In the week before I had to go to Chicago to give evidence in my rape case (for those who are just tuning in, I wasn’t the perp, it was vice-versa), I was like a five-year-old with developmental disabilities. I talked like someone had taken an axe and hacked off my frontal cortex. After two minutes of talking to me on the phone, a friend asked if I was OK, and I just said… long pause… NOPE.
Now I’m back from Chicago, the piece of shit is in jail awaiting his plea bargain, and I should be on top of the world. But now I’m having FRANTIC depression… running from one end of my apartment to the other, constantly feeling like a tiger is chasing me.
A tiger WAS chasing me, according to the metaphor that psychotherapistwhatevers use to explain PTSD. A YEAR ago a tiger was, metaphorically, chasing me. All the way to the place adults shouldn’t ever touch you and then back again.
Sure, I was shocked and upset at the time, and I made some very frantic housing decisions in order to get away from the still-at-large perpetrator, which in retrospect seem to have given me typhus (that’s not a metaphor).
But honestly, it was nothing compared to this.
I signed up for some Internet service that’s supposed to get you do CBT on your own when you’re too depressed to deal with all the bullshit surrounding signing up for an actual therapist. It told me to think of something I used to like to do, and plan to do it. I typed in, “Go to the beach.” It told me to make a plan for when. I typed “Thursday.” It said, “good job,” which was followed by one of the most emptiest senses of emptiness I have ever felt in my life. “Good job.” This fucking program doesn’t know who I am. What if it took me ten minutes to even type that without making a thousand typos? What the FUCK does this mean? But, well, great. By Thursday, I will be cured. I will be “returning to activities that you used to enjoy before the depression.” Hoo fucking ray. It’s not like I don’t painfully force myself to work out every day in hopes of feeling some kind of temporary improvement anyway. But right now I feel like taking my fucking computer and throwing it against the wall.
A year ago, I had an explanation for feeling like shit. What’s happened to me in the past month? Nothing. Granted, I’ve been betrayed by a friend, but I always suspected that friend was kind of a piece of shit. There’s really nothing I can point a finger at, except the possibility that PTSD causes brain damage.
I’m tired from jumping every time I hear a loud noise. I’m tired from starting every time someone tries to talk to me. I’m tired of being lonely because I can’t stand to be around people for long. I long to be held in a man’s arms and voluntarily touched, loved, healed deep inside. Unfortunately, I don’t think I could spend that much time with another person without running away screaming. Or just slither away in boredom. Extreme pain makes social contact seem incredibly, chew-your-arm-off dull. Oh, you aren’t going to try to kill me? AND you aren’t going to come up with the magic formula that will neutralize the gnawing and ever-present dread of my own horrible mortality and the myriad masks my end might fancy wearing?
How. Long. Does. This. Shit. TAKE?
I’ve always been slow to stop pretending to be tough and feel what I’m feeling, but I can only assume the worst is yet to come.
Well, maybe Illinois will bring back the death penalty. That would cheer me up.
If you’ve ever considered raping someone — which you probably haven’t, if you have a large enough vocabulary to even read this little post — just know that you’re ruining someone’s life for a long, long time.
Hope you enjoyed that pathetic little ejaculation, dude.
Hope you have fun in prison.
May all your toilet wine be confiscated moments before it touches your lips, like a Tantalus of mind-erasing nectar… not that you have a mind to erase.
It’s my own issue that it takes a while for trauma to sink through. But that’s nothing compared to what’s wrong with you. You’re not human. If I think of you as a human being, I’ll never want to leave my house again.
This is another reason fake rape accusations piss me off… oh, the real thing is so much worse. So much worse. You are not my fucking sister, Chanel “liar liar pants on fire” “Emily Doe” Miller. And one of these days, if I ever get the chance, I’ll spit in your face.
You’ll probably have me jailed for attempted murder, but it will be worth it.
But at least I’ve realized something about my own speech patterns. Ever since I was an adolescent, I’ve had a habit of calling things “lame.” I just realized what I mean when I say “lame.” I mean it’s DEPRESSING.
Nothing is lame. Everything is depressing. Even roller-coasters. Unless they kill you; that’s probably exciting, terrifying, and/or a relief; I can imagine all three with appalling accuracy.
Well, I can correct that error now. NO LAME: DEPRESSING. I’d say tell that to your teenage daughter, but it’s probably child abuse (which is even funnier since real child abuse is hardly ever stopped or prosecuted), but at least it clarifies things for me. Hooray, every cloud has a silver lining.