Perceptions {NSFW}   5 comments


Many years ago, when my middle child was just a baby, I was told that I exaggerated how bad my life was. This was told to me by my “life coach” The one person that was supposed to believe me and help me get back on my feet. It wasn’t till I entered the hospital, manic depression going haywire, that she realised that I WASN’T exaggerating. I TRIED to tell her I was on the verge of a meltdown. I TRIED to tell EVERYONE. I even went to the ER at Denver General and tried to admit myself with suicidal ideation. They had no beds so, they turned me away.

I remember leaving there, crying and walking toward downtown, feeling so depressed that I truly wanted to die. I walked through the park, seeing all the happy people, feeling even more empty inside. I honestly don’t remember how I got from there to University hospital with a handcuff attached to my wrist. They say I walked into oncoming traffic, right in front of a police car and DEMANDED he run over me. Needless to say, he didn’t and realised there was something obviously wrong with me. I wasn’t doing drugs, I’d been clean for about a year. They put me in a locked ward with the other “nonviolent” patients and there I was diagnosed with “fast cycling manic depression with suicidal ideation alternating with PTSD episodes, flashbacks and possible multiple personality disorder” I was pretty fucked up.

My case worker and my “life coach” held a meeting with me, four days into my “stabilization period” to discuss my life in detail. I told of my abuse as a child, the trafficking I’d been involved in, becoming a widow before I was 29, the unexpected birth of my son and the years of drug and alcohol abuse. I spoke, nonstop, for two hours. I vomited out every vile thing I’d done, everything that had been done to me and how I hated myself and everyone else so much that I was afraid. Afraid I’d hurt someone like my son. I’d been a cutter for years, slicing into my chest and belly when I couldn’t do anything about the overwhelming feelings. Then I’d cut just to be able to feel SOMETHING. Something about the pain centered me, grounded me… made everything ok for a while.

I’d gotten so good at hiding things, from the trafficking to the cutting, that no one thought there was anything wrong with me. Everyone that saw me thought I had a wonderful life. I had a great job, a beautiful baby after 16 years of infertility, a Mustang… I had everything I wanted yet I was struggling so hard to keep it together inside.

I was promiscuous, screwing every man I could get to bed me, including one man on the stairwell of my mother’s apartment building at 2 AM. I didn’t even know the man’s name and had never spoken to him before that night. I was spending myself broke every paycheck, getting things for the baby that he didn’t need, shit for myself that I’d never use, spending just enough that I wouldn’t bounce any checks. I drank a lot, going to the bars EVERY night, just to pick up a guy or a gal, just to get laid. I was fixated on sex, EVERYTHING became sexual and I couldn’t get enough. I was always horny, always ready. I guess I’d snapped or something because the night before I went into the hospital, I vaguely remember being at the bus stop in a bad part of town, dressed scantily. I talked to a guy sitting at the stop and there it gets really scattered. I remember sporadic things of him on top of me, in me, us beside the stop on the ground and me clawing into his back and crying. I think he raped me but hell, I don’t know, maybe it was the other way round. That’s when I figured it was time to do something myself, before someone REALLY got hurt. I decided that next morning, as I stood in the shower washing mud and blood from me, feeling the pain in my body and feeling so empty that I wanted to die, I decided that it was time to get straightened out. For my son if not myself. I didn’t want him growing up with a mom like me and I DAMN well didn’t want anyone else raising him.

 

It was a full year before I allowed a man to touch me after I left the hospital. A record for me, honestly. Since I was 9 I had been bedded at least weekly, usually daily. It’s been many years since this life has been so messed up but I am reminded, daily, of my journey with the scars on my belly and chest. I have a loving husband that knows of my past, all of it, and loves me in spite of my flaws.  My closest friends know most of my past as does my mother and they accept me the way I am. I thank my Higher Power every day that my life has become what it is now. Even with all the daily stress, I still love my life and wouldn’t trade my friends and family for any of Trumps billions.

5 responses to “Perceptions {NSFW}

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  1. My first thought, inexplicably, is “I love you.” I don’t say that to perfect strangers, ever. My heart is so gladdened by your last paragraph. You are worthy of love and happiness.
    “I vomited out every vile thing I’d done…” is a tremendous phrase. Keep up with your writing. It’s healing. And not only do you have a lot to give with your experiences, you are very good.That’s the first time I’ve complimented another blogger’s writing because I am very picky and stringently sincere. Peace.

    Like

    • I love you bunches too! Thank you so very much for that, the encouragement is VERY appreciated. Sometimes I wonder if anything I’m saying makes sense to anyone but me.

      You’re right, it’s exceptionally theraputic. Wish I’d done it years ago like my wise old therapist told me to lol. I’m actually looking forward to every post that comes to me because the tears that flow as I’m writing seem to make a little of my pain go away. Both physical and spiritual.

      Like

  2. Hey,

    I’m really glad that you’re in a good place now and have loving and listening people around you.

    Take care.

    Like

  3. I’m tangled up in a mess of disbelief, horror, sadness, and feeling like a rubbernecker on the highway. Your stories are horrifically amazing and well-written. I don’t really know how to respond other than wow. Just wow.

    Like

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