I’ve been so reluctant to actually blog about this. I keep thinking writing about it in depth more than what I have already written about it will only make people think I’m seriously a basket case. A few months ago I was told I needed to go a hospital because I was crazy – that I belonged in a mental institution for feeling like I was. If you don’t like someone’s tweets, just unfollow them instead of sending hate. Seriously. If they’re posting how they feel, maybe it’s just because they want to find SOMEONE who could ever possibly feel the same. Maybe. Then again, what do I know? I’m just a nutcase to so and so, yet if I brought it up to them today, I seriously doubt they would even remember tweeting such a thing to me.
PTSD, or Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, has affected my life very negatively. I hate it. I was in denial. I felt crazy. I thought I was crazy. It wasn’t fair that I had PTSD, and I still don’t find it fair that I have PTSD. It’s not fair, and it sure as hell is not easy. Every freaking day is a struggle to avoid thinking about anything of and/or related to the past. Even if I bring it up in conversation, or if a conversation sparks said idea, I’m doomed for however long the memory decides to last.
I don’t sleep.
Not at night, at least. It’s easier to sleep during the day because I have a less likely chance of getting nightmares. It’s almost like I’m afraid to sleep at night. I’m not supposed to be afraid of sleeping at night. I know I’m afraid of the dark, but I like to think that there’s nothing wrong with it. With this said, I don’t intentionally stay up at all hours of the night. It’s so difficult explaining this to people, so I don’t even attempt it. I mean, they will most likely never be able to understand WHY and WHAT I mean when I tell them I just can’t sleep during the night and force myself to stay up late instead. I don’t think anyone can.
This leaves me feeling groggier than I was before.
I don’t eat.
I had a problem with this before. I just can’t for some reason. I’m not hungry enough to eat, and if I eat, I’m going to have lard’s and other people’s voices in my head saying that I’m fat, calling me fat, mooing at me, oinking around me and saying I need to lose weight.
I really freaking hate the fact that doctors feel the need to tell me I need to lose weight when they don’t even know me and/or what I’m going through/have been going through/struggle with/etc. I hate that the most. The next one that tells me this/brings up any kind of stupid dieting/weight loss conversation with me in hopes of making some kind of an impact on me so I lose a few pounds is really going to get snapped at because they only make it worse.
I had to quit my job.
I kept having so many hallucinations and flashbacks and nightmares that I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t concentrate and couldn’t function that I had to quit. I needed to realize I was important, and I needed to put my health first. I tried having my schedule minimized, but they wouldn’t allow it and kept me working the same hours. I tried to have it more organized (i.e. not 7am-4pm one day, 5pm-12am the next day, off after, lather, rinse, repeat) so I would be able to create a schedule for myself and be able to go to sleep [hopefully] at the same time every night, but after asking I was practically on bad terms with a few people, and they made sure I knew it.
A manager, C, somehow got out of me one Saturday morning that I was suicidal and just couldn’t handle anything. He was very ignorant and acted as if I would be OKAY if they put me on another damn register whose stuff actually worked. The next thing I knew, too many employees were talking about it. Considering he’d done it in front of a good number of people in the store off to the side and in front of two CSMs doesn’t make it any better. It just wasn’t fair. It was as if I was making it up. He seriously made me even more of an emotional wreck, and I just wanted to die right then and there. The same day I could have sworn I’d seen a car driving in a ditch and straight toward a culvert, exploding after hitting the culvert. But I found it didn’t happen. That was in March.
I felt like I had been more publicly humiliated then than I did the time Mother Nature decided to introduce herself to me in middle school (seventh grade) when I was wearing a short, light blue jean skirt and thought I was just sweating because it was so hot until I stood up and my best friend at the time pointed it out to me and helped me out.
I can’t say I didn’t cut that day, C. I also can’t believe you asked me if I was actually serious about my job when I was trying everything I knew possible to see if I could somehow have it adjusted so I wouldn’t have to quit. I quit because of you. I also almost drove off the road that day because of you – because I was too unstable to drive, yet I still had to because you made me feel like such crap and I lacked someone to come and pick me up. No one that could actually would have; they wouldn’t have cared enough to and would have told me I could. No one who was around showed they genuinely cared about me and/or what happened to me aside from whether I was working or not. That was all. It was as if that was all I was worth to them.
I cannot handle stress.
Money trouble, stupid State Farm insurance charging a fee for me moving to the city, maybe or maybe not being able to pay my cell bill in October, owing a fee for Avon which increased most likely because of a preview thing I could have sworn I was told was free and ended up not being and thus being emailed by the Van Zandt county Avon leader about my account being moved to inactive1, my mom hates me and I’ll probably never have with her the relationship I’ve always wanted her to have, I can’t function how I want to, people keep asking me about working and having a job and when I will have one again, people keep assuming I’m lazy which means they pretty much don’t/won’t take me seriously, I’m expected to drive my truck/let it run for a little bit at least once a week every week so it doesn’t die2 – there are two many things that are stressing me out.
Any kind of stress is causing my chest to hurt extremely bad. Whether it’s anxiety and not exactly “chest pains” like I’m describing like Bebe (aunt on my mom’s side) says or not shouldn’t really matter. However, I have asthma. I KNOW WHAT CHEST PAINS ARE, and I’m pretty sure that when it hurts to breathe because your chest is hurting so much that said pain really is chest pain like you are describing, and YES. IT SHOULD BE TAKEN FREAKING SERIOUSLY. Each time it hurts it gets worse. It happened on birth control, too. Since I’ve taken it, my chest pains have gotten worse. I have a fear I’ll die of a heart attack or something because they hurt so much.
I don’t really know where else to go with this right now. I may end up going back to the blue theme I had prior to this one. I actually really miss it. I don’t feel like I’m lying to myself3 by using a color I both like and has a symbolic meaning to it4.
I’m really unstable and imperfect, and I’m just sick and tired of worrying and all this other crap. I’m still an emotion wreck.
I’m not lazy, and I’m not unemployed by choice.
I just wish I could somehow make people understand that.
- I’m assuming she never received my email explaining all of this crap, and guess who decided to clean out her inbox, including sent mail, a month ago? ↩
- (cont’d) and I forgot about it because it’s not my biggest priority, and now it’s dead and needs to be jumped off – and because of this, I just feel like a complete failure even more. ↩
- As in: Ooh, bright colors. 😀 I’M ALL BETTER NOW. ↩
- I don’t give a care if the symbolic meaning is not exactly what I’m thinking. ↩