Daddy

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

I’ve been struggling the last week or so in dealing with emotions surrounding my father. He has been declining in health for some time, and will probably die soon. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel.

For a long time, I had diminished a lot of what my father had done to me. I wanted (needed) to hold on to the belief that I had at least one decent parent. But I’ve slowly come to realize that my father was not a good parent. He was just as damaging, physically and emotionally, as my mother was.

I don’t even know the exact level of involvement my father had in the abuse my mother perpetrated on me. In a few of my flashbacks my father was there, right next to my mother as she was violating me. I told myself that those flashbacks couldn’t be real. I dismissed them as a  figment of my imagination. I don’t want to believe that my father would ever do that. I don’t want to believe that he knew what she was doing and let it happen. I want to believe that he knew nothing about it. I want to believe that some part of him was a decent person. But part of me knows that what I want to believe likely isn’t the truth at all.

I don’t know whether or not I want to confront him or let him die in ignorance. I want him to know how I feel. I want him to know how much I hate him. I want him to tell me why. It’s not fair that he gets to die and I have to live and suffer from the damage he’s done.  His heart may be failing, but my heart was ripped apart long ago. There’s no cure for either of us.

It makes me feel like a horrible person for wanting another human being to die. I feel no  sympathy for him. I want him to suffer and I want him to die. What kind of person does that make me?

Why couldn’t he just act like he loved me? Why did he have to hurt me? Why did he have to break my heart?

Daddies are supposed to love their daughters. Daddy only showed hate. Daddies are supposed to teach and guide their daughters. The only thing daddy taught me was how not to feel. Daddies are supposed to be role models. Daddy showed me exactly how not to be.

Why, daddy? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not being good enough. I’m sorry I disappointed you.

I’m sorry you were my father.

16 weeks

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

I have so many things to write; I’ve started writing none of them. I have to write my essay for grad school; I can’t think of what direction to go in. I have to write a letter to my therapist before our session on Monday. Since I’ve had a lot of trouble communicating verbally the last few sessions, my therapist asked if I would write her a letter and include all of the things that I’ve wanted to say but couldn’t. I do have a lot of things I want to tell her, but I don’t even know where to start in writing it, so I’ve avoided it altogether. Instead, I’m sitting at my desk and writing this blog about how much crap I have to write. Clearly my prioritization needs work.

I’m still walking on a thin line between giving up and going on. The fact that I recognize this is actually making it more difficult for me. I hold myself to such high standards that it bothers me when I feel so low. I tell myself I should be stronger than this. I tell myself I should be over it. But I’m not.

During this week, people have shown me more affection and care than I’ve ever received from my own (immediate) family. Today, I felt like going for a walk just to get some air. I stopped in a Chinese restaurant to pick up some soup because I was cold, and a man who I hadn’t seen in a couple of months must have seen me and stopped in. He works at a place I frequented before I broke my foot; as I was recovering, I had to find another place that involved less walking and got used to going there instead. He asked if he could give me a hug. He said he wondered where I had been and was worried that I moved away. I told him what had happened, and that I should be around more often now. I never realized I impacted someone enough that they would miss me. A few days before, a man who I frequently see and interact with on the bus saw me at the bus stop and asked how I was doing. I wasn’t in a very communicative mindset, so I gave very basic answers and continued to listen to my music instead. A few minutes later as he got on the bus, he turned around, made an “air hug” gesture, and said “Love ya C, take care of yourself and be safe.” Take care of yourself. Such a simple phrase, yet so difficult for me to actually put into action. Am I really taking care of myself? And why does this man care so much to even say that? He cared enough to remember my name, and I can’t even remember his.

I realize I have difficulty processing the idea that other people care about me, because my mother made it very clear to me growing up that no one ever would. It goes against the reality that I’ve formed of myself and my world. But that reality is entirely based off of what my mother told me all of these years. It’s so hard for me to erase everything and start over. Parents are supposed to guide you and teach you things that are right; instead my parents instilled in me a warped sense of the world that I just can’t seem to override.

I’m a little worried about how I’m going to handle the next two months. Tomorrow is the unofficial start of the holiday season. The holidays are about family…something I no longer have. It’s going to be another reminder that I am alone. As much as I can try to keep busy with work and with school prep, I’m still going to be reminded of all that I’ve lost. It doesn’t even make much sense. I’m grieving something that really wasn’t even there anyway. Family wouldn’t have done those things they did to me. Family wouldn’t have made me suffer. They were never my family.

I’ve tried to pretend like everything is okay this past week, and it ended up doing more harm than good. I need to learn to be honest with myself and with those around me. I need to learn to say I’m not okay when I’m not okay. I need to learn how to ask for help when I need help. I need to learn to accept that everything is not going to be perfect…that I’m not perfect.

I need to be the person that got me free. She knew how to be strong. She knew how to stand up and fight. Where did she go?

Photographs

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

I don’t have any photographs from my childhood.

I wish I would have stolen just a few before I left. I wouldn’t even have been able to, though, because whatever family photos my family had were in a lock-box. All I am left with now is memories.

There were not very many photographs of me aside from the yearly school pictures. In comparison, there were a lot of photographs of my brother. It makes sense; he was the first-born, and very much the more favored child of the two of us.

My baby pictures were hidden away in that box, with the exception of a few I managed to take and keep in a box in my room. I was a small baby, with very tan skin and a head full of pitch black hair. I looked nothing like either of my parents. I looked nothing like my blonde-haired, blue-eyed brother. Where did that baby come from? I remember, over the years, people responding in disbelief when they saw the picture; they insisted that baby was not me. Why would my mother have pictures of another person’s baby? Clearly it was me. An innocent baby, with no idea what she would have to endure in the years to come. I feel sorry for that baby. I wonder what she could have done differently to make her mother love her.

I remember a few pictures of me as a toddler, with out-of-control curly hair, an innocent smile, and bright eyes that were full of life. I was a beautiful child. There was no reason not to love me.

I saw a clear change in the photographs of me once I was past toddler-hood. There was one photograph I will never forget. I must have been around 5 years old. I was sitting on the floor in back of my closed bedroom door, with my head looking up from the fetal position I had taken. There was a look of fear and sadness in my face. My eyes were no longer bright. My smile was long gone. I wonder what happened to make me feel that way. I wonder why my mother felt compelled to take my picture. Other photographs depicted the same sadness, the same emptiness that I continued to have well into my adulthood. The light in my eyes ceased to exist. Smiles were few and far between. I was no longer that innocent child.

Then there were the photographs of me in the shower, very much past the age of being able to bathe myself. I can barely understand having naked pictures of an infant. I will never understand why a parent would take naked pictures of a child. I didn’t know such pictures existed until last year, when my mother flaunted them in my face. I was able to get hold of one and destroy it, though it took me months to gather the strength to see the photo again.

I feel sick not knowing if she has any other photos like that hidden somewhere. I wish I would have set fire to all of her photos before I left. She doesn’t deserve to remember me.

With the invention of the smartphone, I began taking pictures of myself. Even then, there was something missing. I rarely smiled, and when I did, it was forced. My sadness and emptiness were written all over my face. I never noticed it because to me, that was my normal. When people recently started pointing out how much better I looked since I had escaped, I looked at old pictures I had taken of myself and I realized they were right. My face has always explained my feelings better than I ever could verbalizing them. Just like those photographs of me as a child, clearly miserable and in fear, but never able to express it in any other way.

I wish I just had something tangible to hold onto other than my memories.

I’m sorry, I’m okay

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

I managed at the last minute to drag myself to therapy today despite feeling like absolute shit.

Last night was difficult for me. I have had so much going on, and I’ve kept it all inside. Stress about home, about grad school applications, about how I’m going to afford grad school, about how I’m going to afford living. Then add issues about my family, an overall lack of sleep, and the seemingly constant chaos inside of my head, and I wonder how I am not locked up in an institution somewhere.

The pain was just too much for me that my heart was actually hurting. Yet I was completely unable to express any emotion. I was numb and in pain at the same time, and I know that is impossible but that is how I felt. I couldn’t take the pain any more. I ended up hurting myself just so I could feel something real. But that only works in the short-term. I woke up the next morning with the same emotional pain, plus the physical pain from what I had inflicted on myself the night before.

I didn’t really want to be in therapy. I didn’t want to be anywhere. But I knew I couldn’t skip out without causing alarm. So I went, sat in my usual spot on the couch, and looked at the floor. My therapist asked if there was anything I needed to talk about. I told her no, that she could talk. I didn’t really want to get into anything. I just wanted to sit there and pretend like everything was fine and dandy.

My therapist started talking about managing my DID better. It is something I know I need to do, but I’ve been at a point where I just want to ignore it and hope that it goes away. She said if I take time and communicate with my parts, it won’t be so chaotic inside. Right now, my parts are running amok like a child who is being ignored and wanting attention. I know that she’s right, I just don’t have the mindset to deal with all of that right now.

I wasn’t into the conversation, and my therapist could tell. I couldn’t tell her what was wrong, though. I tried to reveal minor things in order to avoid the major, but even that wasn’t working. I had put my walls up, and she was not getting through. She asked if she was the problem. I told her it wasn’t her. And it’s not. The problem is with me. Part of me is still scared to talk. Part of me is still afraid to say how I’m feeling.

Then, in the middle of the weak back-and-forth we were engaging in, my therapist asked if I could try to not apologize whenever I say how I am feeling. It is something she has brought up before; she tells me regularly that I don’t need to apologize, but I still keep doing it. I told her I couldn’t do that. She asked why it was so hard for me to stop. I told her I’m not supposed to have feelings. Feelings get you in trouble. Feelings get you punished. Then my therapist asked how I would be punished, and I managed to nod my head yes when she asked if it was physical.

I started to think about all of the times I had to suppress my feelings, and all the times I accidentally made them known. Whenever I was upset or cried, she’d make it hurt more. Whenever I showed my anger, she’d tell me anger was the devil coming through and I needed to be punished. Then there was the incident that finally broke me. When someone from my high school called my parents and told them I was feeling depressed, my father sat me down that night and told me he’d give me something to be depressed about. I sat there and took the beating and tried to be stoic, but after a few minutes, the tears came and all I could do was apologize and beg for mercy that never came. I never cried during a beating again.

On an intellectual level, I know my therapist isn’t going to hurt me for expressing my feelings. Yet, I still find myself apologizing dozens of times each session. I even apologized for crying after the group workshop the other day. Being sorry is part of my programming. I should be sorry for feeling. I should be sorry for expressing emotion. I should be sorry for breathing. My parents made me feel as if I should be sorry just for existing and taking up space in their lives. I am sorry. I am sorry I was born.

In addition to my apologetic programming, I also have a tendency to tell everyone I’m okay. In therapy, those words tend to follow right after I say I’m sorry. It’s almost as if I’m trying to convince myself that I’m okay as much as I’m trying to convince the other person.

Towards the end of our session today, I felt myself becoming overwhelmed with emotion. As a defense, I must have said “I’m okay” at least five times in succession. Then my therapist told me that I don’t have to say I’m okay when I’m not okay. She said knows I put up a facade and that’s how I’ve made it through life so far, but I don’t have to put that mask on anymore and I don’t have to put it up when I’m with her. She continued to talk about it and I finally just burst out and said “I’m not okay.”

I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out loud before. I don’t think my therapist expected me to say them right then, either. I don’t even think I expected to say them. But I did. And now the truth is out there.

Untitled

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

I’ve been sitting in front of my computer for the last hour, staring at the blinking line on my screen and waiting for my fingers to type my thoughts out.

Except nothing happened.

I am so weighed down by intense emotions that my heart actually hurts. Yet I find myself completely unable to express anything.

I’ve been doing such a great job of pretending I’m okay.

But I’m not okay.

I’m not even sure what okay is.

Sleep

~ KJ ~ 4 Comments

I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’ve gotten four hours of sleep since Saturday. My head hurts. My brain hurts. My body is weak.

I just ate two packets of sugar in hopes that it will get me through work today. I have a video blog due tomorrow that I don’t even think I can do because I don’t want to go home.

I’m contemplating sneaking in the movie theatre this afternoon just so I can take a nap in peace. At least the seats are comfortable there. At this point, I could probably sleep anywhere. Even the hospital sounds more comfortable and safe than home.

Part of me feels like this is all punishment for running away. She always did say we could never live without her. But on a deeper level, I know that’s not the truth.

My inside is in chaos right now. They are scared as much as I am. They don’t understand it. I’ve failed to protect them once again.

Failure.

Today in therapy…

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

My therapist sent me an e-mail this morning, even though I was going to see her within the next few hours. She e-mails me a few times a week. I save every one, because she always writes something useful or something I will need to remind myself of later.

This e-mail was full of links. Links to portable door locks for my room, links to apartment listings, and a link to an art and poetry site she thought would interest me. She actually took the time to look for these things for me.

I thought it was a little odd that she sent me apartment listings out of the blue. We have been discussing future living arrangements, but never in-depth and never as an immediate need. When we started the session today, she asked me if I read her e-mail. I told her I did, but that I read it on my phone on the bus so I didn’t get to look at everything. Then she got serious.

She doesn’t think I will be able to progress in therapy and in healing in my current living situation. She said she hadn’t made it a priority before, but I think after group yesterday, everyone realized how much the situation is affecting me. There are a lot of things that have gone on and continue to go on that I haven’t told anyone about except my therapist. I never want to be home. I never feel safe here. It is causing me to constantly be on the defense and have my alerts up and running. Those defenses are still in place even when I’m at therapy, so it prevents a lot of work from being done. I’m rarely able to sleep, I don’t eat much because my food goes missing, and it leaves me with little energy left for anything else. It’s just not good for me here.

The conversation eventually switched to yesterday’s group therapy. I told her I felt like a failure because I wasn’t able to be fully there. She tried to tell me I wasn’t a failure. I was doing fine until the session about the wise older self when I got triggered. She tried to tell me that being in therapy for so many hours talking about a subject like that has the potential to be triggering to anyone, and that it was okay. But it wasn’t okay to me.

Then she asked about what happened when I got triggered. She asked about the voices. I didn’t want to talk about the voices. I still have trouble admitting out loud that these voices even exist. I hid that from the world for so long because I didn’t want people to think I was crazy. In some ways I believe that if I don’t say it out loud, it won’t be true. I told her it didn’t matter, but she pushed on. I told her the voices had been bothering me for days, and I wanted them to go away. She asked if it would be alright to let them take control so she can talk with them. But I didn’t want to. I told her I didn’t want to deal with this anymore. I just want it to go away. I want to be normal.

I told my therapist I was having trouble feeling. A sense of physical numbness had taken over me. You could have smacked me in the face right then I wouldn’t feel a thing. She sat next to me and held my hand in hers and tried to get me to feel it, but nothing was there. It took a few minutes of pressure and concentration to get me to feel again. Even then I was still partially numb.

She continued to hold my hand and talk to me. I don’t even remember what we were talking about, when she stopped and asked me if I realized what I was doing just then. I told her no. I had been trying to pull my hand away. She said that it happens a lot when she holds my hand. I never noticed or even thought about it. I had been doing it unconsciously this whole time. She asked me if I had any memories involving my hand. I told her I didn’t. I don’t remember anything like that. Then she talked about body memories and how it could be related to that. I didn’t think I had any body memories. Why would I be pulling my hand away? Why can’t I remember anything about it, but my body does?

At one point, I had become so exhausted that I pulled away and rested my head on the arm of the couch. I don’t remember what my therapist was talking about, but I started to feel panicked so I reached out to hold her hand. I felt like my mother was coming for me. My therapist tried to comfort me and tell me that I was safe. We tried to get my breathing under control so I could relax, and I was eventually able to calm down. It usually takes me a while to get back because I’m used to managing panic attacks on my own. It’s better when someone is there beside you. It’s best if you don’t have them at all.

Towards the end of the session, my therapist brought up what I colored in group yesterday. She asked why I chose to color the word hope in black. I told her I just did. Then she explained that people sometimes try to send nonverbal cues when they aren’t able to or not sure how to say what they need to say out loud. Why can’t a color just be a color? Why does there have to be a meaning behind it?

She was right, though.

In that moment, I felt that hope was dead.

Group workshop

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

I had a group therapy workshop today for my survivor group.

I wish I could have been fully there, but I wasn’t.

I hadn’t slept much the night before. I was fighting off the urge to self-destruct. There was so much commotion going on inside and I couldn’t quiet it down enough to sleep. Before I knew it, it was 4 AM and I had to get up for work. Then the commotion decided to quiet down. I managed to make it through the disastrous work day (everything that could go wrong, went wrong), changed my clothes, and caught the bus to make it to group just in time.

I made it through the first session okay. The next session was a mess. One of the therapists made a statement that no one is 100% evil, and that set something off. The commotion came back. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t even come up with answers. My therapist came over to check on me, but I told her I was okay. I wasn’t. I must have been drifting because she came back with a cup of water and told me to drink. I didn’t want to drink. I wanted the clusterfuck in my head to go away.

We had a break after session and the other therapist told me to stand up and walk around to help get me back to the present. I walked out to the waiting area and my therapist came out and checked on me. I told her I was fine (my default response to any question asking how I am doing). But she knew I wasn’t. She saw me struggling. I told her the voices were back and calling me evil, but that I was just going to ignore them. Then she reminded me that ignoring them hasn’t worked in the past, it only makes them worse.

My therapist didn’t think I was ready to go back to group, so I ended up missing most of the next group session talking to her one-on-one. She told me that I should tell the inside that they can be heard tomorrow during our therapy session, but that right now I had something really important I needed to focus on to help us all get better. I’m not very good at communicating with the inside. I tend to respond out of anger and frustration or ignore them because I just don’t have the energy to negotiate. I also still have trouble acknowledging that I am conversing with intangible parts that exist in my head. How does this not make me crazy?

I eventually went back to session, but my focus still wasn’t there. I was going in and out of it. I was feeling very negative overall and I didn’t want to share my negativity with the group. I couldn’t even think anymore. I just wanted some peace. I just wanted to go to sleep. All I could feel was the nausea that has become so normal for me. I couldn’t even connect to my own body. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to feel anything. I didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that my mother still affects me. I didn’t want to acknowledge that my mother broke me as a child and completely shattered me as an adult.

We ended the group with coloring. Normally I love coloring. This time, I couldn’t get myself to enjoy it. It was too mentally draining. I ended up coloring in a picture of flowers with the word HOPE in the middle. I colored it black, the least hopeful color there is. I don’t even know why I did it. The therapist noticed and asked me about the reason for my color choice, and I shrugged my shoulders. If I could, I would have colored everything black right then.

As I was making sure I had everything before I left, the therapist came out and handed me the coloring set she got for us to color with in the last session. She told me she wanted me to have it. She knew my financial situation isn’t the best. It was such a small gesture but extremely difficult for me to accept. I don’t like receiving help from anyone. That wasn’t the end of it, either. I was so overwhelmed with everything – the session, the gestures of kindness – that when the therapist gave me a hug, I just started to cry. I tried to keep it in, but I couldn’t. I stood there, crying and sniffling into her shoulder as she tried to comfort me. I tried to wipe my tears away before anyone else saw me. Then my therapist came over and asked to hug me and I lost it again. I was such an emotional mess, I was shaking. I had to let go and leave before I completely broke down.

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t know where I wanted to go. But it was getting late and I knew it was dangerous for me to be walking around in the dark half out of it, so I walked home.

I’m still an emotional mess. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. I want to cry, but I’m too tired. I’m hungry, but the nausea is so bad that I can’t eat.

This is another example of how my life changes day by day. I was functioning fine yesterday. Today has been a train wreck. Now I have to see how therapy goes tomorrow. I almost considered not going because I just don’t want to deal right now. But deep down, I know avoiding will get me nowhere.

15 weeks

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

I actually had to check my previous blog posts this time to check which week I’m on.

I’ve gotten myself into a routine here. I no longer need to use Google Maps to figure out where I’m going. I know where all of the bus stops are and what times the buses come each day. I wave to the jogger who passes me by each morning as I walk to the bus stop. I go to a coffee shop every morning before work, order the same coffee (small, iced, black), and read a book (either something by Carl Jung or a book on DID). On days I have therapy, I leave my house a couple of hours before my appointment so I can walk around town. I stop in Dunkin Donuts to pick up my coffee (this time with milk and sugar) and people watch for a half an hour before finally going to therapy. I see many of the same people stopping in week after week, and they see me. A few people have even stopped by my table to talk to me, and I engage in polite conversation.

I walk more now that the weather is cooler. I walk looking ahead of me instead of at the ground. I walk past stores and buildings (the library, the Brazilian market, the craft store) and envision myself going in one day. My anxiety still prevents me from being too spontaneous. I still plan and prepare myself for any new experience, but at least I get myself to the point of letting the experience happen. Before, I was so shut off from everything. But not now.

I’m starting to feel like I belong here. While my living situation isn’t optimal, everything else is more than okay. I haven’t met one person here who hasn’t accepted me for who I am. I don’t have to concern myself with anyone being fed bullshit by my mother because my mother isn’t here. I can finally be myself. And people really seem to like who I am.

It’s almost weird to me to have people think so positively of me. At work, I’ve been receiving outstanding performance reviews. Even on days when I’ve only gotten a couple of hours of sleep the night before or I’m feeling like I want to cry, I still manage to get my work done. I still manage to make my coworkers laugh and smile. I get through it. It’s such a different experience from what I had back home. My therapist suggested that perhaps the difference is because I am not in an environment with my mother. That anxiety and fear are not there. I’m not having to run damage control on any of my coworkers because of something my mother has said about me. I never realized it before, but my therapist was right. Even though I didn’t work side-by-side with my mother, her presence there and her influence on my coworkers affected me. I was always on alert; I had to be.

It’s so difficult to be my own person when up until 15 weeks ago, I wasn’t allowed to be anything. I still think others see more potential in me than I do myself. While I have made some progress, I still find myself stuck in some ways by the effects of my mother’s brainwashing. When I receive compliments, I awkwardly laugh or tell the person they are wrong. My mother’s negative portrayal of me still resides in my head. Compliments feel as if they go against everything I’ve lived with for the last 29 years. But that’s because they do. It’s so fucked up that instead of seeing compliments and positive statements as a normal, acceptable part of life, my mind believes the opposite. Negative comments and criticism are so easily taken in because that has been my norm for so long. Anything else is foreign to me.

Things will get easier in time. Do I wish things were easier now? Sure. I wish I could up and move somewhere I feel safe and secure. But I can’t right now. Do I wish I could work a regular 9-5 job so I could earn more money? Sure. But right now I need to continue my work in therapy, and that requires a decent portion of my time during the week that I can’t give up right now. For once, I have to be the priority in my life. I can’t function in work, in school, or in life without working through all of the shit I’ve dealt with up until 15 weeks ago. I’ve accepted that.

I’ve done a great job at appearing to be alright. A person at work, who knows just a few basic parts of my struggle, told me he would have never known all that I deal with because I seem so normal. While not the best choice of words, I knew exactly what he meant. I don’t want people to know how I am feeling. I even try to hide my emotion from my therapist; I’ve rarely cried in front of her, even though there have been so many times when I just wanted to break down. I have to appear strong and put together. I don’t want people to know my weaknesses. Maybe if I appear strong, I will eventually actually be strong.

I’m taking it one day at a time.

Without a name

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

I’m disappointed in myself.

Apparently a new part came out to my therapist today. I don’t know her (my therapist is assuming she is a girl) name, only that she is 12 years old. I guess she and my therapist talked for a long time because my session ran over two hours. I wish I was there for the conversation.

She told my therapist she thought I was mad at her. I guess she heard(?) my increasing frustration over the last week or so about peeing my pants. I didn’t blame anyone but myself – it’s an issue I’ve dealt with for most of my life, and just as likely for those time periods in which I have no memories of. She took my self-criticizing and I presume believed that I was criticizing her; she told my therapist that she pees herself out of fear.

As my therapist is relaying some of the conversation back to me, I’m sitting on the couch across from her thinking how horrible of a person I am. In criticizing myself, I hurt another part of me in the process. I still have difficulty acknowledging that these parts can hear me. I forget that they are there. I lied. It’s not that I have forgotten. I purposely try to ignore their existence at times because I just don’t want to deal with it. I still refer to myself as I and not we. I don’t talk about my system. I haven’t yet owned my DID. And now, I’ve become just another person who has hurt these parts. I’m sure they’ve been hurt enough. I hate that I have added to their burden. It’s no wonder most of them are in hiding. I’d hide from me, too.

With my background in psychology, I should know better. Yet here I am, damaging my own parts as if they haven’t been damaged enough. There’s no handbook for this. I could read all the books in the world and still not have all the answers. This shit isn’t easy.

I just want a simple life.