And so it goes. Healing can be a bytch. I do know I am considerably better than I was. I no longer wake up in the middle of the night wondering how I ended up curled in a fetal position and jammed beneath the dining room table, a paring knife clutched in my fist.
The hyper vigilance and thousand yard stare are intermittent. I can go out on the balcony briefly without collapsing to my knees and bursting into tears, I am slowly regaining the twenty pounds I lost. My house is clean, most of the time. I cook, also most of the time. My bills are paid, I play my online war game where I help with the psychological aspects
of aiding my faction family, the third most powerful House in this particular world, toward their goal of world domination. I also love to be an active warrior and slay our enemies. Therapeutic stuff. Three years I have been a part of this.
But, my heart remains broken, my soul is scarred, my capacity to trust almost negligible. Emotionally, I am held together by coping mechanisms, therapy, stubbornness, and meds. Who knows when I can return to work? Sadly,
still unable to find a cat to replace my dear old boy who died. Covid has emptied the shelters. First time since I was seven years old I have been without a cat. The nightmares remain, also. CPTSD stuff from hell. Technicolour. A
couple of nights of this results in at least a week of major flashbacks. The lesser ones involve my experience watching my vet suicide, the
others transport me back to the hell of my childhood. Sad, when the situation was so severe that sexual abuse often seemed trivial. Without being overly graphic, it is the screaming and crying children, and the feelings of
terror and despair which are the most difficult to bear. So much torment for so many years, and, at times, the survivor guilt is crushing. As always, my choices are clear, death, insanity, or tough it out until I can cope. Any suicide
attempts I have made have occurred when I gapped out, snapped if you will, only to find myself later, feeling horrible, and stuck in ICU with no memory of recent events. While my ability to choose remains, I choose to fight for my life, my mind, my humanity, gambling
yet again that I can climb out of the pit and resume my life of service. That sense of purpose is my mantra. Also, if I fail, the bastards who stole my childhood win, and that is anaethema. So, for now, I sit in the pit, accept that my
suffering is ongoing, and endure. Laugh when I can, love always, and leave the unknown in the hands of the Divine Feminine. I can do this because I must. For me, for all the children who never grew up, and for my beloved veterans, I fight.
