– _ –

In 20 years, I’ve never said these words out loud about *this* subject.

I don’t care anymore.

I’ve been struggling for over a year, now. I fell into the deepest depression of my life for over 12 months, and no one noticed.

No one cared that I pulled away, that I chose isolation over socialization. That I chose silence instead of community. No one cared to try to talk to me about it, or to help at all.

(None of this refers to my Nephew, or my children).

I’ve been having a really difficult time since I had to stop taking the antidepressant. My moods are all over the map, no matter what I try to balance. I swing wildly between crushing grief & borderline rage, all the while, flailing chaotically with a happy-faced smiling mask, trying to distract the masses.

Trying desperately to NOT break down into tears at my desk.

I’ve been patronized & ridiculed for my mental illness, told “You should do –*this thing* — and you’ll be Totally healed. If you don’t do this, you obviously don’t want to cure your anxiety, depression, migraines, etc.” #theyknowallthesecrets #becausetheysayso

As though I’ve never done any research into the medical issues I have. Who, ME? No, I don’t do research….. *oozing sarcasm*

As though mental illnesses that are exacerbated by a chemical imbalance can EVER BE CURED COMPLETELY.

I’m so fucking done. I feel like tossing all of my social media platforms (barring WordPress and tiktok) onto the ground before me, dousing it in mental gasoline, & burning those fucking bridges to ash.

I am quickly reaching endgame.

That point where, when you have nothing left to lose, you throw every-fucking-thing to the wind in a last second Hail Mary pass.

When the unknown is preferable to what you can see in front of you, it’s time to light that match, cross that bridge, & toss the flame behind you.

I’m done sitting down for others to try to walk over me.

I’m making plans, & cleaning house.

The silence only gets deeper from here.

Just No.

Until you’ve been there, until you’ve lived it, learned it, cried from it, raged over it, fought against it, and ultimately laughed in spite of it… you have no idea.

Don’t assume that you’re qualified to give advice to someone going through the fire, if you’ve never been in the flames.

Don’t pretend you understand the storm, when you’ve never stood in its eye, and been bowed by the force of the gale.

And save your anger for your own bad decisions, faults & failings.

The person standing in front of you has their own battle to wage, and you yelling at them to do it the way you think they should belittles only you.

You don’t get it. You never will. Until you stand in their shoes, live their life, and are faced with the exact same situations & consequences – you can shut the fuck right up.

Specializing in Not Much

2016 seems to be my year.
Seriously.

It’s my year- – – for specialists.

A few months ago, I started having pain in my right side. Right where my kidney is. The kidney that I had to have surgery on in 2001, and thought I’d never have trouble with again.

And here I am, having troubles.

Yay.

So, I packed my happy ass off to my regular doctor, & told her all about it. She ordered the usual suspects – blood tests, urinalysis,  and an ultrasound.

Some results pointed at a possible issue, but it’s not kidney stones, so she didn’t know what it could be.

Whoopee. Time to swing out the big guns.
A urologist.

Monday, I went to see Herr Doktor – and wound up seeing Herr Doktor’s Nurse Practitioner instead.  We’ll call him “Precious”.

Why? Because I had to wait a freaking month just to get in to see a Nurse Practitioner, for one.

Two? Because Precious didn’t even do an exam! He talked to me, asked me where it hurts, what makes it better, what makes it worse, blah, blah ,blippity  blah.

He didn’t even have me get on the exam table so he could do the usual prod & test of the offending area.

He sat on his little rolling stool, legs crossed, and talked to me as though I am some kind of hysterical, hypochondriac female.

And when I told him my history – how I’d been through testing before my surgery – 5 FUCKING YEARS OF TESTING, with the exact same pain I’m experiencing now, same place, same batchannel, same bat time – you know what he told me?!?

No, you don’t,  because it was so far out from left field, I couldn’t believe it when he said it!

“I think it’s musculoskeletal “.

Dafuq?

AND, he can’t schedule any additional testing, he has to make a recommendation to the urologist.

Precious little got accomplished at this visit, but you can bet it’s going to cost me a precious penny or 12.

When did it become impossible to actually SEE a doctor?

When did it become a mine field of obstacles, nurses, automated phone systems & “nurse practitioners ” surrounding the Precious Doctors like a Wall of Doom?!?

All I want is someone to fucking listen to me, to believe me when I tell them that, after going through 5 years of pain, and every test known to man and his dog, then surgery… that MAYBE, JUST MAYBE I KNOW MY BODY PRETTY FUCKING WELL?!?

#\$&$\!\#*$(@*!&!&/! $@!*#/(/($£7=£&!&×!!!

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Oh yeah, and I had to go to an Endodontist today to have a root canal redone. The guy was pretty cool, actually, & is Donny & Marie Osmond’s nephew.

And all it took was $1000.00 out of my pocket after my insurance paid their part.

But he’s got a nice tenor voice, and a good sense of humor, so there’s that.

Whoopee.

To Be

I’m tired of people pushing me.
Tired of being “expected” to be someone, to do something, whatever it is they want from me.

I’m sick of feeling like the bad guy all the damn time.

I’m tired of never having time to be alone.  Never truly left to do whatever the hell I want.

I haven’t had a day off in weeks.
Work all week, babysit all weekend… The only time I get alone is late at night, after it’s too late, and I’m too fucking tired to do anything, anyway.

And yet, I’m still expected to do all the work at home.

Who me?

I’m just the bitch who pays the bills.

Don’t mind me- I’m not allowed to be anything else.

Wake Up Call

Nightmares plagued my sleep again, last night.  More vivid, which meant that when it woke me abruptly at 4:00, I remembered it better – or worse, as the case may be.

But, I was actually able to fall back to sleep, and slept for another 5 hours.  It’s been a long time since I’ve slept that late, but what woke me up wasn’t another nightmare this time.

It was a realization.

I don’t know why I haven’t seen this before, but I believe that this whole week, the re-flaring of the old abuse memories, the anger, the short-temperedness, the depression, the restlesness, and the wanting to – simultaneously – crawl under a rock and hide – and scream at the top of my lungs while I run through the streets breaking things….

Is PTSD.

Not on the same level as a soldier who’s been through a war, or a survivor of a terrorist attack. 

(And why am I qualifying this?  Why do I feel the need to validate my thoughts to anyone?  Why do I feel guilty about saying that what happened to me is Traumatic, has caused me Stress?  Why do I have to say “Oh, my problem’s not as big as someone else’s, it’s just a little bitty problem, so don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine”?)

Even 26 years after the fact, I still feel the anger, the depression, the frustration, the anxiety.  Whenever I hear this person’s name, whenever I am forced to hear about him from my family, from his family, it rips me wide open again, and I’m raw and bleeding, without my family to back me up.

(Causing even more anger, more anxiety, more guilt, knowing that if I were to confront my family, the other family, that I would rip another hole in an already shaky relationship.)

And in the last couple days, I’ve been looking at myself in the mirror, wanting to totally change how I look, hack off my hair, change the color. 

(I think it’s the flight response, desperate to hide, I’m looking to camouflage myself, so no one knows it’s me.  Can’t find me – can’t hurt me.  Wanting to almost destroy the old me, because I can’t stand being this person who has these feelings that cause so many problems for me.)

I’ve kept myself to a minimum of personal changes.  Yes, I dyed my hair again, but it’s just darker, almost a chocolate color, with just a touch of red in it.  And yes, I cut my hair, but just a trim, nothing drastic, nothing immediately obvious to the eye. 

And I know that, when I’ve heard that they’ve left, gone home, I’ll begin to put myself back together again.  When I know that the confrontation is not going to happen – again – that I’m never going to get that validation, I’ll shove the emotions, the issue, back to the bottom of me again.  It’ll go away

Not resolved, not really gone, just… away.

Like many others with PTSD, you can learn to live around it.  But it never really leaves.