Final not fubar

Some stories are not mine to tell. And because of my association with those people, events surrounding those events are intentionally left vague. It's important to honor the privacy and feelings of a survivor. So if you happen across a chapter in my book that leaves you with questions, it's most likely because I had to omit..out of respect..information.
I haven't been able to completely map out the last few chapters of my book. I have written in bursts..and then a trickle. When I look at those chapters I realize that chunks of my life are missing. And if I didn't do it because I didn't want to betray or out someone...then I did it because the shit is painful. It hurts. Don't ever let anyone tell you not to honor your pain. I honor mine. Too many years spent squashing it down to make myself as little as possible. Still putting that stuff on a screen and eventually in ink, on pages, in books..sitting in someones lap or clutched in their hands...ugh.
I told a friend today..that I always wanted to share my story. Not because it was easy. Nay, it liked to have killed me. It hurts whether I talk about it or not. But maybe my story will help someone realize that they aren't that weird and maybe alone is sometimes better..when your contempararies make you feel like poo poo caca because you might be a bit quiet or awkward or even excruciatingly loud.
It's all kind of a compensation or a mask or a self-distraction, you see. Those behaviors are at times self-soothing or at other times, drown out that agonizing feeling inside that makes you want to die.

Yes, I wanted to die. Actually I have struggled with suicidal ideations most of my life. I just wanted the noise to stop. The pain to go away. To blend and live and not have to scrutinize my every word and movement to make sure I was palatable. It's exhausting being me. And that's not self-pity. It's my own truth.
I've stood on railroad tracks and I've clutched a bottle of pills in my hand and I've taken too much medication and tried to eat myself into a early heart attack. Because existing hurts. And yes I know it hurts for everybody. I don't ever begrudge anyone their feelings..but this is about me. And right now I'm telling you that this existence has been hell.
I'm good at some things, really great at a few, I suck at a lot and through this lifetime I have found the one thing that makes me...me.
I'm not giving up.
I'm not good at giving up.

So I trudge on day by day, a funny, slightly off kilter, lover, fighter, hellraiser, nurturer...hoping tomorrow will be better than today. I'm grateful for today. Still I've come to believe that I've healed as much as I'm going to. And it's realistic to think so. 43 years of life, and 42 of them filled with various trauma..decades of therapy, hugging trees, prayers in the moonlight, recitings of St. Michael, 58621 Hail Marys, pleas for intercession to Padre Pio, candlelight vigils, four leaf clovers and lucky pennies and gallons of ice cream and laughter and tears and decades of journal writing..
and I'm tired now.
This might be something I can't roll on over and force it to my will.
So I share my condition and limitations and cry over those very same things because it's not just me but my loved ones who are affected. I rage and I pick my skin and I isolate and I secret eat and I dream some nights about being bald or pooping my pants in public. Secretly I might be a bit embarassed that my brain has slowed down and my spelling and grammar skills went the way of stirrup pants. I guess it's ok. It gives me compassion for the elderly. It has a purpose right?
I need to believe everything has a purpose. It helps me cope. If people need prayer, religion, totems, superstitions whatever and they aren't hurting anyone, leave them alone! I'm not religious. I'm not Catholic. Yet I would be lying if I didn't admit that in desperation to feel better and supported and not alone I didn't try everything short of sweatlodges and clean eating to feel better.
I can't clean eat yet. Rome wasn't built in a day.

I have the attention span of a toilet plunger. My short term memory is horrid. People tell me something and I vow to remember and five minutes later I've never heard it and they just think we talked. To complete a task takes all day. My brain compartmentalize everything to survive and it was a measure of protection but now it doesn't work anymore. My own brain has set up a maze, trap doors and diversions and distractions and I really try hard to do everyday things.
Things I know I need to do. Like take a shower, brush my teeth, make appointments and keep them. Still find myself forgetting and apologizing and damn it seems like all I ever do somedays is apologize. It makes me angry at myself, you see, to incovenience others. I don't like people waiting on me. I don't like depending on others. I don't know why.

I ask myself all the time if all this is really necessary. Why is PTSD so bad?
I've hurt others, you know, with my ill intentions. I wasn't always healthy and I wasn't always so in touch with my being. I was angry for years. Raging inside. Screaming into balled up towels until tears rolled down my cheeks..and it was so easy to put on my "it's allergies" face and go back to pretending I was ok.
I'm tired.
Thank goodness for the internet. Because of it I found a lot of people like me. And we share our oddieties and weaknessess and fears and celebrate our good days. Sometimes the good days are spaced out and other times everything seems like we are finally given our wings and soaring into a cloudless sky away from all the bad memories. Only to have those wings clipped and plummet towards the ground..scared of what we will feel but wanting it to happen and be over with anyway.

I wonder if Renee would be like me if she had never died of cancer.
The more time passes, the obvious fact is that my entire family, my daughter included, is so scarred and fractured by the events of the last 30 plus years. I want to love everyone well. I want to love them for all the times they didn't get loved. I want to make it all better. Sometimes we get on each other's damn nerves. You don't go through all that monkey business to emerge a doormat. All of us have strong personalities and beliefs. We clash. Still I love every one of them. Maybe one or two from way far away, because I can't stand them. And the crap that falls out of their mouth is offensive, narcisstici and oblivious. I still love them.

Trauma creates trauma bonding. It's not a good thing. You establish this intimate bond which pushes others out. Cuz truly no one can really know how we feel but our families..we think..or maybe others that were there. That keeps us from seeking out others who understand and maybe even some who don't. I always thought I wanted friends and family who survived a violent crime. I thought I wanted a partner who had. And I guess I realized that it wasn't necessary. My partner has no history of violent crime victimhood. His upbringing and life was the opposite of mine. He balances me out like no other..and I'm a flighty, mostly chirpy, optimistic, person prone to getting carried away. We compliment each other. And not all of my friends have been hurt the same way, but what I realized was that in our lives we have all had pain. And we have all hurt. We should honor those feelings, be there for one another. Sit in silence holding a hand and or eating ice cream together. We should be there for one another, and say "I believe you..."

I learned that I have much to offer. My experiences taught me that life is precious, and every day is a gift. One day I might be on the ledge, but I push on to the next day, because that day, I might give another person a reason to live, or make somebody smile or change someones's mind about something that they don't quiet understand.
I celebrate birthdays in a big way, because I want that person to know the day they were born was a great day, because they are a gift. I say I love you quite often, and I don't hesitate to tell someone what they mean to me. Not anymore. It might be the last time I see them. No chances taken here.

I read a saying once.. "The scar is where the light entered.." and when I read that, I remembered I have multiple scars from surviving attempted murder. I almost died that day. The things that happened that night and since have helped me develop compassion and understanding..and even if those are the only things I have to give, that's ok.
I want to be a light. I want to make sure to say what so many cannot say..as they have been silenced by fear, intimidation, murder, abuse, coersion, blackmail. Being quiet is not an option anymore. That secret shame....it's a relic from years of pain..abuse, invalidation. No one has the right to tell me anymore that I shouldn't speak. My pain is my pain and dammit it needs to be talked about. I needn't put it in pretty flowery words anymore. It's like a person telling me that my truth is a downer or it's depressing or ruining their good time in so many words "Use better language.."
Please don't pin respectability on victims. It's not fair. It's not right. It's not kind.
Be kind.

Be kind.