[TW: mentions of rape, suicide, etc. This post is yet another that started last night as an FB status. I feel the need to bare my soul every so often. Especially in times like right now. The original FB post will be in italics]
I think once I get back on my feet and into my own place again, that is when I will get my semicolon tattoo. And more, if I can swing it.
I’ve contemplated getting one. While it’s primarily about surviving suicide, I see it as so much more. I’ve seen and been through a lot. Just in the time I’ve been struggling these past couple of years, I’ve contemplated suicide. A few months ago, something clicked in me. It’s hard to describe, but I just let things go. That somehow, no matter how bad things may get, I will get through it. And the last few months have been my hardest to get through since my dad died.
I have survived most kinds of abuse, including repeated rape.
Emotional, psychological, sexual assault in a relationship, etc. Just about everything BUT getting beat up. I went through all of it from different sources. Not just one person, but many. I was the doormat for a lot of people to trample on and abuse for most of my life. This blog is far too public for me to go into too many details about who did what.
I have PTSD.
That whole sexual assault thing. I recently, as in the last couple of years, thought I was doing really well. Maybe even open to dating again and something romantic. Being asexual, I don’t get much, if any, sexual attraction (and yes, it’s about attraction, not the act… get a clue), but holding hands, snuggling up with someone… I thought maybe I was ready for that. Then something happened late last year that dropped me back down the rabbit hole of insecurity and fear of getting close to someone. My defensive wall went back up and I’m in a state of “if you want to hug me and my arms aren’t open and waiting to hug you, please ask first.” My personal space was shoved to the side and I was left feeling extremely uncomfortable… which is putting it mildly.
PTSD isn’t just for soldiers. It’s for anyone who has gone through something traumatic. While piecing together the history that gave me PTSD, I realized it wasn’t JUST my ex. It was the guy who forced himself on a 17 year old me for a French kiss I didn’t want or know what to do with (TMI maybe: I was a virgin until 21, and didn’t date until I was 17). It was also the blind date dude at 19 who tried to force me to do oral. I was able to pull back and end the “date.” Then at 21/22, my ex. Once I realized it was more than just him, I understood myself and why I’m also moderately sexually repulsed (which is completely different from asexuality).
I’ve been suicidal on long phases of my life starting as a teen.
Just about every day in high school. I contemplated it, I thought of how and when. I already knew the ‘why.’ I hated existing. I was this clumsy dancer who was shy, made fun of, verbally abused by family and others. Being told over and over to never bother trying anything because I’m too stupid and slow to achieve anything in life.
In my senior year, I found out I wasn’t stupid, at least by the Stanford-Binet IQ test. I tested around 144, Gifted range. NOT. FUCKING. STUPID!! I changed. I busted my ass in school and went from a D average to an A- average.
The next most obvious phase wasn’t really me… it was me on Prozac. For a year and a half, they kept upping the damn dosage and making it worse. I had never considered slitting my wrists before then…
The most recent: I mentioned it above. Whenever I got close to an eviction, I freaked out, I panicked, I sat on my couch (until I got rid of it) and considered just handing off my cats to a trusted friend and ending it all. Then one of the cats would come up to me and demand attention and start to purr. If there is ever any doubt about the Power of the Purr, I’m still here…
I’ve come close to dying from things other than my own hands. More than once.
1989. Doc prescribed too high of a dose of one drug. Sent me into an overdose. I was taking the prescribed amount at the precise intervals.
2008. Land in the ER with 3rd stage Cellulitis. I don’t recommend letting it get to 3rd stage. There is no 4th stage… unless you count a body bag and a ride to the morgue as a stage.
Those are the two biggest medical “crash and burns”
I’ve lost both my parents, two beloved cats, friends, other family.
Mom died in 2013, dad in 2014. And since I don’t have (human) children, my cats come next. Jack in 2010 and JoJo almost 2 months ago (Feb 3rd, 2017). I still have Portia, and will get a second cat again one day…
Losing friends -either by death or just ending the friendship- has also been fairly common. And sometimes, if that person is still alive, there is still a grieving process. It’s different, certainly.
I’ve questioned myself, my talents, and my sanity.
As I look at my current situation -quasi-homeless- I find that this is my chance to start over to some degree. A chance to look back, learn, and move forward.
But I’m still here. I shouldn’t be, but I am. I still doubt myself time to time. But I still wake up every day. After everything, that is what matters.