[This here is a warning that the author has written a post about, amongst other things, being depressed and suicidal. For this reason there is a clicky thing. Use it in whatever health you got. Also please note that with respect to my wife and our marriage you are getting exactly one perspective–mine–and everything is filtered through my experiences of abuse. This is not an objective reporting of events.]
Y’all who’ve been following this adventure know I’ve been fucked up for a while now. It’s been next to impossible to get any work done–it took me until five-thirty this morning to get caught up on my inbox. Today I got to explain why I should keep my job. On the phone. I don’t know as I was very convincing. Being highly ambivalent about wanting to keep it at all isn’t helpful with the convincing. Nor the panic that comes with phones, the stammering dysphasia aphasia that is so heavily influenced by stress.
Maybe I’ll get to keep it through the end of the month. I keep telling myself I should be at my desk now working.
I’m in bed with the notebook and I haven’t gotten dressed. I woke up six hours ago.
The thought of telling my psychiatrist about this makes me feel sad and hopeless: I told him about being sexually abused and he said something that sounded really perfunctory about being sorry that happened to me and moved on to meds. It’s how he does. He is actually pretty okay compared with other psychs in my experience–I’ve dealt with far worse. I’ve had a few better, but I’ve had way worse.
I dread telling my therapist. I’m kind of dreading telling her much of anything. I feel really battered and not. safe. after last week’s session with her and my wife. My wife worries I spend too much time on computers. (She is also hurt that I seem to want to spend more time with the machine than with her.) I read things that upset me. I was happier and more stable when I got out of hospital and had been offline for a couple weeks. I am terrified they want to take this away from me. They both speak better than I do and process speech better than I do and I don’t think I could defend myself if I had to. I did really badly last week.
They want me to not hurt. I’d like me to not hurt. It would be awful nice. I don’t know how to stop hurting. They both are unhappy when I react to things they do and say the way I react to things my abusers have done and said. They do the same actions. They say the same words. They want me to react differently because their intentions are different and I should know that.
They say their intentions are good. They want what’s best for me. They love me and want me to be healthier and stronger.
That’s exactly what my abusers said. Often while they were beating me or humiliating me or throwing away my books and music and clothes or trying to ruin my intimate relationships with anyone who might have provided support outside the abusive relationships. They love me. They want what’s best for me. They want to take care of me. Even if I could know their intentions for certain which I can’t what good does it do me when they have the same intentions as my abusers?
What the fuck am I supposed to do? I am not getting better. I am afraid of the caregivers in my life. It feels as if my employers and my therapist and my wife are angry with me for what being sick does to me and I somehow manage both to accept this as something I deserve because they’re not wrong I do suck and to be hurtangryafraid because I’m sick and I need help. I am going to be unemployed and unemployable real soon and there’s about zero chance I can actually navigate the bureaucracies for getting government assistance without help.
The parts of me that hate me and want me dead keep telling me there’s a thing I can do. It would make all the fear all the anxiety all the hurt stop. Forever. I’m afraid there will come a time I will no longer be able to keep telling it no. It’s exhausting. It is a thing I have to fight against every day. Those same parts of me that hate me and want me dead tell me I shouldn’t say this. I have no right to say this. It’s melodramatic. It’s manipulative. I’m just trying to get attention by bleeding in public and that’s inappropriate in teenagers never mind someone thirty-eight years old.
I fear those parts of me are right about everything. And I am so very tired.
Cross-posted to kaninchenzero’s Tumblr.