On Tuesday, I'm starting an intensive six week program. I'm assuming it'll have different types of therapy, but I'll find out soon enough.
I guess the problem I'm having is looking at the person in the mirror and recognizing him. I used to be fun. Fearless. Even in the face of danger.
Two years ago, I went up to a psychic reading place. I walked in only to see two men having sex with a ten year old girl. Shocked and angered, I walked closer to them. They pulled their pants up and pointed their guns at me. The girl looks over at me, crying. Naked. Covered. I looked angered and laughed. Told them I'd be happy if they shot the person I hated the most. Myself. To leave her alone. Weirded out, the men looked at each other confused at my self-hate which wsstso genuine and the put the guns down, getting into my head the other way. I was forced to watch them have sex with her. Then, at the end, they threw her to the floor and told me to sit next to her. Kneel. "Choose!", they yelled. I would have either had to choose myself to be killed or her. I dissociated and yelled that they were sick psychopaths. I chose myself. They killed her instead and turned out the lights and I must have froze looking at her until later I reported it.
For a while, I manufactured a reality in which I was able to save her.
Ever since then, I've been scared of everything and everyone. I try being the me I once was. But I'm a stranger. I blame myself for her death and it is part of the reason I'm being forced into intensive treatment. They don't know the story yet. But I look back at who I once was. It severely depressed how much of a genuine person people once saw me is, even if I never did and I now realize I am cold. Distant. Unable to love others or myself and feel quite lost.
I had so many opportunities that my PTSD f*cked up. Part of me wants to connect with someone. Which is why I post here. Under a take identity. Because the real me, I hate more than anything. I should have been the one to die. I've always felt like a burden and recently after an ER evaluation, I've come to realize that a lot of my life is manufactured. I erase the bad and manufacture a great past. I forgot who I was.
I guess the problem I'm having is looking at the person in the mirror and recognizing him. I used to be fun. Fearless. Even in the face of danger.
Two years ago, I went up to a psychic reading place. I walked in only to see two men having sex with a ten year old girl. Shocked and angered, I walked closer to them. They pulled their pants up and pointed their guns at me. The girl looks over at me, crying. Naked. Covered. I looked angered and laughed. Told them I'd be happy if they shot the person I hated the most. Myself. To leave her alone. Weirded out, the men looked at each other confused at my self-hate which wsstso genuine and the put the guns down, getting into my head the other way. I was forced to watch them have sex with her. Then, at the end, they threw her to the floor and told me to sit next to her. Kneel. "Choose!", they yelled. I would have either had to choose myself to be killed or her. I dissociated and yelled that they were sick psychopaths. I chose myself. They killed her instead and turned out the lights and I must have froze looking at her until later I reported it.
For a while, I manufactured a reality in which I was able to save her.
Ever since then, I've been scared of everything and everyone. I try being the me I once was. But I'm a stranger. I blame myself for her death and it is part of the reason I'm being forced into intensive treatment. They don't know the story yet. But I look back at who I once was. It severely depressed how much of a genuine person people once saw me is, even if I never did and I now realize I am cold. Distant. Unable to love others or myself and feel quite lost.
I had so many opportunities that my PTSD f*cked up. Part of me wants to connect with someone. Which is why I post here. Under a take identity. Because the real me, I hate more than anything. I should have been the one to die. I've always felt like a burden and recently after an ER evaluation, I've come to realize that a lot of my life is manufactured. I erase the bad and manufacture a great past. I forgot who I was.
