constant companion. Your “scars” will remain, but they will no longer remain acute. (If you can manage it, there are many links to Related Content that explore some of the related issues).

    If your therapist is unaware of C-PTSD, print the article and take it to her so she can begin to learn about it. In fact, do that anyway – at least before you conclude that therapy can’t help you. Request that she read it and put it in your file, and tell her that you expect to discuss it in your next session.

    If she can’t help with it, don’t give up. There are specialists who CAN and DO. Ask her to be ready to refer you to one if this is not something in her wheel-house. Print this comment and take that too, if this advice feels too confrontational and risky.

    She’s there to HELP, but she can’t unless you are honest with her – which may be beyond you right now. Running away will only leave you in the same miserable state – nobody outruns pain.

    I am so sorry you are hurting. My prayers are with you.

    (Madelyn Griffith-Haynie – ADDandSoMuchMore dot com)
    – ADD Coach Training Field founder; ADD Coaching co-founder –
    “It takes a village to educate a world!”

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you for responding. My therapist does work with clients with C-PTSD, PTSD, and DID. It’s not her, it’s me.

      I’m honest with her, that’s part of the reason why she knows I need more help than I’m getting.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. It’s not YOU – it’s what happened to you, right? And healing takes the time it takes. Cuts heal quickly, broken bones take longer – broken spirits can take longest of all.

        Glad you have a great therapist – though I wish there were more help for you out there in our “cold, cruel world” – ignorant in the main about mental health, despite many years by many advocates. ::sigh::

        Thrilled to hear about a C-PTSD aware therapist – every time – RARELY hear about one who works with DID, however.

        You will probably be already aware of much of the info in my PTSD Series, but they are good reminders as you move forward – and some brain-based explanations that help me center on sanity on days when I need the reminders myself.

        As many of the comments on your About page say, reading the words of others helps us know that we are not alone.


        Liked by 1 person

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