Depression is growing bigger, having eaten Alice’s fantasies. It’s the demon in Spirited Away. A monster glutinous for pain.
The truth is: You can probably make me feel bad. You can probably succeed in making me cry or have an anxiety attack. I might be incapacitated by it. But I’ll pull through, I always do.
I think I should be different by now. That I should be better by now. And I don’t want to reveal the extent of my struggle because I feel ashamed. I’m embarrassed.
I drift through the days, counting. I count the hours until the next meal, class or nap. I count the days until the next trip to town, the weeks until I am home, the months until I turn twenty-one, the money in my wallet, the crackers left in my room. How much longer until something else happens?
Sometimes one thing that frequently makes me happy will be completely joyless and painfully uninteresting on another day. Which is a hindrance for trying to create a life that allows me to follow my bliss in my work.
These thoughts are dark. The shame is so big that it tries to stop me from talking about the thoughts, which prevents me from processing the pain.
My motivation ebbs and flows. Real dedication to work towards contentment and health comes through on an unpredictable stream. It’s rarely strong and often is barely a trickle, but it is just enough to keep me going.
I want children of my own, but for the past few years I have been afraid that I would pass this on to my offspring. I feared how will my body and mind handle it?
One thing about trauma in PTSD is that it starts to show itself when you’re safe(r) than before. Our brains are working on overdrive trying to protect us and to handle all the threats and to keep us alive after the earth shattering trauma(s) we lived through. We feel scared because we know how bad…
I’m in Cozumel. It’s my first time here. I’m lying on a towel in my black and white retro high waisted bikini–lathered in sunscreen, of course–already dry from a long swim in the ocean.
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