June 9th 2017

PTSD Sucks. Almost as much as my family. in People suck. Cats are awesome. Dogs are alright.

•  June 9, 2017, 3:27 a.m.
 
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• Public

Have you ever been reduced to an unthinking wreck of fear and sadness, by some sudden, unexpected tragedy?  Then maybe you know what this is like. Except that I can think; and remind myself, out loud, that nothing has changed since earlier today. I can tell myself that everything’s okay, and I can see that those words are true, looking around my room.

I remind myself that this is my house, that I own; and my bedroom, where I’ve slept for the last two years; and that the husband, and the cats, and the dog are right out there; and I’ve got post it notes carefully arranged in the other room, keeping track of everything that I need to do.

And the logical part of my brain knows that everything is A-Okay.

But the emotional part of my brain, the part that’s about ten to twelve years old, is not convinced. It’s hung up on the fact that my father is dead, my mother wants no part of me, and the rest of my family are horrible, rotten, people; and that the husband is older than me, and therefore likely to die before me, leaving me COMPLETELY ALONE.

(With deference to my Australian friend, whose in Australia, and therefore, barring some radical financial improvements, unlikely to be around when and if I die from cancer, like most of my family. - Not that I intend to die from cancer if I get it, but you get the point.)

This is grief-related PTSD. Brought on, this time, by that stupid MRI. Which reminded me of the time I spent in Shriner’s, getting my spinal fusion; and the fact that back then I had a family.

Now I’ve got nobody. Except the male. And one long distance friend.

And the worst part is that, because of all I’ve been through, I don’t want friends any more. Friends=drama and disappointment, and I’d much rather just endure being by myself.

So I sit here, surrounded by string lights and jack o lanterns, rocking in the relative dark, and hoping my sedatives kick in soon, so my brain will shut off.

Every time I see my therapist , she always asks me, “any suicidal or homicidal thoughts?”; and I always say, “no more than usual”; because if I just asphyxiated myself now, while I know the husband is still alive and well, I could die knowing that I’m not alone. Not yet, anyway. Somebody would be here to clean up the mess.

As it is, if he dies first, I’ll have to find some place to take all of the cats, (Australian friend says that he would, but again, major financial changes would be necessary for that to happen; and I’ve asked two local no kill organizations, but they never even emailed me back.), then figure out some way to ensure that my corpse would be found within a few days, (rig an app to post to Facebook that I’m dead, and my address, twenty four hours after I do it?), then asphyxiate myself; alone, in my empty house, very probably while bawling at the tragedy of it all. Because I am not living alone, and I lack the ability to tell a decent person from a parasite, so I can’t very well advertise to rent a room or something. So once the Male is gone, I’m going too.

(That’s not merely fear of loneliness. There are a number of things that are very difficult for me, despite the fact that people always say crap like “you don’t like look like it” when I say I have an autism spectrum disorder. I’ve never mowed a lawn, I detest grocery shopping, having a stranger, like the cable guy, in my house makes me so uncomfortable that I literally hide; etc.) Oh I could function, but it would take all the strength that I have, and I would be suicidal every day anyway, so what’s the point.

And people on here complain constantly about the other people in their lives being rude, or stupid, or demanding, or whatever; but I’m here to tell you that it could be worse. You could not have anybody.

And now I’m feeling the benadryl, so I’m going to try to relax, and hopefully tomorrow I can turn all of this pointlessness and melancholy into the rage that keeps me from killing myself on a day to day basis.

People say that hate and wanting revenge will only eat you alive and make you feel worse. That’s not necessarily so. If you’re suicidal because you’ve been abused, turning that self hate towards the actual cause of your misery can keep you afloat when nothing else will.