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Colorful and hopefully optimistic but maybe hateful occasionally

One of my main goals for cleaning this room was to be able to move the bed away from the vent so I can actually sleep at night. That worked :D but it's still a bit difficult to fall asleep because of the new feel to the room, I guess.

Luckily I have lots of jellybeans. Coffee flavored jellybeans count, I think :P
 
The weirdest things trigger my suddenly involuntary re-entry into the fantasy world. I feel like I need to examine it and I just don't need to worry about it.

It feels normal to me, at this point. I've always had it. I learned at a very young age, less than two years old, to entertain myself with stories. Maybe boredom from neglect? The stories were so elaborate that I knew they had really happened. I could see them with my own eyes and I had no idea I was imagining them.

My understanding is that that's pretty normal for children, so it doesn't bother me.

I also learned to zone out when my dad would attack or yell. It was extremely easy, because I wasn't allowed to fight back or react anyway. So. Distractions that were a bit dissociative, no big deal.

Still not a bad thing.

I also wrote books that were dramatic and often tragic but with happy endings. Frequently involving orphans and people being turned into the wrong species, but often just about what clowns are like and what cats do. Pretty normal, maybe not so trauma-induced, because there's nothing wrong with a brain that's always leaned toward being a creative author. It's not weird.

I got really, really into it around the age of ten, when I started a sexual relationship with a pedophile and my mom was dying (because of my dad) and my aunt who I think abused her kids sexually started living with us.

It was a full story with an amazing amount of detail to the world, language, etc. I've had several of those, and I don't consider them to be bad. I know most authors don't have it, but some of the more well known authors do "see" scene vividly, so, it's whatever.

I played out these stories before the rapes happened. Some kids accused me of lying because they didn't understand how seriously I was taking the stories. Luckily I was known as honest otherwise, and adults were able to back me up to other kids. Other kids could tell what was real and what wasn't, so any games we played relating to my stories weren't bad things. Kids who really loved them became close friends.

Unusual, but all kids can be unusual. Not a bad thing.

It wasn't until 2008 when I became "friends" with B that I had to start pretending that they were real. Or face very serious threats. That's what messed me up the most, I think.

I was so ashamed that not even my mom knows.

I'm so glad I finally told her it wasn't real. I thought it would mess me up, and I thought it would destroy B, because of the threats she had made.

Luckily, it turns out that B was trying to control my mind, my story, and wanted me to be afraid of "telling the truth." She made it our boundary, that if it wasn't real, she'd cut me off in one way or another. She'd treat me like shit.

One time there was a full year where she didn't "believe" in it, because I had told her that I reality, I wasn't her mom.

My plan had been to say that none of it had been real.

I had to start backtracking and saying that half of it was true. I had started to love my characters, a lot. And she was threatening me. She was acting insane. I viewed myself as "brave enough to tell the truth" because of how she acted, like it was literally the end of the world.

During the year, I kept calling every night, obediently. We'd usually talk about her. She felt guilty about that, but I assured her it was okay. She needed help. She never brought up H or any other fictional character.

A year later, my pain suddenly got better. I realized that the characters were all mine again. I kept hearing "I'm free, I'm free!" because that's what I was telling myself.

Literally a week or so after that, she suddenly asked me again if it was all REALLY real.

I said it was.. i had been trained, by that point. And I was afraid. Afraid she'd hate me for being a liar (though my adult brain, thankfully, knows better), afraid she'd start threatening my life or her own life again.

I was terrified.

She insisted that I could REALLY tell her anything. She told me that I didn't need to be afraid because she had handled it for a year, just fine. She had stayed my friend for that year, which proved that she wasn't "using me," as she said herself. She used me as a tool to talk to them, though. That was previously the point of the friendship.

She also told me that if it wasn't real, she'd be fine. She played video games with characters she also wanted to be real, and could accept that her life wasn't as cool as it was in her games.

I thought she was tricking me, testing me. I knew that if I did admit that I had lied, that something bad would happen. I know I was right, too. Because she does not forgive. She holds grudges and tells you that she hates what you were one year. Hated everything about you. Can't EVER trust you again, will NEVER get over what you did to her.

She'd already done that to me, and I watched her do it to just about everyone I knew. She was by now my only friend, because she had forced me to cut off talking to my other friends. She would cut herself in front of me and have insanely dramatic meltdowns, complete with the loudest sobbing ever heard (like that of a young child's) if I mentioned having ever had a friend, or a boyfriend.

Once she felt so bad that she almost cut herself, because I didn't make a quiz about my likes and dislikes online easy enough... because she didn't know every detail of my life.

She was at once entirely innocent and in need of protection, and subconsciously in need of control of SOMETHING.

I hate myself for having not been strong enough to just tell her it wasn't real. I hate myself for not helping her because she was clearly just as distressed as I was. She NEEDED me, and even know I know I was like 14 maybe, too young to actually be what she needed...

It really bothers me.

I'm very sure she didn't even realize what she was doing. She was a child too. That's the hardest part for me. And then it continued until I was 22. Not a real adult, but legally an adult.

But going into the fantasy world is still easy and often involuntary for me now. Because it went from being a survival method... to being something that I NEEDED to survive.

But, the daydreaming itself doesn't really bother me. I remember a time when it prevented me from getting work done. It would prevent me from going home, and it would be the WORST to have to be too still or too busy.

I remember being able to lay for hours, just in my fantasy world. It was nice, though a bit destructive. But not directly. I just needed to learn to control it. I thought most authors thought like that.

My twin brother even had it for a short while. He stopped in high school.

I've had to remind myself that even if it was maladaptive daydreaming, it wasn't something I was ever supposed to become THAT ashamed of.

Maybe it would have been easier if I hadn't been emotionally neglected as a teenager, despite my dad being kicked out. And banned from us.

Or if literally any of the adults I had asked for help from had actually helped me.

But I need to accept that it wasn't my fault. I don't really blame B either, not for that. I blame her for her awful behavior, but am aware that she couldn't control herself and needed an adult figure in her life who could actually help. And I was not an adult. That's why it was so easy for her to think I was...

To the point of literally believing I was her mom, and finding all sorts of evidence for it.

Which was fun until it turned out not to be...

It's still very confusing, and I'm so so sad that I wont contact her to help her get through it, but honestly she's been dangerous to me for a long time. I can hope and even pray that she gets better and moves on with a decent life. And know that what happened was not my fault. Her unhealthy life, even if it wasn't her fault, is also not my responsibility.

I spent years straight of having no ability to heal myself, because I was literally her therapist. At age 13 and on, and later on for a full year with absolutely no boundaries in 2016.

Yet I am proud of how much she improved, and sincerely hope she continues with the skills I taught her.

And I made it clear that I was not a liscenced person and I wanted her to become brave enough to go to one. I hope she does.
 
Saying all that was really confusing.

I'm not sure how to reconcile my anger at her when I know I can't blame her.

Although, maybe I can blame her adult self? That's kind of logical?

Some of those things she did to me were traumatic and just awful, and I don't have permission to be angry. I want to be angry. I wish she would have ever made room for me to explain, and I wish she hadn't brainwashed me into believing I was a liar and just the worst person who didn't even deserve to have water or love. I deserved every bad thing she did to me.

That can't be something children just do.

And I know she really loved me, once, and that just confuses things even more. How am I supposed to think of this stuff?

Same to my pedophile. I think he truly cared about me, and his mother certainly did, and I have NO idea how I'm supposed to understand that, make sense of it...

I don't want to be hateful.
 
The pedophile was occasionally angry and terrifying and what he did really hurt. I wanted to ask for help.

But he really did seem to care. I'm familiar with grooming, and know that some happened, but it looked like a kid trying to impress a crush. Showing off, trying to get me to notice, trying to see if the feelings were returned. Admitting he felt confused.

Meanwhile my dad was paying him? So my dad could get attention. Because my dad was a psycho and wanted attention, didnt seem to understand he was hurting anyone. Has not apologized.

And my pedo let me go, eventually, because I started helping him emotionally and he was suddenly overcome with guilt.

He didn't want to hurt me. He just wanted to be accepted. He wanted a normal life.

Then he moved to China to marry... some girl.

Not sure what happened to his dogs. He loved his dogs, and his dogs were what got us introduced.

Might have been using the dogs as a lure.

I'm not even sure. He had real emotions and I'm still getting used to seeing those in adult men.

I feel so sorry for him and I don't want to be angry at him either. He showed mercy and compassion.

I wonder if he ever even cared about my interests or what I did in school.

I wonder if I want to be angry at him and want him dead and gone from ever appearing in my yard ever again... or what. Am I angry or not?
 
But I need to accept that it wasn't my fault.

yes you do --- because it wasn't You were in a nightmare but what happened wasn't your fault. EVER.

I don't have permission to be angry. I want to be angry. I

Are you working on this with your T? You don't need to wait for someone to give you permission. You can give yourself permission to feel as angry as you want to. You are the person who matters in this. If you want to be angry you can let yourself be...

I think he truly cared about me, and his mother certainly did, and I have NO idea how I'm supposed to understand that, make sense of it...

Oh hunny--- he was a pedophile raping a child. He may have cared for you because in their sick and twisted way most of them believe the child is somehow a willing participant. But the reality is --- he is a criminal.

I feel so sorry for him and I don't want to be angry at him either. He showed mercy and compassion.

I'm hoping you are working on this with your T. I can guess you need to remember he was merciful because it's how you stayed sane. But you were a child. You should have never been put in that position to begin with.

You have survived so much and came out with compassion and empathy and the ability to love in spite of all that was done to you. That makes you are amazing. And being angry won't change any of those good things in you. You will still have them. Anger is like cleaning house -- you throw out all the bad and make room for the good. It's ok to let it out...
 
Everything at once...

Saw ex's (B's) messages on Facebook. To our mutual friend, no big deal. Not too bad, but made me miss what she used to be. An actual friend.

And my dad is calling me again. Hm. Wrote a different thread on that, so won't repeat it here. Long story short, trying to figure out how I feel about that.
 
I'm so anxious.

Maybe because of student loans? I'm not sure what that's have to do with anything, though. See, if I were living without PTSD, it'd be totally fine. The loans will help me with my credit score, as long as I'm careful with them. And these letters I'm getting aren't to have me pay, yet.

Maybe I'm fearful because I don't have a job right now? No income?

I want to go get one, but I feel stuck. I have to clean this house? I need a car.

I've been really bothered lately, because I know a lot about biology, and psychology, but not about my reactions on PTSD. I guess I avoided that. I frequently feel like a little child trying to figure it out.

I think I can't handle the normal stress of getting important things done. I remember that being a problem in doing projects. Too much other stuff. It got harder after the 10th concussion. The combined effect?

I just want to live a life. I think I should just do it.
 
Wait, no. It was tonight's dinner with my mom. We ate out tonight. And my mom was victim-y again.

I keep trying to chose restaurants that won't end up ruining the fun, and it's not working. My mom hates people and I love them, and she keeps acting angry and like everything is against her. I don't know how to handle it.

And when I've accidentally, involuntary, asked her to avoid subjects or not do certain things, she makes big deals out of it.

And I'm already retroactively angry about my teenage years, how I couldn't get help from her before or after my dad was gone. How when we went out tonight she got a huge milkshake despite being diabetic. Her feet got swollen.

One time I walked her through a heart attack. In high school. I'd started some nurse training early -- enough to recognize it. She refused a hospital. Refused everything. Thought she was going to die all night.

I'm not a professional heart attack healer. No one is. Why does she want me to fix everything like a professional, and still treat me like an idiot other times?

I know she's on my side, but I'm having such a hard time seeing it lately.
 
It would help if I could get the last of this stuff organized. I bought a desk for 127USD. I couldn't actually afford it, but I have nowhere to study. Nowhere to concentrate.

My mom challenged me on that too, today. Said my desk at college was always covered. Like she was always there? She was not.

And anyway, I had a closed area to myself in the library. A workstation.

The other day she "forced" information out of me that I didn't want to tell her.

I thought I'd like living with my mom. I hate myself for being so -- like this. I make her have to think about what she says and does. I hate it.

And how come I'm the only one of my siblings who got PTSD? Something so wrong with my brain? Ugh.

I could also be stressed because I'm in pain. I didn't want to eat out. It hurts. And my body hurts. Ugh. Why didn't I say I didn't want to?
 
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