I hadn’t cried (much) for several days. I was on my game, getting schoolwork done, moving forward, chatting with strangers, making friends, feeling good.
And then, crash.
I’m barely able to get out of bed, the anxiety is crushing, I have to remember to breathe. I can’t stay asleep, I can’t stand to be awake, I need to scream but I can’t stand my own voice.
Fuck. Can I say that here? And I was going to give up swearing this year.
Will I get my life back? Isn’t “healing” suppose to be about getting better? Making improvements? Instead I feel like my sanity is slowly draining away. I feel crazier, less stable, more neurotic. This would be terrifying if it wasn’t so exhausting.
I feel like calling my mom for Mother’s Day and flipping the fuck out on her. Her absolute, unspoken denial of my entire childhood is suffocating. Can someone confirm my vague, remembered reality? Can someone vouch that my memories are accurate? Because I can’t possibly believe they are. What mother allows a man to lock her child in an unventilated bathroom with instructions to clean it with a solution of ammonia and bleach? What mother repeatedly responds to her child’s pleas for food with the words shouted through a door, “Whatever it is – run it under cold water and put a bandaid on it!” What mother delivers her little girl to a boyfriend so he can “make sure she’s developing properly”? I can’t be remembering this right, can I? Can I?
The worst is what I don’t remember, what is shrouded behind half-memories that flicker between reality and and a dream state. There were several years that my brother lived with my dad. But I can’t recall anytime my brother and I didn’t live in the same house. I’ve forgotten years. I have dark memories of a man walking into my bedroom at night, but I can’t remember anything after that. Was it a dream? Was he just checking on me, warmly tucking in the blankets? Or something more nefarious? What happened to me? What didn’t happen? And where are my memories? Where the fuck are my memories?
And why is that man living in rational society? Why is he not locked in prison? Why isn’t he paying for my therapy? Paying for all the years I lost spinning wildly just trying to get my feet under me? Would it be inappropriate (or illegal) to make a sign, “A ped*ophile lives here” and stand in front of his house? Because, godamnit, I may be broken but I am not afraid of him anymore.