Search the Community
Showing results for tags 'SI'.
Found 3 results
It’s been two years. Two years of crying at the drop of a hat, two years of wincing anytime I’m touched, two years of fighting to survive. Everyday in those two years I have held back tears when someone looks like you, when I realize what was taken. Two years isn’t a long time, but for me it’s been excruciating. I know your eyes still light up, and I know that you can smile and mean it. Meanwhile, every small smile takes more energy than it should. Every time I laugh, it sounds fake, it feels fake. When I get that moment of calm, not needing to run around to deal with all that keeps me busy, I waste that moment on you. I waste that moment wondering where you are, if you are near me, if you are planning your revenge. I wonder how that crooked smile, that tooth gap and the ridiculous tattoos could ever hide this evil. You got into my head, you made me feel special. You took every part of me I had never given anyone, and instead of keeping me together, you threw everything out the window. You smashed me with your hammer and made sure there was no whole pieces left. Every time I cry, every time I sleep, you are there. You are there making me feel useless, making me feel unremarkable. You are making sure I cannot stand on my own, making sure I can barely stand at all. I may never truly see you again, but you’re there in every man who walks near me, in every person who threatens me. Your reign will never end, your power much stronger than you get credit for. For someone who has no intelligence, you are smart enough to control me, control me from your apartment in another state. I cannot keep tabs on you, you made sure of that but you, you can keep tabs on everything I do, no matter how much I try to hide, no matter how strong I get. You will always have the upper hand. You will always be the reason I cry at night, the reason why my happiness is hanging on by a thread, one you can cut at any time. You hold my entire being in your incapable hands, you stand by ready to destroy me again, ready to break me completely. You wait for me to take my last breath, so you know you did your worst. Some days I want to just give in and give you this satisfaction, others I fight tooth and nail just to avoid the sharp edge of my old friend.
I will not go into graphic details of any sort here, but there may be some triggers for SI, suicidal thoughts, and possibly for swearing, because I don't have the energy to censor myself tonight. Sometimes I sleep. Usually people have to encourage, cajole, beg, demand, insist or outright force me to do so, but sometimes I just sleep. Sometimes I can be convinced or can convince myself, for months on end, to sleep every night like a good girl, regardless of the horror I find myself facing, or the bruises and scratches I wake up with at times, or the periodic full days of feeling exactly as I did the days after each of the rapes. Sometimes I can be strong and sleep anyway. Even when I sleep "well" I sleep exceptionally lightly; my therapists have called it hypervigilence and told me is is a typical part of the PTSD. That's very comforting when I wake up 479,358 times in any given night because of frogs farting eight blocks away. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, either on my own or because my friend has woken me. He stays on Skype and listens, sometimes all night long. When he wakes me from a nightmare and talks to me soothingly, I usually feel incredibly fortunate to have such an amazing friend, someone who cares for me enough to make such an astronomical sacrifice to ease a little of my suffering. I can't help feeling guilty, though, because my nightmares have an impact on our friendship, and on him. Just as I imagine it would be for any two people who care for each other a great deal, my suffering is hard for him to witness. Tonight I woke because my friend awakened me. I was apparently having a particularly violent nightmare, reliving past traumas in new ways, my mind ever finding neoteric methods of torment for me, rife with historical inaccuracy. He said he had a hard time waking me; I can tell I must have been very deeply asleep because I have several sore red marks that will probably be bruises in the morning, and also a handful of long scratches. I could not feel the immense gratitude I usually feel, or the relief, or the safety... Tonight I just felt anger and frustration and desolation. Tonight I just wanted to give up. The prospect of facing even one more of these nightmares is so overwhelming, I simply do not want to continue. When I was enduring the abuses and events in my life that led up to this point, I always had this idea that if I could somehow divorce my mind from my body and become this ephemeral, amorphous thing, this purely astral being, I would finally be safe and feel whole. Now that my life is within my control and the abuses have all ended, I find myself looking at my situation in this sick paradoxical state... if I could only divorce my mind from my body and be a purely physical being, without thought or fear or abusive limbs in REM sleep, if, if, if. I start to feel sorry for myself, and I think back over the nightmares I have had at other times. Forget the traumas themselves, and all the work I have put into healing; forget the years I have put between myself and the sick people who did these things. The nightmares are the one thing that never let me forget or really move forward; they are like vice strong cold hands around my wrists and ankles, and the experience is like being raped over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over again. The two worst kinds of nightmares are the ones where I am reliving almost exactly, but my body responds in an awful way that makes me feel a sick shame and hatred of myself that often leads to doing self injurious things; and the second worst type of nightmare is a sort that blends two separate types of traumas from my life, a break-in and the rapes, into this new kind of terror. I used to think the worst nightmare was the sort where I did not recall what had happened at all, and I woke feeling more run down than if I had not slept at all, and covered in bruises over my thighs and abdomen and arms, but those seem to have fallen away some, and I am remembering most of the nightmares I am having, and... I would trade them in gladly. This sorrow for my inability to sleep, for my inability to be "normal," to have "normal" relationships because I can't even begin to broach the topic of sleeping with someone (among other things), it wears me down. Today I feel incredibly suicidal. I lay in bed for awhile after the nightmare and cried, images in my mind of my own demise sort of superimposed or flip-book inserted with the nightmare images. I wonder frequently if there is any point in continuing. I don't like to think of myself as weak, or as a quitter, but... years of going without sleep, feeling like a freak, waking with injuries, and reliving horror just... eats at the soul. My friend tells me there is this therapy I have never heard of before called EMDR (short for Eye Movement Desensitization Reprogramming), and it is specifically geared toward people with PTSD. I am a bit dubious, but I'm sort of at a point where I will try standing on my head covered in chickens blood while reciting Sutras in reverse if I thought it would just make my head quiet down. So, I had two hours of sleep, and I am probably up for the day, because I can't face my pillows, or my blankets. My puppy cuddles me and licks my thigh because he knows this routine, and when I pick him up and drench his fur with my tears, he'll forgive me, and because of him, maybe we'll make it until tomorrow.
:blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: I drank. I smoked. I sucked a friend off, he returned the favor. I really appreciate that especially since he's straight. And now I have to wear long sleeves. I never had to wear long sleeves before other than weather. I defiled my arm with an ink pen. My friend watched me do this. he's a bit of a sociopath and hurting myself kind of turns me on too. My day is complete.