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I've been thinking about my PTSD.

I prefer thinking that it can never be cured. That it's something that I'll just have to live with the rest of my life. Because, in truth, I'm terrified of what I'll have to do to cure it. I don't even know if I want to cure it. I've never been officially diagnosed, but every one of the symptoms I've read matches me. I don't want to think I'm one of those folk that self diagnoses via the internet, except... it makes sense for me to have PTSD. After all of the stuff that my mother did to me, all that stuff that happened to me. The same way that I was so hyper-sexual when I was younger.

I don't want to work to cure it. I know it makes me weak and cowardly and horribly, and I hate that. I don't want to face those memories, because I hate them. And I guess I like having the PTSD as an excuse. But I don't know. I'm confused and I'm lonely and I'm scared. What if I really don't have PTSD and I'm just making a big deal out of everything? What if the stuff that I remember never actually happened?

I don't want to work to cure the PTSD. I know that it will hurt, so much. I don't want to put aside the time to see a shrink, don't want to go to a shrink, don't want to inconvenience myself. It sounds so damn petty when I say that, that the main reason I'm not working through my issues is that I don't want to be inconvenienced, but it's the truth. I value the time I have to myself, value it very, very highly, and damned if I know why.

I am lonely. Really, really lonely. I hate it, because I hate being touched. But I want someone to touch me. I remember at one point, when my depression got really bad, I wanted someone to hug me, to hold me. I tried to explain it to the shrink at my summer camp, but she didn't seem to understand it. And I hate it. I hate that I want something, but at the same time, I can't stand it.

I'm becoming mean. I'm becoming mean, and I'm becoming angry, and it scares me.

There was someone I cared about, cared about him very, very much. He was one of my only friends when I was in high school, via the internet, and I thought he loved me. Towards the beginning of the semester, I was going through a tough time, and I was lonely. He told me to "get over myself", and I was upset at him. I wrote a long, drawn out post apologizing, even though I didn't want to apologize, I just wanted him to keep talking to me, and he told me that "if [he] were not most of the way across the continental US, [he] would do everything in [his] power to hold you and love you and teach you that there is more to a relationship than just sex." I, understandably, thought he loved me. Or maybe not understandably. Maybe I read too into something. But then he stopped talking to me as often. Stopped initiating conversation, which sounds like a really stupid thing to get upset about, but when you're always the one who starts it, it brings about the feeling of "do you actually want to talk to me?". At one point, I was seriously considering committing myself to an institution, and I told him, "I loved you, once". Which surprised him. Because apparently he thought that I "looked down on love". And apparently there was a clause in there, an "only in person" clause.

If you have an "only in person" clause, you don't say things like that. I still care about him, and we write well together, but a part of me hates him for that. Hates that he's so happy with his boyfriend, who I don't want to hear about, because I'm so lonely I just want to lie down and die. I want to hurt him, and I hate that. I know it isn't his fault, that I took on stalker tendencies, but I still hate it. I hate that he can be so happy while I'm so lonely.

Why do I feel so horrible? Really, why? I'm in a relationship with someone I love. I've got friends. So why am I so miserable? These were things I would have killed for, last year, and now I've got them and I still want to lie down and die. Except now I'm angry. Like, punch a wall until all the bones in my hand break. I want to hurt, so badly, and it hurts. I feel like I'm alienating all of my friends with this, and sometimes I feel like I just can't stop talking about it. I'm so scared and I'm so lonely, and I wish I knew why. I'm so tired, but I have to keep going, and I wish I didn't.

Geez, this thing veered off topic. I guess I just don't know. I want to be better, I think. But on the other hand, I'm not sure. I'm beginning to think I've had the PTSD most of my life, from my mother, but I'm not sure. But I need to keep going, because I know it'll past. It has to pass, because if it doesn't, then I don't know what I'm going to do.

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cythewriter: Me + tie dye (Default)
Cy Fur

May 2010

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