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Thursday, August 21, 2014

I think I believed I was all better.

I didn't understand what making a report would mean-- what it would reveal about how much further I have to go in my healing. I had reached a stopping point. But I was not finished.

Things I learned:
1. I talk freely about what happened, but mostly here, where I pretend I'm anonymous. I spok about it on Facebook, but gave more details about how I've healed and not about what actually happened. In fact, I've never really talked about what happened beyond a few blog posts years ago, and once I told Josh a little bit. I'm pretty sure I told Tolkien Boy more than he wanted to know-- but that happens all the time. My conversations with him are basically made up of information he would be better off not knowing. Someday he'll scream, "STOP! I CAN'T KNOW ANYMORE ABOUT YOU! I HAVE NO MORE SPACE IN MY HEAD FOR SAMANTHA-TRIVIA!" and then I'll have to figure out how to talk about the weather without personalizing it.

2. I still pretend. All the time. I pretend it didn't happen. I know I'm doing it. I just get tired of being the person who was neglected, abused, unwanted, and raped. It's hard to be that person all the time. And I know I've grown beyond that and I'm not neglected, abused, unwanted, or raped now, but that part is still me. I took her back. I chose that. It was necessary. And sometimes it makes me exhausted. So there are days when I pretend I was never all those things-- days when I borrow parents who loved me and protected me, and people who would have helped me if they had known me as a child. I pretend I grew up happy and normal, and that I don't have PTSD now. It's a little embarrassing to admit all this, but the point is, I can't pretend anymore. What happened to me is a matter of record. My account, with Jeff's, is now sitting on the desk of the Attorney General who is trying to decide if this is a prosecutable case. I'm guessing it won't be, and I'm okay with that, but my pretense doesn't work anymore. I know this is real and my imagination is no longer adequate to combat reality.

3. I don't want to remember. When the interviewing deputy asked questions about details of what happened to me, there were times when I simply said, "I don't remember." And it was a lie. I do remember. I remember vividly. But sometimes I don't know if what I remember really happened. I'm not sure if I question the memories because they seem too awful to think about, or if I question them because I think I might have fabricated them. It's a stupid dilemma, really. My memory is horrifyingly accurate when I choose to access it, and I'm not really the type of person who gets pleasure from fabricated memories of horrible experiences. Those do not appeal to me. But I still told the officer I didn't know. I think what I meant was, "I can't talk about this or I might throw up."

4. When stuff like this happens, I can kiss PTSD management goodbye. Nothing helps. I find myself wanting people to be here NOW (I even called Darrin and said, "You need to be home. Right now," after the interview. Fortunately, he was off work and coming home when I called, so it was just a few minutes before he arrived.). And if they aren't here when I think I need them, I get angry. I find myself circling through the thoughts that they lied to me, they don't love me, they don't want me-- and then I move on to how much I don't want them anymore. From there I descend to the ways that I need to not be alive, how I'm clearly unloved and worthless, and then I move to the ways that death might peacefully occur. Do I know this is ridiculous? Yes. Absolutely. But it doesn't feel self-indulgent or self-pitying. It feels like a runaway train and I'm standing in front of it, helpless to stop it. I try all the therapy strategies I've learned, but nothing seems to help.

5. I think I probably need to talk to Therapist. But I don't know what to say. Part of me feels that this shouldn't be happening. I should be done with all this. I've been working for a DECADE to heal. How much longer will it take? Please, please do not tell me this is the rest of my life. I can't do that. I'm not kidding. I need this to get better.

So now I'm going to meet with a theory student. Then I'm going to make chokecherry jelly. It's Tolkien Boy's birthday. If you know him, you should wish him a happy birthday. He's an amazing person. If he was here, I would hug him. Tomorrow I'm going to a wedding. Next week I'll be getting ready to teach my classes and picking crabapples. These are all very good things. I need to think about them. I need to remember I'm supposed to keep living. I need to stop getting caught up in things that happened a long time ago. I need to stop crying about things that don't matter anymore.

I think I can do this.

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