I feel compelled to keep talking about this:

Okay--that last post was very subdued in comparison to how I feel about what I wrote...the part about talking about the things that have happened to me.

I told Darrin this morning, and then I hugged him and cried.

Four years ago telling the nurse practitioner those particular personal facts would have had the following effects:
1. I would have started shaking--no telling when that would stop.
2. I would have left the appointment certain that I was some sort of ugly, filthy monstrosity and Nurse Practitioner would be very glad I was gone.
3. I would have gone home and hidden for at least three days while I tried to gather enough common sense to recognize my responses and thoughts were exaggerated and probably incorrectly assuming things about how others feel about me.
4. It's very likely I would have thrown up even though I would studiously have avoided food for at least two days.
5. I have been known to have a minor car accident(s) while panicking about sharing personal information.
6. I would be certain that when people look at me they were wondering why I ever allowed myself to be raped and abused--didn't I know better than that?
7. I would experience feelings of revulsion when my skin was touched by anyone.
8. I would feel panicky and faint for as long as a month.

And none of those things happened. Not one.

Did you hear me??? Not even one!!!

I want to alternately weep for days and stand on my roof while I scream to anyone who will listen: "I'M BETTER!! I'M OKAY!! YOU DON'T HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT BUT I DID SOMETHING AMAZING AND I THINK YOU SHOULD BE COMPLETELY STUNNED AND BESIDE YOURSELF WITH HAPPY FEELINGS ALL FOR MMMMEEEEEEEE!!!!"

I won't. But I want to. And I want to tell everyone I meet: "Hi. I'm Sam. I have PTSD, but I did something I've never done before yesterday. What? You gave birth to healthy, full-term sextuplets today? Seriously, compared to what I just overcame--that's very nice, but doesn't quite bear the magnitude... I mean, you popped those babies out after nine measly months. I've been working on this for years--for YEARS, I say."

Okay, I admit it's not quite as amazing as full-term, healthy sextuplets (especially considering the fact that I've never been able to make even one of my babies stay inside for more than 35 weeks--not full-term), but for me it's fairly magnificent.

Today I feel real. For the first time in my life I don't feel that I have to apologize for being alive. I'm not less than anyone else. I'm not filthy or contagious.

I
am
acceptable.

That's right. Perfectly, beautifully, completely acceptable.

And if you happen to run into me today, don't be surprised if I tell you so. There is something wonderful about finally being about to say it...to feel it...

On second thought, I just might go up on my roof today. There are some things that must be shared.