For awhile, my life's been literally a crime scene.
I find it retrospectively horrifying how I started to expect the depression, like its cold inhuman limbs walked besides me always, somehow. My body was unable to forget that onetime perch upon a tree where I did nothing but read, in a desperate attempt to ignore, while simultaneously looking down on everyone.
Then here I am again, darling PTSD, I knew you so well once but then I forgot how that experience of forever-in-pain differs.
Trauma resolved feels like the memory of that friend everyone had, at one point—the one who drifted away, got sent to reform school, military school, Catholic school, moved, started doing drugs—where you kinda wish you knew how they were doing but don't care enough to add them on Facebook. Just glad they stayed away.
But in the moment, trauma feels overwhelming, serendipitous, debilitating. It's the gut-wrenching internal despair of serious emotional damage and everything in your mind re-centers around fixing the gaping hole.
And PTSD is reliving it over and over in my brain so I can fix it. It's nearly impossible to believe that I could have forgotten how much better I'd absolutely gotten, but then, here it is again: the encroaching depression renders everything meaningless, disgusting, lifeless.
Ah. I believe again, validating my own experience.
but a moment of despair:
How many unique agonies have been stifled, rejected, ignored? Why must I—why do I remember them now?
Friends are for conversation: fucking reparteé and discussion, half-formed thoughts and thinking out loud, not these fucking broadcast headlines, endless unsupported arguments shouting through the distance.
Réspondez, s'il vous plaît to my text, my IM, my email; reassure me my presence is desired, required, delighted.
I find tumblr, twitter, facebook, vine, youtube——absolutely enthralling but——
Long form personal journalling online is a relic, somehow, and I, at 30, am a dinosaur. A wizened crone. Fabulous. I find this completely hilarious.
I feel, if anything, slightly less intelligent than I did when I started this and only much, much more human.
Less intelligent, less quick, the way intelligence was always described to me, the only way I knew to understand it.
More human, more understanding/compassionate/actually capable of recognizing other points of view (AND the fact that the other people in question believe just as strongly that they are right as I do that I am)—it turns out recognition of consequences has its own consequences.
I can follow a chain of logic, and understand how it's possibly to emotionally believe in it, almost no matter what it is. Turns out that helps me believe I'm worth something because a hell of a lot of abusive bullshit falls down when I could finally see that I'd been programmed to emotionally reject almost everything that was difficult to hear.
The definition of "difficult" seems to differ as an adult.
To myself as a child, I was incapable of believing in things that didn't agree with the other ideas my predominant influences had ... coaxed me into believing. Encouraged. And finally demanded.
They had to be right. They said they were, and they were, from what I saw, at least about the hot stove and the fact that I was smart, that's the only thing anyone ever praised me for, so they had to be right.
I didn't see the consequences of their beliefs; here, in my childhood, it'd probably make more sense if I called those consequences by their true name—contradictions.
The contradictions made things difficult.
When I was a child, I spake as a child. But a teenage girl's fears, hopes, and dreams are a different thing entirely. Nearly that of an adult, from my experience, so I feel uncomfortable comparing childhood directly to adulthood.
Lord, has my internal experience been well documented. I could excoriate myself, could probably make it funny, even, but that's what happens when your inner fantasies are the only places you can conceive of hope existing.
Those inner fantasies feeling like the only place I was loved, little wonder I turned inward while simultaneously feeling like I couldn't bear to examine myself further. I tried to please everyone and no one (myself) at the same time.
As a teenager, they called it lying. Difficult was telling the truth. But I was so good at lying, and if I could just be good at something, anything, the pain would stop, yes, and then——my thoughts became a blank and I would reset. The objective was so crystal clear: finish yr adolescence & stop the pain.
Lying—that stain on my supposed soul, a soul which had always seemed damned to me anyway—was a small price.
I didn't comprehend the consequences. I didn't see how hurting others was hurting myself, how isolating myself and demanding the perfection I had always, always failed to deliver could be the wrong move——schooled by years of my mother's incessant anxiety and my father's instinctive misogyny—and god, how very smart I felt I was.
The contradictions were still there, but hidden. I didn't believe that I could feel bad as a result of other people's actions——I was simply meant to feel bad, and so I did. Why was I meant to feel bad? Because I did.
I didn't understand the connections—the consequences.
At this point in time, I feel like I have to do two contradictory things... start writing more jokes and start taking the abilify.
Concurrently, writing as a supposed adult—I feel I must have faith to get up in the mornings. At this point, I can only define faith as hope in the outcome of my actions.
I suppose you could call that faith the natural result of admitting my previous mistakes, seeing that there is something outside of myself which I hadn't previously accounted for, but I prefer not to think of consequences now the way all adults seemed to when I was a child and they were claiming I didn't have it: common sense.
Wisdom, when they needed to sound mysterious for a child they sensed would buy it. The word nearly fits this Comprehension, excepting that I disbelieve I'm capable of retaining such a vaunted commodity.
Acquiring, well, I'll try anything once.
Then again, after I forget.