PTSD

Silenced in shame

~ KJ ~ 6 Comments

I tend to be a very open person. I tell my therapist nearly everything on my mind and in my heart, good and bad, happy and sad. I’ve shared my thoughts and experiences with others by writing this blog.

But something came about last week that I could not talk or write about. The memories left me confused, angry, and ashamed. I hated myself. I hated the world. And I couldn’t tell anyone about it because I feared that would only make it worse.

When I went to my therapy session on Thursday, I tried to deflect talking about everything I was feeling by denying everything. And by everything, I mean everything. I told my therapist I had a good life, no trauma, and no problems. I didn’t want to deal with any of this shit anymore. But denying it doesn’t make it go away. I could’ve said I had a good life until I was blue in the face, but it wouldn’t have changed the fact that I was seething on the inside.

I finally admitted to my therapist that I was full of anger, but I could not tell her why. It’s not that I didn’t know; it’s that I didn’t want to talk about it. She traced back the last few days trying to pinpoint when and where my feelings originated. I went over each minor detail of my life starting with Thursday morning and working backwards. Eventually I muttered “I checked Facebook.” That was when it all began.

I didn’t expect to feel anything when I checked Facebook that time. Then, I read a status that came up in my Facebook memories from six years ago about being admitted to the hospital. I instantly realized what happened in the days after I wrote that status. I felt as if I were right back in 2010, going through it all again.

My therapist asked me what happened and I burst into tears. All of emotions came pouring out and I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t even tell her all that happened. I told her that I cried for help and no one helped me. No one knew what had just gone on just minutes before the nurse came in my room. No one could translate my cries of desperation. No one could feel the pain I was in, the disgust and shame I was filled with. No one. I was completely helpless. I was entirely ashamed.

I remember laying in my hospital bed day after day just wanting to go. I couldn’t even eat. The numerous visits from nutritionists could not take away the sickness that was eating away at me from the inside. I was so disgusted with myself. I felt so unclean. I couldn’t shower for weeks, which only magnified how gross I felt. I wanted to scrub away the dirty. But no shower would have been enough. Nothing would have been enough.

It was at that point, after that incident, that I realized that nothing would ever stop my mother. She was sick; sicker than I had ever imagined. In my most helpless state, she took complete advantage of me, all the while putting on an Academy award-worthy performance of a concerned mother. No one knew how badly I needed to be protected from her. Instead, they inadvertently helped her terrorize me. I was completely alone. Despite the numerous flowers and gifts, and visits from coworkers and friends, I felt isolated and alone. Physically, my heart was trying to give out on me. Emotionally, my heart was already dead.

Despite my realization that my mother was (and still is) sick, I blame myself for what happened. I could have told her to stop. I could have gotten away. I could have told the nurses. But I didn’t do any of that. I let it happen. That’s all I could tell my therapist. I let it happen. As if I could have done anything to stop her. I had an oxygen mask, a heart monitor, and numerous IVs, but yet I expected myself to, in some way, fight back or resist; something I had never done before when I was in much better physical condition.

My therapist reassured me that there was no way I could have stopped her. I did what I could in that moment. It wasn’t my fault. But part of me was still angry. Part of me was still disgusted and ashamed. I left session that day wanting to destroy the world. All of that anger I was holding on to for so long was trying to get out.

But I couldn’t direct it at my mother. So I directed it at the branches I passed by on my walk home; the branches I ripped out from the bushes and broke into pieces, much in the same way I felt my heart had been ripped out and broken into pieces. I smoked, but not even 100 cigarettes wouldn’t calm me down. I drank, but no amount of alcohol would wash away my disgust.

It was only in today’s session, nearly a week after my memories and feelings resurfaced, that I was able to tell my therapist a piece of what happened to me that day. I still find myself overwhelmed with shame. I still fear that other people would not understand. I still fear that other people would think it was my fault. My therapist asked if there was anything she could do to lessen the shame. But I don’t know. As much as I know I need to talk about it, I can’t. Not even to the person I trust the most. I remained silenced in shame.

PAFPAC Support Forum

~ KJ ~ Leave a comment

The PAFPAC support forum for survivors of female-perpetrated abuses is up and running. There are a few members, but no one is really comfortable with posting yet. If you are a survivor of any type of female-perpetrated abuse, please consider joining the PAFPAC Support Forum.

It is a private forum, so you will need to ‘apply’ – I receive a notification and can approve you the same day. This is so members feel more comfortable sharing and it helps weed out people who may be there for the wrong reasons. The forum is really for anything, not just talk about abuse, but also healing and everyday struggles.

If you or anyone you know can benefit, please pass on the information.

Thank you.

 

Is it over yet?

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

The stress of the holidays is starting to sink in, and I just want December to be over with already.

As I sat and waited for the bus earlier today, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to smoke a cigarette. I haven’t picked up a cigarette in months. I miss the way it calms my nerves. I don’t miss the damage it does to my already damaged lungs.

I had my therapy session today. I was on edge because I will be missing the next few sessions due to the holiday and scheduling conflicts. I have never gone without therapy for that long since I’ve moved here, and I’m scared.

I shared some of my more recent Christmas experiences with my therapist, what my mother did and how she reacted. My mother turned everything around and made herself the victim and me the offender. My therapist called it gaslighting – a term I have heard before. At the time, it was difficult for me to see her behavior for what it was. Now, I understand it more clearly. It still angers me.

I’ve been having trouble with intrusive memories and flashbacks during the last few days. I think I inadvertently triggered myself with last week’s focus on gifts. It was a memory I never had before. I don’t even want to bring it up for fear of going through it again. I told my therapist the details of the memory and I could feel myself slipping a little. Even though on an intellectual level, I know that gifts aren’t meant to be taken back and aren’t meant to be a tool to use someone, there is still someone inside that is scared that it is going to happen again. My therapist said I wouldn’t have to worry about that happening anymore.

At this time, I was still on shaky ground and I started to lose focus on what my therapist was saying. All I could hear were the cries of a child asking if mommy was coming back and I started to lose it. My therapist could tell I was struggling to stay present and asked if it would be better to talk about my organization. I couldn’t even answer her right away. All I could say was “I can’t deal with this right now” and try to bury my head in my sweatshirt.

My therapist asked me what was going on and I told her what was happening inside. She walked me through explaining that we were safe now and that I was trying to protect everyone. I tried so hard not to break down and cry. I have a such a difficult time when it comes to the littles. I’m not good at being a parent. I’m not good at soothing younger parts because the whole concept is foreign to me. After a few minutes of my therapist trying to calm us down, the crying stopped and I was able to focus again.

I’m not looking forward to the next week. None of my parts are on the same page. Christmas is traumatic for some of us. Some of us don’t understand why we’re not home. Some of us are excited and want to do Christmas-y things. I just want to bury my head in the sand until Christmas is over.

I wish other people would understand why I am so back-and-forth about Christmas. I really just want to stay in my room the whole day and sleep. I don’t have a family now, and I don’t want to pretend to be someone else’s family. I don’t want to have any more flashbacks. I don’t want to fear checking the mail and finding a Christmas card from my family.

Christmas isn’t joyful for me. It’s terrifying.

A much needed return to therapy

~ KJ ~ Leave a comment

I admit it.

I can barely handle going an entire week without a therapy session.

My wallet would certainly approve of one therapy session a week. But for right now, my life is still a little bit of a mess and I need more therapy than normal. And that’s okay.

I brought my list with me, but I ended up being able to remember most of what I wanted to discuss. We were able to tackle the most notable events of the past week. I saved a couple of topics for the next session, but they aren’t too serious so I can handle waiting a couple more days.

I told her about my experience on Black Friday that led to the panic attack and flashbacks. Even though it took hours, I managed to finally calm myself down completely. I told her how my coworkers reacted and responded to my needs. I guess I was fortunate in that way, because some people would not be understanding at all. It happens that there is another worker there with PTSD (combat-related), and people at work weren’t really knowledgeable about it. I used it as an opportunity to explain what PTSD is, what causes it, and what can happen, and I think that was helpful for all of us.

My therapist asked me if I had dissociated at all during the incident. I told her I didn’t think that I did, but I couldn’t be 100% sure because I was feeling so chaotic. She said I handled it well, that I knew what I needed to do so it wouldn’t get worse and I was able to assert my needs. I did tell her that I may have dissociated at work in the days prior. On Thursday, a few coworkers asked me if I was okay, because they said I was “out of it” and fumbling around the day before. I remember the earlier parts of my day just fine, and I remember walking to work and starting my shift. I don’t really remember anything specific after that, which makes me think that I did dissociate.

This prompted my therapist to ask if any of my coworkers know about the DID. I have one coworker that knows, only because he found my blog and read it. He doesn’t really know what DID is, and I haven’t made any wholehearted attempts to explain it to him or to anyone at work. My therapist reminded me that I was able to explain about PTSD and had positive results with that. I told her I found PTSD easier to explain than DID. I think that DID needs to be explained through a process. If you try to explain everything in one sitting, you are going to overwhelm a person. I feel like I would need to give out a few tidbits at a time and see how people react to them, and then go from there.

Disclosing and explaining DID is just not something I’m ready for yet. Oddly enough, one of the managers made a comment about her other personality coming out (which had a name) and made jokes about it the other day. I felt a little uncomfortable, but I tried to be understanding in that most people just don’t know about DID and how those comments could be offensive. With that being said, the only way they would know those comments could be offensive is if they knew the reality of DID. I just don’t want to be one of those people who are labelled as sensitive because they find everything offensive. I try to understand both sides, I really do. But I also recognize that, in my attempts at understanding, I am also perpetuating the lack of knowledge about DID by staying silent.

We moved on to discussing graduate school. I completed Monday night of last week and finalized my application that Tuesday night. I’m still stressing about how I am going to be able to handle everything, especially financially. I can use loans to help ease the financial burden, but it’s not going to be enough to live on. I will still have to work, and quite possibly get an extra job if I am cut back to part-time after the holidays. I’m pretty good at stretching a dollar. I can live on little food (one benefit of the bullshit I went through as a child), and have been managing quite well doing that. I’ve been selling some of my things for extra money. But I still know that realistically, I’m not that far away from financial hardship. It’s nearly impossible to get benefits or assistance when you are single and childless, so even if I wanted to go that route, I can’t. Maybe I just need to play the lottery.

Despite the chaos that I still see my life as being, my therapist thinks I have made so much progress, even in the last couple of months. She brought up possibly restarting the trauma-focused therapy, more specifically delving back into the mother-daughter sexual abuse…the same subject that led us to stop intense therapy more than two months ago. I wasn’t expecting her to bring it up. After thinking about it for a minute, I did agree that I was in a different place. I still don’t think I’ve made as much progress as she thinks I have, but I also know that my self-perception is a little distorted. I told her I would be okay with trying it and seeing how it affects me. If it sends me back to a bad place, then we can take another break. I don’t expect miracles. I don’t expect to be emotionless.

We’re starting next session.

This shit is hard.

Physical boundaries

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

I have been extremely busy this past week. I have a lot to write about, but I haven’t had the chance to sit down and type it all out.

I had a bad experience at work earlier today. A woman came up from behind me and grabbed my arm. I tried my best to remain calm, but I felt myself slipping into a panic attack and snuck to the back where no one would see me. I sat for a few minutes, shaking and crying, trying to breathe and trying not to throw up, trying to block out the intrusive memories that were trying to flood my brain.

Eventually I went back out to the floor, but I was still out of it. I just wanted to keep myself occupied hoping that the flashbacks would go away. A coworker came by and he knew right away something wasn’t right. I told him what happened and he stayed by me trying to get me to calm down. My manager was walking towards me and saw by my face that I wasn’t okay. He asked me if I wanted to go to the back, but I told him I didn’t want to. I needed to be out and doing something. I was certain that sitting idle would only make it worse.

Fortunately I had less than an hour left of work when this incident happened. I was still having flashbacks, and I was still intermittently crying, but I was trying my best to keep myself together. I felt myself drifting while I was on the bus home. I tried to keep myself engaged in something to keep myself grounded. I put my earphones in and listened to Pandora on my phone. I tried to focus on each car that we passed by.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to wait for the next bus. I bought some hard candy from the drug store hoping it would help distract me. I walked all the way home, crying and breathing like I was about to go into lanor. I kept walking despite my pain and exhaustion, because at that time, I couldn’t even acknowledge the pain in my feet. I was teetering between two worlds: reality, and where my mind believed me to be.

I’m still on edge. The flashbacks have subsided for the most part, but my mind is still not entirely back to the present. I’m exhausted, but part of me fears that sleep will bring nightmares, so I’m avoiding it as long as possible.

I just wish people would be aware of personal boundaries. It doesn’t matter that I have a history of trauma. No one should grab another person like that, especially someone you don’t know.

I wish I didn’t have to break when somebody touches me.

19 weeks

~ KJ ~ 2 Comments

As I sat here preparing to write this post, I asked myself when I would stop counting the weeks of my freedom.

The truth is, I’m still amazed that I’ve managed to keep it together and stay alive each week that passes by. I still struggle every day. Cutting myself off from my abusers and starting a new life away from everyone and everything did not mean that all of my problems were left behind with them. I admit, part of me believed that leaving would solve everything. Leaving doesn’t cure you; it only heals a very small part of a very large wound that you have to continue to treat, or that wound will get infected.

I realized yesterday that my PTSD is still affecting my life. There was a series of noises downstairs (which I later attributed to the cat) last night that instantly made my heart race. I started to panic and shake each time I heard the noise again, with the most irrational thoughts going through my mind. I couldn’t sleep because every little noise would startle me awake. The noise doesn’t even have to be loud; thanks to hyperarousal, even the slightest noise in the distance will startle me and I begin to fear the worst. I still panic when the phone rings or when I get a text from an unknown number. I still have flashbacks. I still have PTSD.

It’s been difficult for me to get things done this past week. My poor eating habits have caught up to me again and have left me drained of energy. I stopped taking my vitamins months ago because I thought I wouldn’t need them anymore. I’ve noticed for the past couple of weeks that I’m starting to have the same symptoms I had last year before I was hospitalized for malnutrition. I still had my plethora of vitamin prescriptions, so I started taking them again. I tried to eat more, but eating has resulted in me getting physically sick. Intellectually I know it’s because I haven’t eaten, but part of me tries to blame the sickness on food so I can continue the cycle of not eating.

I’m also dealing with a lot of physical pain. The foot that I broke a few months back has become increasingly painful to walk on. I’m assuming it has a lot to do with being on my feet longer hours at work and walking more. I’ve been taking pain relievers on a regular schedule, but they provide minimal relief. I know that eventually I am going to need to go to the doctor. I’m also a bit overdue for the surgery on my other foot. I was supposed to have it this past summer, but with everything going on, I didn’t make it a priority. I don’t even want to make it a priority now.

During our last session, my therapist asked me why I didn’t want to do something that would relieve even just some of my pain. I thought about it for a minute, and I realized that I’ve been in pain for so long, that pain has become my normal. I’ve learned to live with pain in all of its forms. I had to in order to survive, and even now that I have methods of improvement, I don’t take advantage of them. I have to wonder if part of me believes that I deserve to suffer.

I’ll manage, though. I always have before. I will continue to now.

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.

14 weeks

~ KJ ~ 4 Comments

Today marks 14 weeks of freedom.

Sometimes I still question what the hell I’m doing here. I wish I could say my situation is ideal, but it isn’t. I’m living on savings. I’m still paying off my family’s debts. I made the decision to apply to grad school for the spring semester so I can take out loans to help support myself. It was one of the options my therapist brought up to me, and the most doable. I will still have time to manage my own mental health without completely exhausting myself. I can start trying to relate to those parts of me that need attention, attention that I just haven’t had the energy to give. I just need to stay on top of myself and make sure I finish the application in time, because otherwise I’m screwed.

My living situation is a mess at times. There are times when it’s okay. Then there are times when I am scared to be here. My roommate got herself into a situation the other night and yelled my name out to help her. It was the middle of the night. I had already heard them fighting before that and tried to keep myself grounded. When she yelled for me, I froze. Then I realized I had wet my pants…something I hadn’t done for weeks and had just told my therapist about it like it was the biggest accomplishment ever. In that moment, I’m not sure my mind knew that I wasn’t a child, that I wasn’t back at home, and that it wasn’t my mother yelling my name. I was in fear. So I cleaned myself up and left without saying a word. I didn’t even check to see if she was okay. I wasn’t even okay.

I guess I should be grateful to be out of my previous home situation, but I never intended to throw myself into a different unsafe situation. Maybe this is just the norm. Maybe my hope of one day living in peace is just a dream that can’t be fulfilled. I don’t know. I’ve been through enough already. Why do I keep getting hit with more? When do I get a break? Sometimes it seems more worthwhile to end up in jail. I’m already used to it. For now, I’ve resorted to wearing a Superman beanie to bed. I realize it’s a very child-like response to the things that have happened, but it’s a false sense of security that is working for me in the moment. Superman will protect me.

Today also happens to be my brother’s birthday. I’m not even sure why I care. Perhaps because it was so hard to ignore the disparity between how my brother’s birthdays were celebrated and how mine were. My brother always got what he wanted. He still does. My mother always forced me to buy him a birthday gift, even though I never wanted to celebrate him. I hated him. I hated how he was honored, yet when my birthday rolled around, it was just another day. I actually grew to hate my birthdays for a while until my friends at work started celebrating it like it should have been celebrated by my own family. Then, it didn’t matter to me how my family treated me on that day, because my friends and coworkers would always do enough to make me feel wanted.

I almost feel bad for my brother. Here he is now, in his mid-late 30s, still being controlled by our mother. He doesn’t understand that there is life without her. She doesn’t own him. She is not his wife (though she continuously acts as if she is). He is still following mommy’s orders like he is six years old. I will admit, his willingness to comply likely saved him a lot of pain in childhood. I got the brunt of the abuse because there was always a part of me that wanted to rebel, that wanted to go against my mother. I think my mother knew that, which is why she kept me under such tight control, yet allowed my brother a little more freedom. My brother did whatever she would say. He would believe anything she said. If she claimed the sky was green, he would eagerly agree with her. I could never do that, even as a child. It ended up causing me a lot more pain and anguish. Perhaps it would have been better for me to just comply like a good little soldier. But then where would I be? Like my brother? My brother is not free. He may very well never be free until the day she dies.

But I’m free. My mother no longer controls me. I may have a lot more scars than my brother, and a few more (diagnosed) psychological problems. But I’m free. I’m intelligent, I have a decent head on my shoulders, a good moral compass, and a sense of responsibility; all things my brother lacks. While the lack of those things may have saved him from some pain, it has only prolonged his prison sentence. I’ve been exonerated, and I’m never going back.

13 weeks (and one less job)

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

I’ve made it 13 weeks. Thirteen grueling weeks.

I spent most of today laying in bed, and by most, I mean I just got out of bed about 10 minutes ago. I was that physically and mentally exhausted. I should be at work right now, but I can’t work there any more. I made it three days before I realized what a bad decision it was.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle the physical demands of the job. The job itself was easy; probably a little too easy. It was a popular baby store. It didn’t even cross my mind that there would ever be an issue for me. My therapist asked me before I started the job if I was sure being in that environment wasn’t going to be triggering to me. I didn’t think it was, so I brushed it off as a non-issue. I didn’t have any problems the first day because I was in the back doing training. The second day was slow and I was kind of out of it a little, but I bounced back. Yesterday was a nightmare. I lost complete control. I couldn’t stop crying; it got so bad sometimes I had to run to the bathroom. The nausea was so intense, I thought for sure I was going to puke. I felt like I was floating away. I don’t even think I heard half of what was going on, I was just trying so hard to make it through the night. It is exhausting trying to stay grounded for a few minutes. Imagine trying to stay grounded for a few hours.

When I finally made it home, I broke down completely. I couldn’t stop crying. I could barely open my eyes because my face was so swollen. I couldn’t handle being bombarded with all of these happy families, with mothers proudly holding their babies and toddlers. What happened to me that my mother hated me so much from the start? What did I do that these children didn’t? Why did I miss out? I won’t ever be able to experience what it’s like to be loved by a mother, or even by a family. And now I was being constantly reminded of it every few minutes at work. It just wasn’t going to work out.

My roommate heard me crying and made me open the door. By this time it was well after 11 o’clock at night. I was so exhausted, which just made me cry even more. My roommate tried to comfort me. She told me I didn’t have to work there if it was going to mess up all of the progress I’ve made (what progress?). She said I wasn’t a failure if I quit. But I wasn’t having it. Still crying. She took me outside for some air and a cigarette (smoking used to be one of the few things that calmed my nerves before I quit). We tried to figure out the best way to go about it. She said she would go there for me and explain everything if I wanted her to. Instead, she called me out of work today just so I could have a day to think. I was finally able to stop crying, or it could have just been that I ran out of tears. We came inside and she told me to stay and watch a movie to clear my head a little bit.

By 1:30, I had been awake more than 21 hours and I knew I couldn’t fight it anymore, so I went upstairs. I checked my e-mail and saw that my therapist had e-mailed me back. I e-mailed her in the middle of my breakdown out of desperation. I must say, it’s a privilege not only to have a therapist who willingly deals with my shit, but also one who answers e-mails at 1 o’clock in the morning. Some of the things she wrote were the same things my roommate was trying to tell me. She wrote that it is not a failure to admit that this work isn’t the best place for me right now, and that I’m still grieving the loss of the family I never had.

“Success is not rigidly adhering to a plan that is not working.  Your mental health is more important than that particular job, and for you, I would count a decision to value yourself and your healing process as a success. There are other jobs you can take.  There is only one Crystalie, and she is worth protecting.”

I’m still having trouble seeing this as a success. I’ve never had to quit a job before, let alone quit one like this with no notice. I don’t even think I can tell them face-to-face because I will just break down again. I considered writing a note and slipping it under the door tomorrow while the store is closed so I don’t have to see anyone. I just don’t want anyone to hold it against me. I don’t expect them to understand. I don’t expect anyone to understand. I don’t even understand it myself. Things like this shouldn’t bother me. I shouldn’t have to leave a job because I can’t mentally handle being there. This isn’t me. This isn’t who I should be.

So now I need to reassess my life once again. I am going to take a couple of weeks and figure out what the hell I can do to survive, because this isn’t going to work long-term. I absolutely refuse assistance of any kind. I am capable of working. I am capable of supporting myself. I don’t want help. I just want to be normal. I want to be able to experience the world without experiencing a flashback, or a breakdown, or dissociation.

My heart hurts more than anything right now.

I just want the pain to go away.