I don't even know what to write anymore.

Every day this week I’ve told myself that I wanted to write a blog. Just so I could do something that can serve as a brain dump to my electronic therapist on how the past two weeks have been going. Since leaving my intensive therapy program, I’ve had a mental breakdown every day, which resulted in me getting drunk and going on Instagram to tell the world that I was tired and a bunch of other things I don’t quite remember. Rolling into Monday of this week, my son is admitted to the hospital for sicknesses we don’t quite understand yet. I just know that my son might be the next living bubble boy at this point.

Last week I said I was tired of being strong, but being strong is all I can be right now. I need to be strong, not even just for me, but for my baby, for my husband… Another task to test my mental fortitude. Something to come my way and see if this is what breaks me this time. Honestly, if any of the worst case scenarios in my head happened, it would break me. I wouldn’t even know what to do. I won’t write them into existence, just know that it’s where my head is at right now.

I look at my baby, who was once thriving, joking, laughing, and crawling around my home… laying in a bed with fluids and antibiotics and no energy to play with blocks or read books… and he naps more than half the day away… It hurts me to see him like this.

So yeah… I’m tired… but if I have to throw on a smile in front of my baby boy and pretend like I have the energy, then that’s what I’ll do… Because if he sees me in good spirits, maybe he’ll be in good spirits too…

Wow, that was embarrassing.

So, I got a wee drunk the other day, went on Instagram Live for the first time in my life, bawled my eyes out, probably spilled so many dark thoughts and feelings in the process… I can’t even remember what I said on Live, but I’m not sure that I want to. So if you listened, please don’t remind me. I already struggle making small talk with people, the last thing I want is to know the depth of embarrassment I had on Instagram. Thankful that I have a husband that deleted everything before even more people viewed it.

With that being said though, those who did end up viewing my feed and reaching out to me to make sure I was okay, I appreciate the fuck out of you. Those of you who reached out to my husband, I appreciate you. I mean, in the end, the cops got called to my house, my boss showed up, they made me go to the ER to do a psych evaluation and an alcohol blood level, but I ended up getting released home. I was safe, I am safe, we’re all good.

That would have honestly sucked though, because the psych unit here doesn’t discharge on four day weekends, meaning I would’ve been stuck there for 5 days hating myself for drinking that much. That place is like jail. There is no happiness that looms in those hallways. It’s just dread and misery that seeps through those cracks.

I am sad though. I constantly feel alone. I have the biggest case of FOMO, but I’m also the most anti-social person with FOMO… Which really doesn’t help. I hate feeling like I burden people with my depression. I think I’m actually pretty funny, I have a lot of dark humor, and I’m pretty apathetic to things that happen to me, but I’m really empathetic towards others. Which I guess just means, I feel like no one will ever understand me, but I’m pretty good at understanding others. I don’t think I’m super worthy of love, but I will love the fuck out of my friends.

I wish I had an easier time connecting with people. I wish people took the time to get to know me in a deeper sense. I always feel like I come in at the wrong time when I move. People are already super close to each other, they all have inside jokes and hang out on the weekends. I mean, just moving to El Paso, I literally put physical distance between me and almost everyone I know by living on the other side of the mountain. In Korea, I literally was the only officer that lived in Seoul while everyone else stayed 64 kilometers away. Geographic locations have never been on my side either, so I guess that also doesn’t help.

Maybe I just need to try harder at making friends, but honestly… and we’re being absolutely honest…

No one likes hanging out with depressed, anxious, and “crazy” people.

I think that’s the biggest reason why I distance myself. Because I’ve heard people talk about patients that come in with Suicidal Ideation, and I’ve heard people talk about people who get admitted to the psych unit, and those conversations are never 1) welcoming and 2) supportive.

So honestly… Maybe it’s okay that I’m anti-social, cause I’d rather have no friends than have fake friends.

"You don't have to earn the right to get help."

It’s not unusual to think that you need to be in combat to be diagnosed with something like PTSD. Being brought up in the military community and entering the force myself, it was common to think that PTSD = Combat. End of story. You can’t be hurt because you’ve never seen war. You can’t be hurt because you’ve never seen someone die. You can’t be hurt because you’re doing so well.

Today, a lot of people opened up about feeling ashamed at first for seeking help. They felt as if they didn’t deserve it. I was in this boat for the longest time, and I think that’s something that I opened up about recently. For the last 17 years, I felt like I didn’t deserve help. I was always told that “things happen for a reason.” Pushing my trauma aside like it was meant to happen to make me who I am today. It’s so far from the truth though. Anything that caused you trauma, anything that you relive over and over that hurts you, that’s valid. You woke up today, you’re human, you deserve help. That’s it. Point blank.

You being you means you deserve help, no matter what your story is. It took me a really long time to finally seek help and pretty much demand getting help from the Army for all the shit it’s caused me to relive. It hurts me to know that so many other people are feeling ashamed just like me for seeking help just because we compare our trauma to other’s trauma. Especially those who have experienced combat trauma. “We don’t deserve help, they deserve help.” No man. You deserve help because you need help.

Today was that gentle reminder that I’m really not alone in what I’m going through. It’s sad that it takes a group of broken people to feel like you’re capable of healing. We’ll all heal together.

One of my grandmother's died today.

I don’t think I was really ready for that kind of news so early in the morning prior to starting my day. I was so caught off guard that it affected my morning pretty significantly. Usually when I’m encountered with someone’s passing I’m met with shock first. The disbelief that someone who was breathing is now a person waiting to be buried or cremated. I usually don’t have any emotions attached to that shock. I’m normally numb and it takes awhile for it to really hit me.

Today was a little different… well, very different. It hurt instantly. I could feel my heart drop, my body become heavy, weakness seep into every muscle fiber… But I overcame that feeling with becoming angry. I was angry this morning. Mad at everyone and everything that wasn’t going my way. Because anger is an easier emotion to deal with than sadness. It’s easier to yell and scream than it is to sit and cry and feel hurt. So I was angry. I was aggressive.

I’m thankful for people in my group and my extremely patient therapist that helped talk me through a lot of what was going on in my head. Because today I did have a craving to drink and I did have a craving to smoke, and instead, I went to group.

I guess that’s growth.

why did my seventh grade self want to die so badly?

I don’t know all the reasons why, but I’m trying to figure myself out. I am the type of person to keep track of everything by writing. I’ve always been a blogger, a journal keeper, a fiend for memories. That’s why it’s so hard for me to understand why reflecting on my seventh grade self, why was I so damn suicidal? How old would I have been, 12 or 13 years old? Meeting with 12 years old now, I can’t imagine any of them wanting to feel that way or having a reason to feel that way.

Then I think back to my first trauma as a child, I was 11 years old. I was 11 years old when I was sexually assaulted by an adult. All the feelings of worthlessness before that all happened were then fully engraved into my brain. I constantly (and still do) feel unsafe. I feel the need to hide myself. I hate myself. I want to peel my skin off somehow and throw it away. As if I could start new again that way. I’ve always pictured just carving chunks of myself away because I felt disgusting. Like a snake shedding it’s skin.

That’s almost 20 years of trauma that’s just living underneath everything I have. Every success, every happy memory, all built on top of a broken foundation of trust, self-worth, and love. Three things I have to consistently work on to feel something other than shame and guilt and disgust.

Why is it the norm for my culture to judge and belittle young children for what they look like? Why are we constantly judged by what the number on the scale is, or how well our clothes fit, or how light our skin is? Why is this the topic of discussion for every family gathering after not seeing each other for so long? How can one feel like they’re worthy of living if this is what goes through their head every day? I’m not good enough for my family because of how I look, but I’m good enough to be molested, but I’m also not good enough for help, so I have to maintain this image of perfection by hiding away the things that have hurt me.

“You have to forgive them, so you can heal and move on.” What if I don’t want to forgive them? What if I want them to suffer the consequences of their actions NOW, and not wait until they’re up for their judgment day? Why do THEY have to get away with it for me to move on? Can’t I heal and not forgive them?! Can’t I heal and still see them brought down to their knees for the heinous things they did? Fucking irritating.

God. fuck my life.