I usually only get out about once a week, I’m so petrified of being around people, I could say it’s because of my abusers, but it’s not. When I go out I always have a panic attack, the loud noises, or busy crowds are a no go, and I only ever go out on a weekday as it is very quiet with most people working.
You hold me back from life,
You show me glimpses of the knife,
That hung above my head,
When I wished that I was dead.
Trigger Warning: Abuse, and Attempted Suicide.
I know I am loved, I know I am safe, I have food, heat (my house only has one working heater and I pay £60 a week on electricity during winter), support, and I live in a country with free healthcare. I went to university for free, I don’t have to pay for my prescriptions, I have a pet, a partner, I take the time to do what I love, and I know more than anyone that people are worse off than I am.
With Donald Trump not believing women of sexual abuse for taking a time or not reporting I thought it was time to tell my own story in detail, what happened after, and why it took me so long to open afterwards. I gave a short explanation to this on Twitter and I wrote about it on here but I think its very important to talk about why I didn’t report the rape or sexual assault I experienced.
I just can’t seem to stop thinking, what’s annoying is that the coping tools I use have been decimated by my anxiety recently, then I stay up to three in the morning obsessing about whatever the hell thought caused a cataclysmic barrage of them. I’m not saying I’m not used to it, Anxiety has been feeding off of me my entire life, I try to think of the first time I felt this, but it’s very hazy.
I don’t usually post during the middle of the night, last week all I did was sleep, but for the past two nights I’ve tossed and turned with the best them. I just seem to have so much overwhelming stuff going on right now, I’m staring down the barrel of grief, I’m recovering from a traumatic event I had a year and a half ago, I’ve been given a date for a tribunal against my PIP decision which has, in turn, caused money issues, and I’ve reported my landlord for the poor state of repair that this house has given me.
Right now it feels like it would be easier to tell what I’m not worried about!
Life does as it pleases,
Every day is the same,
I always take the blame.
The Abuse was my fault,
The Rape was my fault,
The Miscarriages were my fault,
The Breakdowns were my fault.
Two weeks ago I deactivated my Facebook account, after my second miscarriage it hurt me to look at my friends and family with their babies and pregnancies. This time I deactivated it right away, all because it made me feel so much worse last time, and it’s given me time to grieve. For the first time, I’ve stopped comparing my life to those around me.
Maybe it’s just a coincidence and it was the third miscarriage which made me stop comparing, but I really don’t think it was. Facebook has a way of making me obsessed with everyone else, it hurts my anxiety to the point where I’m crippled because my life hasn’t turned out the way that everyone else has.
I understand that it’s all bullshit, no one really talks about there actual life, they just show the good parts of it. I understand the pressure of trying to make my life look perfect, even forcing myself to go places just because everyone else is doing it, which in turn hurts my mental illness as I force myself to look normal.
But I’m not normal, why would I even want to be normal? I’m quirky, I joke around a lot, and to other people, I may actually be weird. But I am me, unapologetic me, and Facebook makes me want to apologise for who I am. It makes me want to put a face on, pretend to be perfect, but it’s completely wrong.
I should be celebrating my individuality, that quirky girl who talks about her problems, writes, crafts like mad, reads, is a geek, and always has a kind word for other people. The girl that’s had a hard life, but doesn’t let it stop her, after facing abuse she still lets herself be open and vulnerable around other people because that’s who I am.
I believe the best in people, it may make me a target (it has made me a target), but I shouldn’t apologise for seeing the good in the people around me, even if they don’t understand what trauma does to a person, or talk behind other people’s back. It shouldn’t make me feel like I have to be a different person.
My other half always says I wear my heart on my sleeve, that everyone takes advantage of me, and he might be right. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t be myself, it shouldn’t make me want to hide from what is real, or who I really am. I want to live in a world where everyone shares everything, warts and all.
A world where I don’t have to live up to perfection because I had enough of that growing up, I want to live in a world where flaws are appreciated as individuality, not something to hide from, and that world is definitely not available on Facebook. It’s definitely not going to change to reflect real life.
Maybe we have to understand that and stay away. But there are good things about Facebook, due to my mental illness I’m not allowed to see my niece too much, and I have to deal with that. On Facebook I can now be part of her teenage life, comment on her posts, and talk to her through messenger.
It isn’t right that I’m not in her life, I’m no good at confrontation to fix it, but I can show that I care through Facebook. It’s not perfect, it’s not the life I imagined when she was born, but it does make me feel included in her life. I can also contact close family who live thousands of miles away from me, without Facebook I would never really talk to them besides the odd email, and I’m thankful for that.
But the bad outweighs the good for me right now, I might go back in a few weeks or I might just end up staying off it.
I’m trapped inside my head,
I tell myself it’d be better if I was dead,
My loved one would be better off,
If I was wrapped inside a cloth.
I cannot look at your faces,
Instead I stare at my laces,
The shy little girl,
Who was convinced she’d give life a whirl.
The candles appear on the cake,
While my soul begins to ache,
All the negative experiances in my life,
Begin to cause me so much strife.
I have to be nice to myself,
But like old editions left on the shelf,
The dust fogs up my brain,
As I feel like I’m going insane.
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