title to be determined later

Imagine this hypothetical situation:

Someone starts their day, within minutes of waking up, with a drink or two of alcohol.  They have another drink with (or even as) their breakfast.  Before noon they’re smashed drunk, and rarely sober up while they’re awake.  Maybe you make a comment to them that you’d like to talk to them, but that it’s a serious subject and you’d prefer that they weren’t inebriated — and they reply that they can actually function when they’re drunk, even suggesting that they’d be less likely to carry a conversation otherwise.  They drink with dinner, have a few more drinks in the evening with their friends and a last few before going to bed.

Now… what changes if instead of alcohol, that’s marijuana?

I’d say that person is still addicted.  I’d say it’s incredibly frustrating, actually.

-=-=-=-=-

Imagine, again as a hypothetical, that you’ve had some pretty significant bad experiences with dogs.  Bad enough that you’ve developed symptoms of PTSD, and when you hear a dog bark nearby or see a dog in the same room as you, it paralyzes you with fear, gives you flashbacks to a particularly traumatic experience, makes you want to scream and run and fight and ohgodohgodohgod get it away NOW!

Now imagine you’re living with someone who brings a big dog to visit your house on a regular basis, who talks non-stop about how cute and wonderful and cuddly and sweet this dog is, even keeps the dog around the house overnight or for a weekend sometimes.  Imagine that you’ve completely freaked out a few times when confronted by this dog, flipped out and started screaming or maybe tried to attack the dog when it’s just being playful.  Imagine telling your roommate that you’re dealing with PTSD and that having dogs around isn’t okay, that you understand this particular dog is harmless but that you can’t handle being around any dogs at all, and you get scolded for being mean to the poor little doggy, blamed for scaring him with your screaming when all he wants to do is be cute and lovable and adorable — and the dog keeps coming back again and again.

Now imagine any other PTSD triggers, say — not just as a random example — low masculine voices, especially loud ones.  Same situation, same response.  That’s what I’m living with, and today after having my schedule thrown apart with a last-minute cancellation, being absolutely broke but hoping to get something done around the house… the dog — erm, I mean the boyfriend — came by, and I’m trying to type this while managing some extreme anxiety.  Not only am I having to hear loud low male voices that make me want to scream, I’ve got loud coughing too, because the addicts are all drinking smoking in the next room and the wet lung-hacking that goes with getting stoned makes me want to scream.

If I had anywhere else to go to escape this shit, I’d be there.  If I had anything I could do to avoid dealing with this, I would.  I don’t.  I need to be able to feel safe when I’m at home, and I rarely do — not that I’m physically in danger, but I feel emotionally threatened on a near-constant basis, and I’m not getting some essential things done that I need to, like searching for a new home, because I spend so much time struggling to barely maintain my fucking SANITY that I have nothing left to actually do anything.

I need to write some more but I can’t do this with all of the shit in the next room. I’m going to fucki9ing smash things if I don’t get out of here now.

fuck you all and go to fucking hell and DIE.

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I don’t want to feel anything, but I do…

“I want to die.”  The words run through my head again and again.

I know it’s a lie, I know I don’t really want to be dead.  I know what I want is to be alive and to have my life not be such COMPLETE AND UTTER SHIT.

That’s not going to happen right now, though, and since the years of depression and all the other fucked-up-ness leave me with an easy shorthand for “I want life to stop sucking ass, and I want to either be able to fix all of the pain and suffering in the world or stop caring about trying and I know I can’t do either but I don’t know what else to try,” the thoughts come again:

“I want to die.”

But I don’t — I just want to be able to go through one day without huge miscommunications that leave me hurting and vulnerable.  I want to be able to clearly voice how pissed off I am that when I heard “We’ll meet on Thursday and have some fun” what was really meant was “I might maybe possibly be free Thursday, and on the small chance I am, we’ll meet and have fun.”  I want to be able to tell my mom that I need the money she planned to deposit so that I can eat today, I want to be able to tell her when it’s urgent, but to also know that it’s always urgent when someone’s offering me assistance, that every day is a juggling act with pennies and hoping someone decides to take care of me when I can’t.  I want to be honest with her how I budget my money, what I do with my time, the people I see and the things that bring me joy in life — but she’s still talking to her son, and I’m not going to flood her with details of things that to her are morally, fundamentally wrong.

I need a safe place to cry, and I haven’t had that for a long time.  I need someone safe to hold me so that the tears will come out, and I’ve had to go without that for even longer.  I need to be fucked, I need be cuddled, I need pain, all the good kinds of pain that help me make it through the shitty pain that I’m so accustomed to anymore.

I need a safe place to live — emotionally safe, where I don’t feel threatened and I don’t have PTSD triggers flooding in from every side, every hour of the day and night.  I need a quiet place to live, where I don’t have to fight off a sensory overload all the fucking time.  I need to live without men, without masculine-presenting people, without the HURRR HURRR I’M FULL OF TESTOSTERONE AND I LIKE TO SMASH AND YELL AND THAT MAKES ME SO FUCKING AWESOME ALL RIGHT YEAH BITCHES!!!!! I feel threatened by the sounds of men, men’s voices, and I don’t have anywhere I can go to be free of that for even a moment.  I hate this.

I need to have someone who actually gives a FLYING FUCK about anything at all — when my landlord completely forgot that my lease ended at the start of the month, and I finally managed to get in touch with him YESTERDAY, when he was still on vacation.  Said he’d call today, no surprise that he didn’t.  Need to move again, and that scares me.  Scares me on a really deep level because that’s all I’ve fucking DONE for 2 and a half YEARS is move and fail and move in desperation and get fucked over and pack everything again and move and move and move.

And I don’t even want to get started about the people I live with… I’d get even more angry than I am now, and I don’t want to keep hurting like this.

“I just want to fucking curl up and die.”

Curl up, sure. Nice long darkness, definitely. Heavy crushing weight on me, making it hard to breathe, absolutely. Die?  Probably not, but it sure sounds tempting.  Not that I could put the significant effort into the kind of detailed planning it would take to kill myself — if I’m motivated enough to go all Aspie-focused on something, it sure as hell isn’t going to be on researching suicide.  But I don’t want to keep dealing with all this shit.  I don’t want to feel helpless, I don’t want to know that other people are dealing with much worse shit and feel like I’m powerless to help, even though I want to fix everything and I’m having to work hard not to offer more than I can give.

I’m not eating right, when I do eat.  I’m not sleeping enough, or regularly, or very well when I do.  I’m growing tired of trying to explain to people what’s going on, following the same scripts for “How To Open The Eyes Of The Privileged Pricks Who Never Lack In Their Needs” when people suggest over and over the same things that aren’t available or aren’t feasible or sometimes just completely fucking laughably stupid suggestions.  They mean well, which is why it’s really hard not to smash faces in sometimes… they’re just clueless, not intentionally assholes.  If they were trying to be obnoxious, it’d be easier to blow it off.

Sick of it all.

Don’t want to try.

Bored, depressed, apathetic.

Need things, know I can’t have them.

Alone, isolated, lonely.

Yeah, I’m definitely dealing with depression, but as always I have to try to manage until things get a little bit better.  There isn’t much outside support, and anything outside is going to be a long fucking wait.

Maybe tonight’s a good night for Benadryl… at least I’ll sleep.  I’d rather have alcohol than antihistamines, but beggars can’t bitch, right?

I know — it’s been coming for some time.

I had a frightening realization tonight.  I’d been enjoying myself, having some fun relaxing and looking at some cool stuff online, when my roommates (and the boyfriend of one of them) got home, making lots of noise as usual, and completely killed any pleasant feelings I’d been having.  So I thought, “I’ll head to the pub down the block for a drink.  Maybe after a beer or two I’ll be able to cope a little bit better with the stupidity and shit I’ve got to deal with in this place.”

Then as I was halfway down the street, three of those words stood out at me with disturbing clarity: Drink to cope.

No, of course I can’t really afford it. I realized something else, though — and it got me singing Creedence Clearwater Revival: “Someone told me long ago, there’s a calm before the storm…”

I’ve been spending a fair bit of time and money on myself recently, stocking up on good times and pleasant experiences… because I can see the storm coming. I can see the signs all pointing to some seriously deep shit hitting a majorly big fan very soon, and I’m doing what I can to minimize the damage to myself.

If I had access to a therapist right now, I’d be seeing her. Unfortunately, I’m getting fucked over and then passed to the next clueless bureaucracy to turn me like a cheap trick while I do what little I can to fight against the agencies who claim to want to help me, in order to accomplish anything productive.

I’m currently living here without a lease; my landlord hasn’t returned any of my calls in over a week.  I was trying to reach him before my lease ended at the start of September so I could let him know I’m looking for something that doesn’t completely suck ass like this place does, but I can’t even tell him that much if he doesn’t care enough to check his messages and call me back.

My roommates are driving me absolutely crazy, and are much of the reason I went out for a beer tonight, much of the reason I’ve avoided being home as often as possible lately. I’m as polite as can be to anyone’s face, and even go out of my way to do nice things when I can, but this place is toxic. It’s leeching away my emotional reserve, if there’s any left at this point, and it’s pulling me down into depression, apathy, anger and even occasional — very unwanted, and actively fought against — but occasional suicidal thought patterns.

I did not, absolutely DID NOT want to move again. 8 homes in 36 months is already far too many, and that’s not counting the first half of August 2010, which I spent floating in Vallejo, lucky to keep myself off of the streets each night, but doing so by making some choices I’d rather forget and by sacrificing some things I regret giving up.

One big difference I hope to have this time around is that I will give myself enough time to find something that works, and works well. Each of my other moves has been last-minute, with no significant planning and in complete desperation. Moving here was essential so that I could escape a physically and emotionally abusive intimate relationship as much as it was to get out from under the thumb of a slumlord bitch and away from a hellish neighborhood where I’d been mugged twice, both times in visual range of a police or fire station with absolutely zero response from “the authorities.”

I often find that people compliment me on how much of a difference I make to their day; I get thanked for the types of things I do every day to be like Daniel Goleman’s tale of a bus driver — something I was glad to have put in words much better than I could have expressed before reading that.  I only wish that others could more easily and readily see that I put so much effort into making life a little less shitty for those around me because I am suffering so much myself, that the few smiles I bring to the faces of others are a few moments I can still hang on, a few more days that I still have a reason to try.  I wish more people could do something significant to help me; I know there are plenty of good people and friends who would help if there was anything they could offer, but there’s nothing that’s in their power to change so that I can make it through.

I should go to sleep now, but there’s plenty more to say.  It’ll have to wait.

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