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Found 5 results

  1. I had never experienced a complete lack of appetite like this before. At first my stomach burned, but after a week the sharp empty pain in my belly let up. I knew I needed to eat, I wasn't trying to die, but I didn't feel hungry for anything. I forced myself to eat once a day. No biggie, I thought to myself. It's not like I don't have belly jiggle to lose. Who cares if I lose a little bodyfat? That's not what happened though. The ache in my belly was replaced by a burning in my legs. My thigh muscles felt like they were on fire. My calf muscles have shrunk. A pair of thick knee-high grey and red wool socks that used to fit snug around my calves now sags down around my ankles. I've lost a major amount of muscle. Glutes, thighs, calves. My legs have gone missing. I didn't care enough about myself to care that I was hungry or uncomfortable. It was more like, up 'til now I took care of myself as an afterthought or while I was in the process of caring for others. I'd stopped cooking. I was so chronically exhausted that I just ate canned food. Most of the time I didn't even bother to heat it up. Cooking had been an act of love. A way to show the people around you that you care. Feeding others was one of my go to ways to show love. The realization that I never really learned how to value myself. I never learned how to love myself enough to care that I was wasting away. I didn't love myself enough to care that I was so deeply uncomfortable. To care that the muscles in my lower body were shriveling up and dissolving away. My once strong legs were now shakey when I did get out of bed. Walking to the bathroom felt like running a marathon. I felt unsteady and fragile physically and mentally. The shame of not knowing how to love me. Of never having learned how to love myself. I was a fraud. Thinking with a depressed brain made this feel worse. It magnified the shame. I was a fraud and I am a fraud. I have cared for babies and kids, old ladies and teenagers, but I don't know how to care for me? Well, just look at me. I'm a trainwreck. I wouldn't trust me to plantsit right now. I'm too deep in the muck. "You can't love anyone else until you learn to love yourself." Yea, that saying is BS. You can't take care of others unless you take care of yourself first, sure...ok...I'll buy that line. But love, no. It's totally possibly to love someone and not really care that much about yourself at all. To not have ever learned to love yourself. I call bullshit on that saying. I hated goals, they seemed so pointless. Why have a goal if it seemed like whenever you really wanted something, had your heart set on it, it was the job of every adult to put up hurdle after hurdle? Don't get me wrong, I still accomplished things, I just thought capital G Goals were for someone else. They were for little girls who had moms who dressed them carefully and did their ponytails before sending them off to girl scout meetings. I thought of myself as endlessly more flexible than that. My own superpower was that I adapted to anything. I rolled with the punches. I changed plans suddenly when I was unexpectedly left in charge of Lb and Ls and about a hundred cousins. "Don't worry, RR can handle it." My mother's voice rang in my head. And you know what? I did handle it. Because I had to. Because who else was going to do it? Goals were stupid. My goal that I wanted to be comfortable was stupid. When the fuck was that ever going to happen? Why did I even think it was possible in the first place? For a long time now I've considered myself a cautious optimist, my glass is two thirds full to allow for expansion due to freezing. Lol. Ok, it's a Minnesota joke. But it's also a joke about my only slightly positive self protective outlook. Protective because I expect people to let me down. I have to be the stable one for me and for the little kids. They needed me. I had to be strong. I trust very few people. My lack of trust is my protection against abuse and disappointment. It protected me from the million broken promises adults made to me when I was younger. It protects me from men who break their "rock solid" commitments. It protected me from a string of fake friends who were there for the sunny days and nowhere to be found when the downpour started. It helped me to protect Ls and Lb from my parents repeated broken promises. I knew they would probably fail us. I expected them to fail us. And they did, spectacularly. I was disconnected from my own body. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to blink and vanish from existence. I didn't want to die. Really, I didn't. I just wanted to never have existed in the first place. But I can't do that. I don't have the power to blink myself out of existence. Slowly I realize that obviously I need something to take care of, because I am not enough. Look at my chain of jobs I've had since as far back as I can remember. Taking care of Ls and Lb, my cousins, kids I babysat, clients at the nursing home, daycare kids, my own kids, kids at the school when I was a para, the tenth graders I tutored, hospice patients, the foster care kids I worked with, Alzheimer's patients, developmentally disabled clients at the group home, the kids on the school bus, my nieces and nephews... I literally have taken care of people from birth to death. And, somehow, I don't know how to take care of me? I don't know how to love me enough to care that I'm not taking care of myself. I am on the phone with the crisis line, the lady on the other end is talking me through the panic attack this realization triggered. I feel deeply deeply like a fraud. How the fuck can I not know this. It's basic shit, but I don't know how to love me. "Give me a puppy, a house plant, ANYTHING, and I take care of my basic needs as a necessary step to taking care of the other thing." I say. She says that she thinks I'm being too hard on myself. She is probably right. I say I hate goals but this is my short term goal, this is what I will do for me - when I am hungry, eat. I will do this for four days. That's all I feel like I can commit to. Four days of paying attention to if I'm hungry, and feeding myself. Four days of paying attention to my most primitive feelings and taking care of me. I say it's stupid. She says no, it is not. This is a perfectly attainable goal. It's good. Four days isn't too long. It's achievable. I say it's stupid and I'm stupid for having to even have this as a goal. "No, it is not. It is important." She has me repeat my goal and then use positive words to lock it in my brain in a positive mindset. "My goal is easy and attainable. My goal is easy and attainable. My goal is easy and attainable." If you'd asked me about basic hygiene being an act of love, I'd've said no, it is not. I have given baths/showers to maybe a hundred different people. Maybe more. As part of my job. But, if you really look at it when I first started helping Ls & Lb it was out of my love for them. My want to take care of them. To protect them. At the same time, my own self cares were so I didn't get smacked, or called stinky. So I wasn't physically or emotionally abused more. And mom was teaching me how (not) to love myself. How to (not) value myself. And S-dad was teaching me that I was not in control of my own body. I didn't get to use my voice to change things and make them better for me. But I did get to take care of Ls & Lb. I had a choice - lay there and listen to what the programming and the depression playing in my head said, or... don't. Or, instead, get up and do something for me. Brush my teeth, my hair, take care of this body that had for so long taken care of me, but I'd neglected for the past three months. Taking care of myself became a radical act of self love. It went against all the abuse. All my earliest programming that taught me how to think about me. All the teaching me that I wasn't worth it. So, slowly, I crawled out of the black hole I was sunk in. It's been a year and a half, and I'm still working on it. I told my siblings how bad it had gotten. I asked for help. I did physical therapy and saw my doctors. I did counseling. I feel like I'm not really quite "there" yet, but I'm working on it. Things are slowly getting better. A radical act of self love indeed. 💗 RR
  2. cirrus

    Anxiety Shakes

    Today I had to call my insurance company to sort out some claims they denied. They denied them because they didn't have the information about my last insurance policy to verify that it ended. There's some paperwork going out to get them that info, and then the claims should be approved. It was OK as phone calls go - mostly just answering questions as asked. But I've always struggled with phone calls, and by the time I hung up I was ice cold, shaking, nauseated, and breaking out in cold sweats. I couldn't sit still for hours after. Maybe next week this'll be sorted out and I can call and make an appointment with a psychiatrist. The nightmares have been getting worse. The flashbacks were really intense and near constant there for a bit; they've eased up a little now but I'm still getting them daily. And spending the rest of my time deathly tired and with my brain off in space. I hope they'll do something to help. I've never really had a doctor believe me before. Today was the first day in weeks that I had any energy at all, and that was because of how badly this phone call set off my anxiety. One day last week I was laying in my kitchen floor with all the lights off when my dad got home from work, because cooking 2 steaks and some rice took all my energy but I wanted to be close enough to know if anything boiled over or whatever, while I was waiting on him. Even getting out of bed to go downstairs and watch TV is a big deal lately. I can't keep living like this, unable to do anything for myself. Something has to give soon.
  3. I was 14 years old and studying for my GCSEs the day that the diseased turd was brought into my class room. I have since been told that it was brought to my school with the sole purpose of raping my face. It was the local social services, they had set me up. I don't for what reason or under what law they were able to do such things. It really doesn't make any sense to me. I had wanted to join the RAF since the age of 6, I was my long term goal. It's what I had dreamed of doing, its what I studied for. I didn't have a plan 'B' I didn't however have an interest in David Spring's cartoon's or indeed a interest in 'sucking it's di*k'. I am not a homosexual. I can't imagine anyone wanted to go near David Spring. I didn't have an 'interest' in Art. I didn't need to pay for Jamie Conway's cigarette habit. I didn't want to go to Jamie Conway's alcohol birthday party. I didn't want to 'do' LSD. David Spring is beyond ugly and foul and gross and sick and mentally ill and psychically disgusted. I can't quite imagine how a social worker could legally dream up such a thing?? Still my Policeman father 'paid' David Spring to repeatedly orally rape me. Apparently it was done for my sister. What 'mental illness' she suffers from, I can't quite fathom. Being a 'teenager' is hard enough without being raped by the diseased turd. Jamie Conway cost me my GCSE's. Emma Gibson (or whatever the fuck her name is?) cost me my place in the ATC and my career in the RAF. Claire Guy cost me my health and my wife and children...
  4. Hi y'all! I'm a new member as of a few days ago and here I am to make my introductions! I am 20 and I use they/them/theirs pronouns. I'm a csa and sexual assault survivor struggling with anxiety and severe depression. I'm looking forward to finding support in this awesome-seeming community!
  5. "It is so easy to descend into madness, then opening doors and exposing old wounds..."-Timi Afternoon, umm i am so not good at introductions lol. But my name is Timi! I am a 22 years old african american chick from Louisiana. Currently a junior in college but opt out this semester to better my mental and physical health. I am a incest and child molestation survivor and finally receive professional help through therapy. Depression, anxiety, paranoia, and Bipolar disorder have been plaguing my life every since i was child. I thought i could live with what happen to me, continue to interact with my abuser.... But after a mental breakdown, i knew i could no longer walk in my own shadows. I been lurking on message boards and with the new found strength i now have, i am ready to share my story. I want to help others who dealt with the same pain i have carried for so long. I would love to hear from others and I WANT TO BE CLEAR: My message box IS ALWAYS OPEN. Even if it is something small, like talking about your day. Always know i am here and willing to listen. So follow me through my retelling of my journey, How i transcend through Each Stage to recovery & peace... *Please Note-My grammar is horrible and one of the reasons that i have not participate in messageboards more sooner. Please excuse that because it is one of my insecurities
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