Ever been so tired you wanted to throw up on somebody? Yeah, that's me, too. I feel my life winding down and it's been a sad life...a hard life...a lonely life. Boohoo, you say, cry me a river, cry me another, play me a violin. Maybe I shall, because I have lived for just a little too long with this feeling of helplessness, monstrous shyness, an inability to trust, to reach out, all the by-products of sexual abuse in a society that doesn't seem to care much about anyone. At all. Selfishness, one could say, the modern hallmark of a society that seems to run faster and faster and trample on more and more people. I wish I could feel better about things. I wish I could feel that God really loves me, or that I have people to talk to, or that my entire life is not a bomb waiting to explode, wired to a totally horrific family in which I was the scapegoat and, kaboom, one false move would lead to their entire demise. Somehow, they did to me, and there you have it - it wired my brain to feel as if I am responsible for everything and everyone.
And now, somehow, I don't care anymore. I can't find a place to hang my hat in this state. I can't find a decent life. I have been unable to work. Well-meaning people tell me it will get better. It doesn't get better, and the world gets much worse. Who cares about anyone? Who cares, period? Certainly no one in my family has ever cared for me. And the bad days are so very bad, the sense of aloneness, the indifference of the people around me, the sense that I am alone, rejected, unwanted, unloved, ignored. All of it. That's how I feel, most of the time, and to reach out to another is hard, too, although I've done that mostly with anonymous strangers on crisis lines.
So, today, I set myself free from my perpetrator, whom I have written to to renounce the curse of his cruelty. A car may come next and then, who knows? A job? A move to another state? Something better despite how damned hard it's been even living where I'm living which has triggered my symptoms so badly? I can't take another second of it and yet here I am, writing about it, sure the world will now blow up in my face. I can't walk anymore, take the bus, worry that my perpetrator will die if I tell him the truth and again, as it always was, that it will be ALL MY FAULT. I need a quiet place to write, and to live, and to live without being reminded daily, constantly, hourly it seems, of what happened to me as a child. I need to feel confident and able to support myself once more in a world that, without money, is full of very horrific horrors indeed. I sometimes feel that all of my options are no options at all. That's how I feel. Sometimes my life seems like a sick and brutal joke indeed. Yes, it surely does.
And that's the end of my therapy for today. Forgive me for how self-seeking it has been, but it was a necessary exorcism for my soul.
The end.
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