I suppose I have walked around most of my life saying…. hi, I’m a victim of circumstances. Hi…. did you hear about my circumstances? Well…. let me tell you about those darned circumstances! I think I meant for it to sound how ‘badass I am… how much I have overcome’. It started to really say…. yep. I’m fucked up. And it may have even sounded like… this is who I should blame. And while some of those positions may have changed slightly, there are people who are not entirely innocent. They have blame to shoulder. Not just me. And while I’ll never hear anything that will amend my broken spirit, I have to figure out a way to fight.

I listen to true crime podcasts. I thoroughly enjoy them. Or at least what I’ve listened to. Red Handed, Canadian True Crime, NBC, ABC, Wondery, blah blah blah. I enjoy listening to it to try to get an answer about why other people commit these murders. What brings a person to that level of insanity or rage? I admitted last night that… (out loud)… I also listen to these podcasts because I can relate to the sadness and depressing content. I listen to Mel Robbins or NPR and I feel physically uncomfortable. Positive content is good (not talking about the news segments…. generally). I can comprehend trauma. I can relate to trauma. I may not relate to murder or a that type of trauma. Yet, I can understand bitterness. I don’t relate to how to feel satisfied in my career. In my life. Even in my own shoes. It’s not a thing I can recognize well.

I recognized something different in me though, when I got to walmart to grab Eric’s meds. I walked into the store with a starbucks, phone, and purse in my hands/arm. Maneuvering VERY carefully as to not spill that perfectly wonderful experience of the peppermint mocha. I thought to myself… just for the moment. Someone might look at me and think…. she’s okay. She’s got it together. She’s got an expensive coffee, a nice warm coat, a good vehicle, money to get medicine. And maybe that might be true, to an extent. I feel completely discombobulated. I rarely ever carry cash. I don’t spend on myself. I never take vacations. I rarely ever go out to eat (unless bringing home a pizza from Papa Murphy’s or subway is considered eating out…?). And, by the way. I eat. Especially on the weekends. I didn’t really get into learning about portion sizes. So…. I ignore the nutritional details and dive in. My seratonin or dopamine dump. And, mostly… I don’t care about myself. So I don’t care about my health. And yes…. it seems weird that I desperately want to keep my life going…. but don’t want to change anything.

Don’t want to change….

I want to change. Really … I do. I am terrified. Every single moment of every day until I sleep. Sleep is … significant to me. I rarely take naps. I came home early and Eric told me… go take a nap. And I did? It was… restorative. I like curling up with my blanket and pillow. I like the safety and security that brings. It’s somewhat addicting.

I’m almost 49, folks. That means that I’ll be 50 next year and I’m still terrified of the boogeyman from the past. And while my boogeyman existed or exist… however, I can’t get over it. My life feels like I’m stuck between two time lines. One where I’m trying to overcome a ton of trauma and am trying to make sense of my life, alone. No one to walk me through. No one to help me see. Just expected me to see. Like I was having a spiritual vision. (No…. that’s drugs or mentally problematic hallucinations through genetic means…. either way… yikes!) I want to know what it is like to not worry that my husband will die. That everyone I love dies. That I lose my house and everything I’ve earned. Everything that I’ve loved or cared for. That Nihilism is really the truth. (No…. it’s not… yet, I can see it to an extent)

Being mentally ill doesn’t mean you’re bound for the psych unit. That you are willing to commit various terrible things. That you are supposed to be fitted with a white jacket and put in a padded room. It also does not mean that your genetics are entirely tainted and no good for the world. I think many people hear different mental illness diagnosis and want to run for the hills.

We are people who deserve compassion and understanding. It is not for everyone. Likely, we get it. My husband says, I gave him PTSD. I’m not entirely sure… but somehow… that’s possible. Sometimes, we need to step outside of ourselves. And that may not be possible – depending on how deep we are in. And… on top of that, I have fault in how I managed through life. Yes. I did NOT get there by myself. I was neglected emotionally. I was surviving on reaction. I was terrified. I had to learn life the hard way. I wish, you could take the time. To go outside of yourself and see the world to be as compromising I do. The dangers that lurk in areas that might make no sense. No legal definition of reason to think I might be a target or anything. Nevermind the fact that every time I open my mouth, I feel like someone will judge what I said.

I am currently at this mental war with myself. Who will lose? Who will win?

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