What do I deserve?

I don’t know what I deserve.

I was abused for 29 years and 4 months of my life and then I ran away, thinking that would surely be the end of it.

But then I found myself in a situation that is in some ways eerily similar to my past life. And it sets off panic inside me. So much so that I chose to run away from my life last night.

I’m breaking down at work. I’m breaking down at school. I’m breaking down in the bathroom. I’m breaking down everywhere. And I don’t need to be.

There’s so much I need to write about. So much I need to think about. But I can barely write because I am without a computer right now. It seems like everything happens at once, and then God likes to throw you some random extra thing just to fuck with you a little more.

I’m hanging on by a very thin thread. Very. Thin. Thread.

As I sit here at my favorite coffee shop, waiting out of the cold before I start work in half an hour or so, I’m thinking to myself how long am I going to make myself suffer?

I am running on two hours of sleep. I’ve just used up the last of my gift card for a small iced coffee that I am hoping will be enough to get me through my next eight hour shift at work. I have a case report due for my psychopathology class today, and a discussion on consultation for my ethics class due as well. And I’m already running on empty. The sun has just risen, and I’m already dead.

And this isn’t the first time. I go through this over and over again, telling myself that things will change, that people will change. But nothing changes. I have to change. I have to realize that I have enough worth in this world and I have to make a change. I don’t deserve the life I’m leading right now.

I have so much going on. It may not seem like a lot to some, but it’s a lot to me. I work a job that I really happen to enjoy, with coworkers that I really have grown to appreciate, love, and care for. I don’t care if you think it’s not a real job just because I don’t make more than you. I wake up every morning and go to work and earn a paycheck. I write my blog every other week. That’s real work to me, too. It matters and it makes a difference in others’ lives. And I deserve to be able to write my articles with a clear mind and in a decent environment. I should be able to move forward with my advocacy work, but I keep falling behind because I’m so exhausted and stressed out from everything else going on in my life that could probably be avoided. And school. Grad school is a lot of work. And I bring my books and my laptop to work just so I can get a few moments of clear thinking in because I just never know what life will bring to me elsewhere.

I’m fucking tired. I deserve peace and solitude and respect and love and care and decency and all of those positive things, but my situation is holding me back from that and it needs to change.

I just need energy, strength, courage, and maybe a rich husband.

Some exhaustion, some progress, and some reluctance to acknowledge my reality

I know I haven’t blogged in quite a few days, which is not the norm for me.

I started my second out-of-the-house job this week. There are some days that I leave my house at 5:30 in the morning to work at my first job and won’t get home until 10:30 or 11 o’clock at night when I finish my second job. It doesn’t leave me with much time for anything, but we’ll see how long I can function like this before having a total meltdown (because let’s face it, one is bound to happen). I take my laptop with me so I am able to work on my blogs in the two-hour gap between jobs. I’m also in the middle of grad school applications, trying to figure out how to write my essay and who to get letters of recommendation from. So, yea, it’s been a little hectic to say the least.

On top of all of that, I have really been trying to take steps towards managing my DID. My therapist and I have been working on finding healthier ways for Anna and Charlie to let out their tension and anger. I had no concept of how ‘normal’ children do this, so I cheated and used Google. I decided that Play Doh would be good for Anna. She can squish it, throw it, rip it up…do whatever she wants with it. It’s age appropriate for her. Charlie was more difficult. As I was writing an e-mail to my therapist about it, I wrote “I think the only thing that would make Charlie feel any better is to hit something, but that’s not healthy.” My therapist then followed up with a suggestion for a literal punching bag. It made sense. I didn’t even think of it. So, after my shift yesterday, I went to a sporting goods store to look and see what they had. I ended up walking out with a free-standing heavy bag (which works, so I won’t have to hang anything from anywhere), gloves, and hand wraps. By the time I lugged that thing home on two buses plus a mile walk, I was exhausted. I still made myself put it together, though. It took me a couple of hours, but I did it. I may have pushed myself a little too hard, but I hope that Charlie knows that I did it for him. Heck, I might even use it myself.

Once I got everything cleaned up last night, I sat on my bed and looked around my room. I thought to myself how perplexing this room would look to a stranger. Coloring books and crayons in one corner. A nightstand with a tower of psychology books and books on DID right next to some canisters of Play Doh. A bed with a floral comforter and an array of stuffed animals resting against the wall. A giant body image poster behind my door, with “HATE” written in bold letters across the face. Paper doggies adorning a tower of totes in one corner. And now, a punching bag in the last corner. How could this all possibly be for one person? All of these items, so different, yet all important to me and my parts.

Now I just need to tell Charlie and Anna that these things are there for them. My therapist told me to just tell them that they’re there when they need them and I just gave her a look. It’s still weird for me to acknowledge having a conversation with something/someone intangible. While I talk to Charlie, it’s always an inner dialogue in my head, never out loud, and never anything complicated. I also feel like telling Anna especially means that I am acknowledging that she exists, and that is hard for me. I know my actions show that I am accepting, or I wouldn’t be going out of my way to make sure Anna and Charlie have what they need. But mentally, there is still a wall there that I am reluctant to break down.

I am hoping that my need to work doesn’t interfere with my need to take care of myself and my parts. I need to be able to know when it’s getting too much for us to handle.