6191993horror

[6191993horror]

coping with grief

My Mother is rambling on about how my Uncle didn’t help carry anything down the stairs when they went to Holly’s apartment.

“He looked bad. Really bad.” She noted.

“Yeah, well, we all kind of do right now. Some people don’t deal with grief well.” I reply.

I was speaking for my uncle as much as I was for myself. I wasn’t doing well. The grief washed over me like a wave, and my boat was already unsteady. So it sprung a leak.

“My therapist said I don’t appear manic or psychotic. So I guess Artemis and Jet just misinterpreted the severity of my social anxiety. I was triggered. I just don’t really understand why.” I broke the silence with.

“Well, honey. Yeah you’re triggered. Holly died!” She responded and flipped an egg.

[6191993horror]

The Diagnosis

She grasped the paper in her hands as the world spun around her. It hit her like that drunk driver did when she was sixteen. It totaled her. Flashes of her entire life, synapses regenerating entire parts of her brain that were closed off to protect her, and every emotion bubbled to the surface as she held the answers in her hand. She was never crazy. It said. She was driven into psychosis by gas lighting, loss of touch with reality, because her reality no longer made sense. Her loving, independent hardworking Mother became a lying, manipulative predator. Her father the same. Just without the loving part, and incapable of confronting the guilt.  Flashbacks of her four year old self trying to make soup in the microwave while her Father drank booze in the garage slap her. She feels the pang of deep sadness hit her as she realizes she raised herself there. When her Father should have been loving her, she scavenged his bachelor pad for food. Only his girlfriends would help, or they wouldn’t.  She stares at the pages in a chamber of silence. A nuclear bomb of painful flashbacks has detonated inside of her mind. She can’t hear her therapist or neuropsychologist explaining her diagnosis. All she can do is fixate her eyes on nothingness to escape the fallout. She dissociates during the entire explanation, shuffling slowly out of her therapists office, and stumbles out of the building in a state of shock. She can’t make sense of it, she can’t understand the last five years of her life. Her mind tries desperately to figure it out as her mind autopilots her to her car. Where she cries as if she was branded with a scolding hot iron. The branding mould would say “Stockholm Syndrome” if were as real as the pain in her head. She realizes she has lived her entire life without proper treatment or support or love. Without consistency, without imprinting on any of the people who all had to work together to raise her between their fixes. A Borderline Mother stuck in and out of paranoid insanity from the men in her life repeatedly abusing then abandoning her. A Father with Narcissistic Personality Disorder who cared more about himself and his alcohol more than he ever did her. Neither had the capacity to raise a child, but that did not stop them. Together they put on the most convincing show to those around them. They pretended they were taking care of her to avoid confronting their own inability to raise a child. And they lied to her consistently about her mental state for twenty four years; trapping her in their grip out of fear that she would leave. Like she should have. If she could have. When she was born.  Chronic Complex PTSD. Major Depressive Disorder. Mood congruent psychotic features. Borderline Traits. Narcissistic tendencies to cope with stress. The words she read echoed in her head on full volume as they entered. She couldn’t begin to untangle the thoughts if she tried. Instead, her hands decided to put the keys into her ignition and began her drive home. With the steering wheel in one hand, and her other clasping the diagnosis papers like a stuffed animal; her brain drove her home while she finally unraveled into complete insanity.

[6191993horror]

I wish I knew how to even think of how to speak to you. I can't breath when I even see your name. I hate you for what you did to me but I don't even really know if it was purposeful. I keep hoping I can forget it and trust you not to hurt me again. Flashbacks to us laying in a hammock sound asleep, with your pants unzipped and you hand pushing my sleeping head down to yours. I don't know how to get that nightmare of an experience out of my head long enough to even consider feeling safe around you again.

And I miss you greatly. I miss you like I always have, which isn't the same way you miss me. I wasn't good enough to be yours and I never was. The best I could be to you was a face you could fuck when you had too much to drink. A photographer to take your photo when you couldn't find anyone else.

Well, I don't think I could ever stare into your eyes again without running. I have been a punching bag, an assault dummy, and a tool my entire life. One more hit to my heart, my brain, and I will permanently shatter.

Maybe when I'm not afraid to be in a bar or at a show I'll feel safe explaining this in person. Right now I burst into tears and wrote this note instead of trying to respond to your message about how shitty the photographers you're looking at are. And how, once again, you need me.

I can't need you yet.

[6191993horror]

[6191993horror]

Always Analyzing

I spend a lot of time comparing my problems to others and analyzing how different they are. Which one is worse, which person deserves better. I ask myself, why do I cringe at a $900 bill for the excision of pre-cancerous cells at my uterus while another person announces how difficult and expensive their journey to procure a child will be. I want to say the money is better spent trying to raise a child who needs a home, rather than spending tens or thousands bringing in your own for the sake of experiencing birth. Hospital bills ruin my credit and my ability to get an apartment. Being infertile means you adopt, for me. But for others, it’s a long process of meaning and it’s cheered on. My problems aren’t are appealing or meaningful. I guess. 

[6191993horror]

Resuming My Life

I spend hours in this spot. Using a computer. Editing photographs and watching television shows. Listening to music and refining my desktop more than I do my own car. Every part of my life feels like a mess right now. Suicide attempt in August, followed by the crumbling of an attempt at a relationship, and continuing now with the development of pre-cancer. My life doesn’t seem real when I write it all out. It’s like the world, or this universe, and whatever pervasive being rules over these things, are out to get me. But I know better than anyone that the world couldn’t give any less of a damn about me. That’s just how it works. And with that thought, I’ll switch the topic to avoid dwelling on existential bullshit that I know will only make me worse.  I love my best friend. The problem, is, that I really love her. I am in love. I’m not just a friend, I had thought. I want to think she secretly felt the same when she jokingly sent a photograph of herself in a bra to me. But now that she’s fucking a dude with a nine inch cock for the first time ever; I’m guessing my time will probably come after she is done fucking out her mania with him.  She understands what she is doing to me and I think I do need to have the “We cannot be friends because I love you too much let you love anyone else but me” talk. I feel like I have this with everyone I get close to. And maybe I attract or am attracted to these types of people without realizing it. But I can’t help but wonder how not to fall in love with your friends when you’re demisexual?  Incoming thoughts of being alone forever cloud my mind when I think too hard about these things. I don’t want to feel that. I don’t want to think about how long it could be until I find someone who accepts me and my very long list of requirements by default. Caring. Strong. Passionate. Funny. Creative. Understanding. Patient. Supportive. Things I am but I rarely find. Things I seek out in others desperately.  With Rachel, things were easy. We didn’t have a sexual relationship because we were friends. But as time went on, I felt scared and terrified whenever a slightly queer moment would come up. I like men and women, but I’ve never dated a woman. I don’t imagine having sex with women, just being together forever with. Maybe that could change, but my aversion from her signs may have ruined any chance at being with her.  So here I sit, avoiding having to call her back while she sits at her new boyfriends house recently woken. My heart is so bitter. It’s so closed. And unmovable. It’s the thing my therapist told me was coming; the end of Rachel. After spending months together for every day, sleeping at each others places constantly, and going to family events even...I just feel used in comparison. I feel like my love isn’t wanted anywhere. Unless it’s useful.  I pray to whatever the hell is up there to give me a sign of what the fuck to do. In the meantime, I’ll have to get accustomed to a new reality. A lonely one.