Where I want to rage and scream.

Or more accurately, where I veer dramatically between rage so intense I want to punch something so hard it makes my knuckles bleed. And sobbing so much I start to wretch.

Yes, here you are. The dirty details of recovery from abuse. And yes, I know it’s all part of the process. I know it’s important for healing to ‘get it all out’. But for fucks sake, it’s grim. 

I never did anything wrong. But I’m the one with the legacy of self loathing, self destruction, fear, bouts of hopelessness so profound I struggle to see that I have the power to remove the ‘less’ part and look at the hope instead.

I want people in my life who are prepared to meet me where I am. If not, they can fuck off. I can count those people prepared to meet me on the fingers of one hand. I have that in my life, just maybe not quite in the way I’d like. But it’s there. 

I have amazing kids. I have been able to protect them from my depression, from my self loathing and from my fear. It has been and still is, bloody hard work. But I’m doing it. I have no energy left for anything else. I can’t work or earn money. I struggle to see my value in these modern days of cash being the indicator of ones’ worth.

I struggle to see a way out for myself. I still have complex ptsd. It’s almost impossible to help anyone understand what that’s like unless you’ve experienced it. In a nutshell-sleeping is a bitch, loud and unexpected noise sends me into instant panic, my mind is easily overwhelmed by too much information, stimulation etc. I regularly experience fear for no apparent reason. I’ll be sitting on the sofa and realise my stomach is in knots and no idea why. The school run each day can be fine or it can be hideous. I never know which one it’ll be until I’m doing it.

I’m torn between wanting to keep going forward and finding the life I’ve always hoped for, and staying  in this ‘in between’ stage because I realise this is how I’ve lived most of my life. I’m depressingly familiar with hopelessness. And I use that phrase deliberately.

In summary, I’m all over the bloody place. Anti depressants can help cure depression but they can’t touch complex ptsd it seems. I don’t fit any category for help, so I rely on my NHS therapist. Society doesn’t place much value on my need to recover. I’m the one in four with a mental illness but not enough ticks in the right boxes. And of course I struggle to see my own value. Abuse does that to you.