I don’t know if this will work on here. My personal life has reached its max it seems with those who can help… or who are willing to…
Wow its been a while. I find myself as of late so compiled and entrenched with work and stress I barely have time to stop and breath. At night song lyrics flow into my head but are gone by morning. During the day issues I want to discuss pop into my head but get tired of waiting and float away before I ever get home. My self care has been minimal, and that’s a problem. I’ve become a warden of sorts to my partner who is seeking mental help for maybe the first time in his life voluntarily. It’s not my battle, not for me to overexert myself over, but I love him and seeing the struggle hurts my heart. I’m an empath with too much to give. But its showing in my energy and my care for myself. I’m working on making him take the reins despite how horrifying this journey can be.
Depression has been an issue as a result of all of this. My sleep takes a hit and the nightmares hear the ring and come forward. Echos of people past reverberate within them and taunt me and ask forgiveness. I think this is also a result of instances between my partner and I that cause me to recoil. Impulsivity is a great fear of mine. Not in me but in others. It’s a common excuse for actions those that harmed me have taken as a forgive all. As if they cannot control what they do and who they do it to. My partner does not use it as an excuse but realizes it as a problem, but the idea stands and hurts.
So I try working on my surroundings for safety. But its exhausting and just furthers the never ending broken sleep cycle. When did I become so bad at caring for myself? I recalled to someone all the self care hobbies and activities I used to spend so much time on for the sake of myself and realized how long it had been since any of them had been a part of my life… Space can’t always be the excuse. I digress. Or just trail out to too many things on my mind.
I’m trying to organize my thoughts more clearly.
I’m finding I have trouble knowing when to stand up for myself and when to quiet down. This is mostly problematic with working. After I get through a period of learning at my jobs and I start to get a bit of confidence I start not letting peoples words slide over my conscience. They start to burrow and affect me because I feel I’ve worked up to certain point and when that’s threatened I fly into defensive mode. Sometimes I can’t distinguish gaslighting from correcting. I understand sometimes it’s about the delivery, but sometimes I argue for clarity and it is the met.
So how do I let things go? How do I allow bosses and superiors to correct me without feeling degraded when it’s not done in much of a suitable fashion? How do I keep myself from cycling over words that frustrate me because they aren’t delivered very well? How do I still keep confidence and take pleasure in things that are continually wrong under someone else?
It’s difficult to feel like an asset when you never feel appreciate or even know what you are doing correctly. It’s difficult for me to not get stuck on people’s words and start cycling when all I seem to have are vague thoughts in my head that tell me I’m good at something. I know I always have something to learn, I can accept that. I just don’t always feel like I’m given room to learn.
Maybe that’s why I’m frustrated.
When I first moved to San Diego it was the first time I’d been given enough space to spread out a creative place to make jewelry and take photography. I had a whole room just for art. And it felt amazing. I loved having all the space I could have hoped. A place for everything. So organized and neat. Giving that up was difficult. Jewelry was very hard to make in any of the rooms I lived in after except my last room in the community I lived in. I was paying for a bigger roomy AND extra space outside of it just so I could make jewelry again. But I wasn’t in it with enough time to even unpack.
I thought I might have room in my current place. I tried. But my inventory of supplies out weighted any space and was too disorganized for me to have any energy for. I’m finally looking into a space that will have enough roomoney and I’m ecstatic. To have room for animals AND craft. Both huge anti anxieties and loves of my life. I’m floored.
To have anyone see this and not understand how beautiful a transition this is does not truly know me. Never until now have I been unrestrained in my care and keeping of animals and able to explore my craft at the same time. Even when I’ve had room for jewelry in the past, the people and environments I’ve lived in would not permit me to keep or care for as many animals as I have now. My ex husband fought me even to have one hamster with my one cat. He fought me on adopting a stray that gorgeous caught in our apartment. Who is now a big part of my life.
I feel like most of my life has been fighting to be allowed to follow what my heart desires. The older I get the stronger my conviction for my heart becomes.
I have anger problems. I know I do. I have some ideas where it stems from but sometimes I still feel at a loss. Instead of learning how to manage I’ve realised I’ve just learned to avoid being angry instead of working with the anger that happens.
My partner recently admitted something tricky with our relationship which is when I shut down about a topic that triggers anger. In my mind I needed cool down time. But I rarely approach the topic again…
Agoraphobia helps me feel more comfortable avoiding triggering monuments than dealing with anything. And until recently it seemed healthy to me.
I feel like I’m back to square one. Events when I was 18 threw my mental illnesses into full spring and I’ve been struggling since then. And I’m struggling again. To feel like a person. To not be constantly angry. To not constantly be reminded. To have the energy to get through a day, a week, the rest of the month.
Life is a constant stressor I haven’t learned to deal with. I’m a master at avoiding as its kept me alive this long. But I don’t think that’s the key to life. It can’t be, because I’m still struggling so much. Because I’m still not comfortable with anything. I’m not even comfortable with comfort and happiness. Because I’m not comfortable with myself.
I don’t know how to accept unconditional love. I don’t know how to accept love. I still don’t understand why anyone would, most of the time. I don’t think people quite understand the depth of cruelty my own mind puts me through. I numb myself in order to not be constantly in mental pain. But the numbness seeps out and makes happiness, love, security… feel absent or unacknowledgable. I don’t know how to recognize it. I’m so tainted I can only seem to see potential pain and regret. And it feels more normal to me than happiness.
Watching a documentary about rape in colleges has me unfortunately rethinking about the first time I was raped. It’s so very SAD that the feelings I’ve felt are so wildly felt by so many women, and I’m not just talking about the rape itself. But the feelings of doubt and wonder. The beginnings of unknowing PTSD coming on like a storm crashing through your life. And the fact that so many are mostly by friends.
I was between 18 and 19. The time between 17 and 21 blurs together mostly. He was one of my best friends at the time. An ex boyfriend from high school one of my good friends was very close with had but a lot of effort into helping me. It was a torrential time. I was desperately trying to break away from my family. He was always around for anything.
One night my roommate (our mutual close friend) and I were staying at his place. She’d gone to bed early, leaving us to watch a movie. He had his arm around me. I should have seen it. The way he got close when no one was around and quickly moved away when someone was around, because he had a girlfriend. Before I knew it he was inside me. Through my pajama bottoms and underwear. Any noise I made he shushed. And when he was done I crumpled into the couch. He threw a blanket at me as I held back tears. I tried to wake my roommate up to take me home. But she wouldn’t wake. So I slept next to her, in his bed, and in the morning I acted like everything was fine, and for five hours helped clean his father’s house like I said I would.
There was no intense violence. I felt helpless and yet I felt like I let it happen. I felt violated and yet tried to convince myself that wasn’t the case because he was my friend. My second rape was slightly more horrifying and yet this one haunts me more. I didn’t see it as rape for a long time even though it haunted and disgusted me. For years after he would regularly message me apologies saying he had a sex addiction. As if somehow that would make it right?
I wish someone had told me growing up if it doesn’t feel right, it’s not. Every time I engaged in sex after I felt violated all over again. It would take a long time before that wasn’t the case or before I really understood why. I usually couldn’t engage in sex unless I was very intoxicated.
I feel like society instilled me with the idea that if I engage in any sexual contact, if I kiss or touch anyone romantically, it means I wanted or have to have sex with them. As a result kissing and snuggling makes me very uncomfortable and I usually shy away. Affection of any kind terrifies me. So many times men have taken these as a signal I want to engage in sex. So many times I’ve felt violated because of it.