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intheatticoftheuniverseee · 10 months

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cope

For a long time, I've struggled with the idea that most of my days are built around coping. The food I choose to eat, the music I choose to listen to, the errands I choose to run - all of these are carefully assessed and decided based on my mental state.

Listening to the wrong music at the wrong time could cripple me.

Eating the wrong food at the wrong time can destroy my self esteem.

Choosing what movie, TV show, or video game to unwind with also carries such an emotional burden...the decision paralysis is real.

Planning your day, week, and entire life around your awareness of your own mental health is an exhausting undertaking. "How is this going to make me feel?" is a constant and valid question I keep asking myself. You could be doing everything "right" - seeking therapy, working on yourself, keeping busy, taking your antidepressants - but the struggle of getting through the day can still be overwhelming. The experience is valid. Just don't forget to breathe.

#mental health #coping #trauma recovery

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intheatticoftheuniverseee · 10 months

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sand

I feel the sand on my bare feet as the sun sets over the waves off the Oregon coast. My fists are clenched and my shoulders are sore, but for once I can breathe. I’ve found solace, for now. Two days later I’m back with my partner, profusely apologzing for leaving her, taking the blame and punishment I deserve.

It’s 4AM and I wake up to someone screaming in my ear. I sit up quickly and turn to her, hold her face in my hands, and look her in the eyes. “Come back to me. I’m right here. You are loved, and your are safe.” But she stares right through me. All she can say is “Fuck you. I hate you.” My heart breaks for the thousandth time. As I fight back tears and continue to comfort her, the agony is unbearable. I walk away in an attempt to calm myself, but she grabs me, digging her nails deep into my arm, breaking my skin.

I’ve been here before. I know what’s about to happen.

I run for the front door. She’s right behind me, kitchen knife in her right hand. I turn around and she lunges. I fall to the ground as the knife passes inches above my head and into the wall. I grab her arm and we struggle in the hallway of our brand new apartment. Eventually, I pry the knife from her grasp and run to the guest bathroom as it clatters to the floor. Clawing, screaming, and pulling, we struggle and fall onto the cold, hard tile. Finally, I push her out and lock the door.

I take a quick glance at the mirror. My shirt is ripped open and blood trickles down my neck and my arms. I don’t recognize the person I see, and I don’t feel a thing. My ears ring, and all I hear from the other side of the door is the phrase “I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna fucking kill you.” I slouch to the ground, back against the bathtub, falling into a dissociative haze. There’s blood and handfuls of hair on the bathroom floor, and my body is frozen. My vision is blurry. I close my eyes and pass out amidst the chaos. Anything to escape from this reality.

At some point I wake up, and I find her in bed, crying and angry. It is now my job to comfort her, take care of her, tell her I forgive her, that I understand, and that it was all my fault. I tend to my own injuries…wound gel, scar cream, hydrocoloid bandaids…anything that will hide the scars. Then I massage her and tell her stories until the sun comes up, to soothe her nervous system and help her sleep.

I don’t sleep. My alarm goes off at 7AM, and I’m up on my feet again, making breakfast, coffee, a bento lunch to-go, and kissing her goodbye as she leaves for work. She is gone for the day, but my nervous system is on red alert. My fists are clenched and my shoulders are stiff as I hunch over my work laptop and try to focus on my own job. I want to take a shower to cleanse myself, but I can’t. There are cameras everywhere in the house. Every move I make is monitored and recorded. I have strict instructions on what I can and can’t do. I follow them, because I fear what will happen if I don’t.

The cycle continues. One day, many months later, I find the strength to run away again. I’m on the same beach, watching the same Oregon sunset. This time, it’s winter, and I stay a day longer. Then I go back and cry and apologize for leaving again. You see, I don’t have anyone else in my life at this point. I don’t remember the last time I talked to my parents or my friends. The only reality I know is the one that I’m in. My instincts tell me to leave, but I keep coming back.

But each time I ran, something felt different. Finally, I ran, and I never went back.

Time passes quickly but my body heals slowly. My scars refuse to fade, and I rarely sleep though the night. I am working with my third therapist this year. When I look into the mirror now, I recognize myself, but I still don’t fully understand the person I’ve become. Relationships scare me and flashbacks paralyze me, but each day I try to remind myself: I survived. I survived the abuse, and I am surviving the trauma.

I haven’t been back to that beach ever since. A strip of white sand, untouched by civilization - the only place in the world where I felt safe. If I could go back, I would lay there, close my eyes, feel the wind, and just be present. I would let my body relax. I would tell myself: “You are loved, and you are safe” - the same words that I repeated to others so many times. But this time, I would offer myself that same grace. And every time the sun sets over that horizon, my body will feel a little lighter, my breathing a little slower, my mind a little clearer, and my heart a little fuller.

#mental health #emotional abuse #trauma recovery

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