8: April Showers

I haven’t felt like journaling much lately. I cannot say why for certain. It’s not like it is hard or anything. I simply haven’t had the motivation to do so, and I don’t know why. Sure, it is a little time consuming, but it used to be something that I enjoyed doing with such passion. I used to fill journals like this one in a matter of a few months rather than filling it barely half way in a few years. It would be nice if we had the space for a writing desk or something, but this apartment is so small. I hope that T----- and I are able to get a house together some day, Yet, I know for a fact that I don’t want my mother to live alone if I can help it. I seem to have to force myself to do this nightly. I‘m so tired, but I still can’t sleep. I keep thinking about A----, and I’m not sure why. I feel like I might be missing him. I hate his guts, but… Ugh. At the same time, I feel sexually revved up. Am I thinking of him simply because the sex was good more often than not? That’s a bit sad if I were to be totally honest. An entire relationship boiled down to occasionally having good sex. The risk was not worth the reward, however. If I may admit, I am a bit nervous to sleep with T----- for the first time. He’s tall, dark, and very excited to sleep with me. Will I like it? Will it be the end or the beginning? I am just a ball of nerves. Over thinking everything and psyching myself out of anything and everything worth being excited about.

I can now say with all confidence that I know what it is like to feel words scratching around my brain. It is massively uncomfortable. I sat there thinking about how many times I have used the word “I” in writing all of this. Were they all necessary in telling my story, or spilling out all my thoughts? How many is too many, and how many does it take to sound like an ultimate narcissist? Then again, when the whole story is about myself, how could I not use that word over and over again, dozens of times to a page? Lost in the haze of medical smoke, I can’t help but admire how clean and clear my handwriting looks now that I have my new pens. There is so much stuck in my mind that I don’t know how to even spell it out is clean, complete, and structured sentences. Could I really describe it in a way as simple as, “the better I get, the worse I seem to feel…”? Perhaps. But what I mean by that is, the more the treatment is working, the angrier I get at the fact that I couldn’t just control it myself. Why could I have simply just not thought about all the darkness sloshing around my brain? Why couldn’t I just chose to not hear the voice that was whispering evil thoughts into my head? Not outwardly violent thoughts, mind you, but violent enough to require pills. I would write more, but my arm is tired and my pills are starting to kick in. Good Night.

I like to take my pills with coffee. Odd, considering four out of the five pills that I take in a day are my “night pills”, some of which help me fall asleep. I’ve had a nurse tell me that because I am diagnosed with ADHD, caffeine affects me differently. It could also be that because I have been drinking coffee nearly daily that the caffeine affects me less than it would a person who drinks it only every so often. I spent a while talking to one of my best-friends about people who show sociopathic tendencies, and the people who choose to stay around them as long as they do either as friends or partners. Looking back at my own life choices, I can say with confidence that sociopaths most easily feed off of people with depression and or self-destructive personalities. Extreme example; A sociopath could say something like, “You’re right, you are a piece of shit. But you’re my piece of shit, and I am the only one who loves you.” Now, no one would say that out right, but what I am trying to show is that they can simultaneously confirm someone’s darkest fears about themselves, while making them think that they are the only one who understands who they are, why they are that way, and most important making them think that they are the only one who actually loves them. As though everyone else is just lying or faking caring for the person to use them for something, like money. Having been with A---- for nearly two years I can nearly promise that once they’ve danced that dance for a while, they have probably already started trying to emotionally separate their victim from friends and family, and either have or will start trying to separate them physically. Meaning, they will typically stop allowing friends to even come over to their home, tell them how their friend/family are using you or trying to use them and keep pummeling those messages into their heads to affirm and re-affirm that, other than their abuser, they are alone. The goal is to alienate their victim from anyone who could help them escape the abuse they are suffering. It’s boggling to me how someone who can be considered emotionally dead can make anyone feel like they are loved in any capacity. The ability to fake emotions is a dangerous one. I feel that women have been so conditioned to constantly equate receiving gifts with love, leaving some thinking that perhaps their love can be bought for the right price, or that they owe their abuser something in return for a gift. “I bought you a new phone, remember? You owe me _____.” Purchased from freedom for the price of a phone, a watch, or even a diamond ring. Abuse is tricky. Sometimes it’s as straight forward as being struck across the face, but sometimes it is more psychological. Emotional manipulation, verbal abuse, even financial abuse commonly occur while in a relationship with a sociopath. They want to control every aspect of the other person’s life. The victim isn’t “helping them” by paying their rent month to month. They aren’t going to change for the better when they are allowed just to sit at home every day left to their own devices, and quite literally only looking for jobs, only to reject any offer they get or keep a new job for just a couple weeks. They act like their victim is saving them, or is a “guardian angel”. There is no helping them. There is only enabling them to continue to use and abuse.

I want to publish this. I don’t know why I feel so compelled to do so. Perhaps it’s because I want to reach out to someone, anyone who feels these things to and tell them that they are not alone. They aren’t the only one who suffers these kinds of things, and that there is help for those who seek it out. My friends support the idea, but my mother is more reserved about it. Worrying about the criticisms about being open about mental illness. I don’t mind. Sure there might be a little back lash from publishing, or even posting it in public forums, but I don’t care. This needs to get out there somehow. If I can help one or two people start to make a change for the better, then I know I have done something great. It’s so clichéd to say things like that, but it is the truth and then some. This is the reality for millions. Diagnosed or untreated, this is real for us. We are our own worst nightmares.