factumnihil2

[factumnihil2]

well i missed kinktober but you can still throw out your razor for movember i guess

[factumnihil2]

turns out having severe disability symptoms means i can't cope with trauma as well, so i'm back to being an irritated wound that has nightmares every night and fucking gets off to them.

not intentionally. but the stains on my pants don't lie. i've been thinking about being reckless with sex so that i at least want the touches i can't stop feeling.

[factumnihil2]

starting to come to terms with the fact that my abusers didnt hurt me because of attraction or lust but because they could. because i was extra vulnerable as a gullible autistic child who struggled to describe what was happening to me. because i was isolated as a result of many factors outside my control. because it was easy, and they didn't care how it hurt me.

but i'm not quite ready to digest that yet. so i chew it like a bad cut of meat, tough and sinewy, hoping eventually i can break it down enough to swallow.

[factumnihil2]

maybe it's disordered thinking. but if i am always down for sex with anyone, then no one can ever rape me again, right?

[factumnihil2]

i like to pretend i am much more recovered than i am, and then i am faced with the genuine truth that i would bend over for anyone i am vaguely close to at the drop of a hat. like a beaten dog that cowers and submits at the slightest raised voice or sharp movement, i roll over and beg for scraps of connection.

please love me, i can make it worth your while, i've done it before. please don't leave me. please don't discard me like a used toy. i promise i can make it worth your while.

[factumnihil2]

i think one of the most important things medication did for me was give me the ability to wait before acting on an urge. at first, fifteen minutes. then an hour or two. now, i can say to myself if i still want to self destruct in the morning, i can indulge then.

this took a myriad of parts, most importantly the ability to conceptualize the future with me in it, and the ability to sleep more than four hours a night. and it took a lot of medicine, too. i am on high doses.

but i can have flashbacks in the afternoon and still think at midnight, yes, i will at least be here tomorrow. and that's something i hadn't realized ptsd and depression had taken from me.

[factumnihil2]

right now, i am sat on my brother's sofa, watching a documentary with a kitten in my arm.

three years ago, i had just been sexually assaulted by a doctor and was self harming to stay alive long enough to celebrate my friend's birthday.

things do get better. there is light and life and comfort waiting for you. i promise. i swear to you. you will have to fight for it tooth and nail but it is there.

[factumnihil2]

i am at a point in my recovery where most days, i don't even notice the shift from harmful behaviours to healthy behaviours. i am at a point where i am not purging, or restricting, or hating myself for eating the way i used to.

yet, today, for the first time in 13 years, i spent 45 minutes eating a meal. for those 13 years, it was rare for me to spend more than 10-15 minutes eating a meal. even large meals. i thought my tummy just always hurt after eating, that it was normal. now, i am sated without being overfull, without stomach pain. i hadn't even been aware that this was a harmful behaviour, that changing this could make eating feel weirdly, wonderfully good.

[factumnihil2]

every so often a post of ours will make the rounds and someone will add a thought in the tags or replies. this time it was about loneliness.

but we're here. there's a whole little constellation of blogs here that care enough to share our pain and support each other through it. even if it's just a familiar url in my notes, we note who is reblogging what.

you're not alone. we may be distant as stars, but twinkles of our light still reach each other. you're not alone.

[factumnihil2]

every time the anniversary of a particularly memorable or violent abuse comes round, we find ourself fixated on vent and catharsis content. fics about the aftermath. collage art depicting shared emotions (and ain't that an awful notion. that this is simultaneously rare yet so, so common).

it's no longer debilitating episodes for days on end. but there seem to be an unfair amount of anniversaries. new years, when we started school. valentine's day. ash wednesday and good friday. lent. easter, g-d, easter. when school ended in may. now, again, in the baking heat of midsummer.

how many times will we have these episodes, i wonder? how many periods of time were tainted?

[factumnihil2]

turns out regular boring self care is an important part of recovery. i forgot meds and just spent 3 hours spiralling in the flashback pit.

go take ur meds and then swish some mouthwash. youll feel better.

[factumnihil2]

i've improved. i've gotten better. three years ago i'd be putting on layer after layer of clothes and shaking with panic and now i sit in thin summer pajamas, completely still. yet the magnitude of these thoughts does not escape me. i wrote a note. i was going to do it. because the doctor told the nurse to hold me down.

[factumnihil2]

these days my trauma is less a catastrophic tsunami and more an incessant buzzing. that doesn't make it any less significant. that doesn't make it easy.

hail mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. my catholic confirmation was fifteen years ago this week. blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, jesus. sunday school ended for me, and he probably moved on to some other child. holy mary, mother of g-d, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. amen.

i can still pray the rosary from memory. it hasn't been holy in a very, very long time.

[factumnihil2]

to anyone feeling depersonalization, uh, i have a sentiment. even though it doesn't feel like it's yours, your body is gonna protect you.

[factumnihil2]

there is a deep ocean of stillness around my head and if i try to swim to the surface the currents just drag me back down deeper. i don't remember anything but i know something happened. who am i, why do i know without knowing?

[factumnihil2]

there is something vast and deeply, deeply melancholy within me. i think it is mourning.

mourning what? i don't know. maybe the child i never was. maybe the future i'll never have. i hold these shards of memory and they no longer cut my fingers but the blood is still there.

what to do, when the bleeding is staunched but the wound remains?

[factumnihil2]

sometimes i miss being sad.

no one ever talks about what comes between the being recovered and the constant untreated ptsd. im not recovered. it still haunts me.

but i feel like it should affect me more, or i should move on already, and i cant. recovery and healing is slow and no one ever talks about what it's like between the darkness and the light at the end of the tunnel.

it's weird.