things-to-tell-my-therapist

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

Currently waiting on a triage after I called 111 in a moment of lucidity let's see where this goes

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

I don't want to take my meds. 😐

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

Trauma's a bitch

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[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

I want to go home

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

Idek if there's a word for what we are, I'm just glad to have you

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

It's weird approaching 22.

Not that I'm scared of it, quite the opposite in fact.

It feels like everyone else my age isn't on the same page, though.

I'm so glad my childhood is over.

That I never have to go back.

My biggest fantasy from as far as I can remember was to escape- home, parents, school, life.

As a kid, I'd run away frequently. Parents or teachers would come after me, dragging me back as I dug my heels into the ground and cried the rest of the day. Sometimes, my dad would chase and throw me over his shoulder so I couldn't resist. He'd be livid to the point I was so terrified of the inevitable beating that I'd freak out and fight back. Later, I would spend the time I was grounded bruised and hating him for weeks, just to eventually start plotting another escape out of spite.

I couldn't understand why they couldn't just let me go. I grew out of it, eventually. I became too scared of the punishment over being caught.

So instead I hid.

I hid so much of myself that I'm still having to dig it up all these years later. No wonder I didn't know who I was back then. I'm still figuring it out some days.

So yeah I'm glad it's over. I finally got away.

But I still feel the paranoid urge to look over my shoulder in case I'm being chased.

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

I'm bored, I'm mad, I'm horny, I'm depressed, I'm paranoid, I'm tired, I'm numb, I'm high, I'm scared, I'm delusional, I'm lonely, I'm confused, I'm

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

😐

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

Knowing love cannot be devoid of abuse is sobering, it sucks out all of the air in the room and leaves you cold in the presence of it's truth.

My parents hurt me in ways I sometimes can't even explain without losing coherency, nevermind I've only recently realised that I don't even remember the scope of it all.

Maybe I never will.

But somehow that doesn't erase that the love was there. I wish it did. I wish the reason why I hate them so much wasn't rooted in the agony of being utterly destroyed by the people who loved you most.

Maybe it would make the anger feel sharper, more controlled. Less animalistic, not like it's going to tear apart my soul.

Love was always the reason from the beginning. We're only doing this because we love you. I'm screaming because I worry. We're only this strict with you to keep you safe. This is for your own good.

Soon punishment became a part of being loved. So did fear, along with the loyalty of a beaten dog.

All because they loved me. But not in a way that I could participate. They took all control, in the name of love. Often, I felt more like a hostage rather than their child.

I couldn't do anything without scrutiny or triggering their mood swings, and they'd never fail to place the blame on my shoulders for their actions;

I didn't listen well enough. I just didn't understand what it was like for them. I don't know how grateful I should be that they're not like their [insert name of grandparent].

It took most of my life to realise I could reject that kind of love. That it wasn't a given. That love didn't have to be that way and that I could say no to it.

Because all my life I believed that abuse isn't love and love isn't abuse.

The biggest misconception I've ever had, all because I couldn't accept that somebody who truly loved me could still intentionally hurt me. I guess that's what I get for holding others to my own standards.

It seems like such a childish sentiment now, and I honestly don't know if that's the trauma talking or just growing up. Maybe a bit of both.

I just wish childish logic held up in the real world. But wishing is childish, too.

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

I feel like im fucking going crazy

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

Omfg just remembered an old delusion of mine that I completely forgot about 🤦🏽

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

Could I ever love an extension of me? Something of my own flesh and blood? If I was handed a child of my own womb, would I feel love at first sight?

I'd feel sorry for it. I'd want to protect it. I'd feel a duty to it, a duty so big it scares me. But would I feel love? I'm not sure. Caring for something is a form of love, I suppose. Raising and investing years of your own life into another is the ultimate test- we were literally bred for it, through evolution and natural selection. Unbroken lines of my mothers and fathers connect me to our ape-like ancestors and now the torch has been passed on to me. And so a decision lies before me.

I've been putting it off, though. For such a long time. For obvious reasons, at first; I was young and had no time for such dreams, I had an entire world to explore with no interest in playing house. Then, out of denial; no romantic interests due to insecurity and deep depression, I isolated myself and instilled the belief nobody would want that with me anyway. Now, because of fear; my relationship with my own parents deteriorated faster than I could cope and it's left me with a list of unresolved issues about family.

I suppose, however, it's something I'll be forced to face if I ever find someone. Many other people want kids so there's a good chance my partner would too. How would I face that? I'd fear I'd lose them. For some, it's an expected milestone they've been waiting their whole life to do with the right person. I'd fear I'd shatter their dreams, all because of my own problems. But if I loved them, and they truly loved me back, would I ask for help? For time? I've done so much of my own healing, could I ever swallow enough of my ego to allow that? Because I don't think there's any other possible way I could do it. Not now, not when I've never been loved enough to change my core beliefs. A chaotic life has left me with deep emotional scars, insecurities that I've only just started to challenge alongside fumbling my way through early adulthood. It's been overwhelming. Unbearable at times. Unimaginably incredible, too. But it all took time.

Maybe I just need time.

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

Sometimes I wonder if I wasn't the only victim of the person who sa'd me. Maybe I wasn't even the first. Or the last. I'll never know, but I wish I could tell them they're not alone. That I'm not alone.

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

I don't even know anymore

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

.

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

I don't like saying I'm not suicidal anymore. It feels like a half-truth. Like I've got my fingers crossed behind my back, gritting the words through my teeth. Because even though I'm now at a stage in my life that I want to live, I have things I want to do and see, I have people I want to spend the rest of my life with and be happy doing it- I cannot guarantee I will stay this way. That the thoughts won't come creeping back, that the compulsion to kill myself won't give me sleepless nights again, that I won't find myself back on that beach with an empty bottle of rum and bad ideas. Because it's always come back. I've gone through this so many, many times- I get bad, I hit rock bottom, I attempt, I fail, I rethink, I get better, I'm happy, then back to square one again and again and again.

I don't want to lie to the people I love that I'll be better forever when I know better. I don't want to give anyone false hope, including myself. It's soul crushing every single time, I'd rather keep myself pessimistic and everyone else too for that matter.

I just wish it wasn't this way.

[things-to-tell-my-therapist]

I knew about healing the inner child n all that but today had the realisation the woman I was on about last time wasn't a woman at all, just the angry teenager I thought I'd finally left behind