Do you ever feel like you're doomed to be alone?
That you're not destined to be great at anything?
That the rest of your life, you're just going to suffer painfully?
I've been starting to feel that way lately.
Many aspects of my life are completely unstable. One thing I've felt confident about since the beginning of the new year is my work life. I've felt confident in working in a tattoo shop as a body piercer, and writing/vlogging for a magazine. It felt nice to have at least one thing stable. It felt nice to feel like I was good at something, and I belonged somewhere.
Until a few aspects of my work life fell through as well. Now I'm beginning to really, truly question if I'll ever reach a stable point in life again. It brings up some red flags for myself.
I've been questioning everything. I'm afraid no matter how hard I try, I'll never amount to anything in the business world. I'm afraid I'll eventually get fired from whatever it is I'm doing, or I'll leave and not be able to amount to anything greater. I'm afraid eventually my BPD, my depression, and anxiety will all lead to my demise to where I'll be unable to function in a work place. I'm afraid it'll all build up, and I'll just lose that aspect of my life as well.
I'm afraid that I'm unlikable. That since I can't control my emotions, relationships, and thoughts and they're so freaking intense in my head and constantly shifting, that I'll either end up in another abusive relationship, or that I'll just end up all alone from fear. I'm afraid I'll never find someone who will be patient and love me for me. I'm afraid of letting someone that close to me, because I'm afraid that they'll eventually get tired of me. They'll eventually just leave anyway. I'm afraid of attaching myself or letting my feelings take over.
I'm afraid that eventually I'll become a burden to all my loved ones. I already feel so incredibly guilty and undeserving of the love and care they provide. Maybe right now, I'm not a burden to them. I'm scared that eventually my depressing thoughts, constant need of a distraction, reassurance, and help will become a problem and no one will want to help or listen anymore. I'm afraid the suicidal thoughts will get to them, and they'll stop being able to handle it. I require so much attention for wanting to just be left alone. I require so much push to get things done, even if I end up crying from not wanting to do it. I know my loved ones just want to help me try to get back on a stable path, and get me to a better place in life.... but I feel so incredibly guilty and it makes me feel like I'm being selfish, even though I don't ask for the help and I can't control my inability to motivate myself.
They've reassured me that's what friends and family are for. But I feel terrible that they have to play a second role of caregiver or even a babysitter just to get me through each day. It's so incredibly unfair for them to have to take time out of their days to take care of me and I hate that. Eventually, it's going to get exhausting for them as well....
A lot of this is my BPD talking, and I recognize that.
But it's convinced me how completely true those statements are.
No matter how many times my friends and family tell me "It's going to get better. Everything will be okay. We're not going anywhere." ....it doesn't change the future factor of if they will truly get sick and tired of having to put up with my shit. I wish I could completely control it, or even half way control it.... but I can't.
It makes me feel like I'd be so better off just... saying fuck all of this. What's sad is the fact that my BPD has also convinced me that yes, everyone would be sad at first... but eventually everyone will forget me. They'd be able to stop worrying. They wouldn't have to take care of me anymore. Or tire themselves out trying to help me. I feel like I'm such a lost cause. I'm not going anywhere at this point.... I've basically failed miserably at life, and it only continues to put me into a shit hole. I'm tired of being the disappointment. I'm tired of everyone having to worry about me, having to take care of me by taking time out of their lives......
I'm just exhausted.....
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Friday, February 7, 2014
It's where my demons hide, it's where they kill and inspire me inside.
Sex is a natural part of our being.
Sex is part of creation, lust, and bonding.
Sex is beautiful.... until it's non-consensual.
No woman or man should ever be able to count the times they didn't consent for a sexual on with a single finger. Unfortunately, I barely can keep them on one hand, and that's just the number of people who did not gain my permission, not the number of instances.
I read an article today written by my boss at Flurt Magazine. It was a piece on how she almost went into the sex industry just to make ends meet, struggling to find shelter, a place to stay, and her mental health was on sharp rocks. A lot of what she said took a lot of raw feelings and experiences; Things that most people would never in a million years admit to, let alone publicly publish an article about it for the world to see. It took Amanda a lot of guts and strength to actually do such an incredible thing. It also got me thinking.
I've been working for Flurt for about two months now. I've recently started writing some more personalized articles on my experiences of life. While I'm open about a couple of my non-consensual encounters of sex, there's still many skeletons I've kept in the closet.
Most people know about three, not the recent fourth one. The first encounter is the one I rarely speak in depth about. I usually just leave it at "I was maybe six years old." Only people I've sincerely trusted enough with details know MOST details about it, and it's only a few people perhaps? Those are details I have yet to even feel comfortable sharing with a therapist.
The second encounter was with an ex-girlfriend of mine back in high school, and again, I don't generally prefer to go into the details.... or on how many instances I had to endure the pain.... or how the first time I willingly had sex with a girl after that, I had a full blown panic attack and started crying.
The third one was an attempt, not an actual act, but it doesn't make it any less traumatizing...especially when you've already experienced it before. Even my friend who was present during the attempt was traumatized...but then again, I would've also.
The last one was more recent. I kept saying no. No means no, no matter how many times it's said. Pushing away, saying no, squirming, are not invites to try to arouse me. I felt like an empty shell already, being drowned in my own storm of depression, and ended up giving in. Afterwards, I got up, and stared at a blank wall for two hours, unsure of what to even think.
I've wondered if I'd ever actually openly publish something about the details of these incidents. Would the massive details being publicly known help with my PTSD healing? Or would it further destroy me writing down and admitting every single detail? Could I mentally handle the criticism that could pop up from the world? It's inevitable as a writer that not everyone is going to like (or agree) with what you have to say, even if it's from your own personal experience. My biggest fear/question: Could I handle my family actually knowing the truth? All the years of hiding the incidents, all the unexplained childhood events that led to the signs of it, but no one knew what was going on.
One of the biggest factors into my depression.
All the secrets I've kept hidden away...
It's all said and done for me. I can't take back ANY of those times, and I have to figure out my own ways of healing and coping with the PTSD attacks that force me to relive the graphic moments; some of which are memories that slowly unravel that I DON'T want to know exist still in my head.
However, I begin to wonder if I actually stated every last detail and made it publicly known....
Could I truly save someone's life or inspire someone to fight through the pain?
Or would it be a waste of my breath?
Sex is part of creation, lust, and bonding.
Sex is beautiful.... until it's non-consensual.
No woman or man should ever be able to count the times they didn't consent for a sexual on with a single finger. Unfortunately, I barely can keep them on one hand, and that's just the number of people who did not gain my permission, not the number of instances.
I read an article today written by my boss at Flurt Magazine. It was a piece on how she almost went into the sex industry just to make ends meet, struggling to find shelter, a place to stay, and her mental health was on sharp rocks. A lot of what she said took a lot of raw feelings and experiences; Things that most people would never in a million years admit to, let alone publicly publish an article about it for the world to see. It took Amanda a lot of guts and strength to actually do such an incredible thing. It also got me thinking.
I've been working for Flurt for about two months now. I've recently started writing some more personalized articles on my experiences of life. While I'm open about a couple of my non-consensual encounters of sex, there's still many skeletons I've kept in the closet.
Most people know about three, not the recent fourth one. The first encounter is the one I rarely speak in depth about. I usually just leave it at "I was maybe six years old." Only people I've sincerely trusted enough with details know MOST details about it, and it's only a few people perhaps? Those are details I have yet to even feel comfortable sharing with a therapist.
The second encounter was with an ex-girlfriend of mine back in high school, and again, I don't generally prefer to go into the details.... or on how many instances I had to endure the pain.... or how the first time I willingly had sex with a girl after that, I had a full blown panic attack and started crying.
The third one was an attempt, not an actual act, but it doesn't make it any less traumatizing...especially when you've already experienced it before. Even my friend who was present during the attempt was traumatized...but then again, I would've also.
The last one was more recent. I kept saying no. No means no, no matter how many times it's said. Pushing away, saying no, squirming, are not invites to try to arouse me. I felt like an empty shell already, being drowned in my own storm of depression, and ended up giving in. Afterwards, I got up, and stared at a blank wall for two hours, unsure of what to even think.
I've wondered if I'd ever actually openly publish something about the details of these incidents. Would the massive details being publicly known help with my PTSD healing? Or would it further destroy me writing down and admitting every single detail? Could I mentally handle the criticism that could pop up from the world? It's inevitable as a writer that not everyone is going to like (or agree) with what you have to say, even if it's from your own personal experience. My biggest fear/question: Could I handle my family actually knowing the truth? All the years of hiding the incidents, all the unexplained childhood events that led to the signs of it, but no one knew what was going on.
One of the biggest factors into my depression.
All the secrets I've kept hidden away...
It's all said and done for me. I can't take back ANY of those times, and I have to figure out my own ways of healing and coping with the PTSD attacks that force me to relive the graphic moments; some of which are memories that slowly unravel that I DON'T want to know exist still in my head.
However, I begin to wonder if I actually stated every last detail and made it publicly known....
Could I truly save someone's life or inspire someone to fight through the pain?
Or would it be a waste of my breath?
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