I feel like I’m supposed to be bigger than I am. I’m aware that’s a cognitive distortion — a common one, too — but it feels so frustrating to see myself somewhere and then have that... hopelessness come up and out.
Being able to identify it helps.
I feel big. I can’t quite explain it, but I know I’m taller than I am, and somehow “more important” in a way that doesn’t have words. And then I feel something — seeping out of the trauma — and it pours out and curls around me and compresses me. Not just makes me short, but physically pushes me in. And I ignore it (maybe I shouldn’t) until, before I know it, I can’t speak. I can’t tell anyone what it’s saying to me.
I would LIKE to. Even just for myself. But I keep losing it. Whatever it is, it’s debilitating when it does this. I can’t talk to my therapist about it. I’m trying to, but she’s a very thoughts —> feelings —> reactions kind of lady, which is fine, but she tends to dismiss what can’t be explained and I really don’t know what this is. I’m not doing it on purpose — not that my therapist is suggesting that. But it’s not a thought, exactly.
I also have a lot of “traumaversary” this month. My therapist told me to ditch that word though — measurements of time are arbitrary, and we only name the 12 months the way we do because we like measuring how much time has gone by. I could be using two or three calendars right now, or no calendar, and I’d still be getting far, far away from everything that happened.
It was really difficult to tell my therapist why this month is so hard. We only have 50 minutes every two weeks. I told her the basic story, which is that my ex girlfriend’s birthday was in December.
I didn’t tell her any specifics at all, because I was looking for solutions that were immediate. Like, “drop that word — traumaversary. You don’t need that.”
I was able to say about the head injury — I got that in December and I had my first flashback relating to that. Which was wild!! Because what I remembered in that flashback? All good things!! I didn’t even know it was a flashback until I talked to my therapist about it.
I think I need to get this out though.
Brandi’s birthday was fun during the first few years. She expected sex from me and didn’t return the favor, and that was fine for me at the time. Hurtful, but fine. It escalated every year though.
Brandi wasn’t doing well. Her mom dated this man who had that Look about him. Same kind my dad would have when he took drugs with alcohol. Just crazy. And Brandi was having these dreams of getting raped by him. I had stopped getting adults to try to help a while before this, and I felt like I should help.
I can’t continue this story, but props to me for trying
I’ll say this instead. The radio keeps playing ads for preventing human trafficking and the ads are making me sick to my stomach. I’ve been calorie counting to try not to overeat, but lately I’ve had to calorie count just to TRY to get enough in a day. I’m getting maybe 700 calories a day.
But, again, last time I got this symptomatic, I had to go sit in a waiting room to prevent myself from offing myself, and I laid in a hospital bed for two weeks without eating or speaking (in my defense they immediately disregarded my hospital trauma and put an IV in me for dehydration, which I do admittedly understand but it was hard), and before all that I sat huddled in a sorority house afraid to move for several weeks before Ashlyn very, very kindly gave me a basil salad she made.
I’m getting that itch to totally isolate and not move and let myself waste away. But I’m doing well. I even went to a job interview. My friend told me I looked handsome and I believed him. My dog has cloudy eyes but they’re still FULL of love.
Maybe it’s all the build up from my dog not being able to properly do her tasks anymore. She’s too old and I’m still living with my mom. I cleaned off the table and two weeks later it was covered again. My dog wouldn’t have been able to help with that, but it makes it harder to adjust when I know I qualified for and could afford another service dog — except that I’m living in this house.
My therapist did remind me that my mom’s form of dealing with anxiety IS her stuff. So I’m trying to accept that, but it really is, in equal parts, disrespectful. My dad used to punish me by having me clean off that exact table. I hate clutter so much.