I feel like… I really need a friend right now so I’m turning to the one thing that can’t reject me. My soul. My writing. Selective Mutism Disorder. Thinking back I had it when I was in kindergarten. But back then… disorders werent really disorders. Just behaviors people would chalk up to being socially inept or shy. I was in speech because I wouldn’t talk. But even as a little kid I knew… it wasn’t just because I wouldn’t talk. It was because I couldn’t. Words wouldn’t come out. I was silent. Unless I whispered in my teacher’s ear. I guess I trusted her. But I was always off by myself. And I was always getting my mom to come up there. A million different reasons. Stomachache was always the main one. I felt safe with her there. This guy used to punch me in my stomach almost everyday. Just once. But no-one believed me. My brother waited with me one day but he never showed. I guess I started to feel like I deserved to be hit in the stomache. And at home I always liked to hide. And I never felt like I got much attention. I mean that was a long time ago. But there are just certain flashes and memories that you don’t forget.
I recovered some of these happenings during EMDR therapy I think. Wow intense. Sometimes recovering the memories felt worse than the actual memories themselves. But memories I had locked away and long forgotten, nonetheless. That young I have flashes of arguing and slamming things and getting scolded. Not just me. But still. I have other memories too. The few that they are. And then I have some memories that feel like a dream.
Everyday I try to put pieces where they fit. But there are just so many. Good and bad and out or order. Too many colors. And shapes. That’s what my life feels like. And it never goes away. So to think I was already like this before all of the sexual abuse and physical abuse and emotional abuse.. it’s a nightmare that I feel like I was born into that just kept going. And the times I am able to hold a smile and actual spoken conversation… I tuck all of it right beneath it. While my emotional skin is pulled tight and starting to rip.
Borderline Personality Disorder isn’t even the root. How sad is that? But it doesn’t feel like a disorder. It feels like a disease I have no control over. Slowly killing me. Like I have an addiction to addiction. The nature of it period. If you can take hold of me and turn me inside out… come on in. All the while trying… trying… to have a functional life.
My training is coming up. Yet I find myself already finding a reason not to show up. What is so hard? Why is it? And my relationship of nearly 9 months… I just ended it a week ago. What do I need? Why am I so unfulfilled? Is this place… this state… Louisiana just eating me alive? What have I done? What have I become? What has happened to me? Why won’t it stop? In California I had follow through. Slowly progressive follow through, but follow through! How do I crawl out of this hole I seemed to have thrown myself in? How do I keep trying? This irrefutable force keeps pushing me while I have no strength to move. Or dragging me. Telling me I have to keep going even when I want to kick the ground and say fuck it. This is me, coming home.
But I am not happy. Why did I really leave? What would possess me? Even after what happened to me. I should’ve been stronger. I should have asked for help. How could I just throw it all away? I didn’t know how to ask for help. In all the years of working with the staff… well them working with me… they had only only heard stories. They saw me working through that. No-one there had ever seen me so… broken. Before I knew it I was burning bridges left and right until I was standing on the last one, burning with it. That is how I ended up coming “home”… to what’s becoming a former shell of my “happy self”.
There aren’t many bridges here to cross at all.
How do you like that irony…?