I have lived in fear for a very long time. Fear is my natural default state of emotions. When I wake up, one of the first things I think to myself is, “am I going to die today?” I mean, logically, this is a good question as any of us could die today. However, this is not why I ask this question, and I still wake with it.
I once struggled for food, but not because my mother was poor. My mother was a stripper, and there was plenty of cash around. The fridge was bare because my mother couldn’t fill it due to her lifestyle: asleep during the day, work/party at night. It was neglect. I did fear I would die from not getting the proper nutrition, but no one noticed that on me when I went to school. I used to eat crackers with jelly or catsup from the cafeteria because I had gotten beaten so severely for “stealing” lunch money one day. I also remember getting tapeworms because the lunch meat was terrible, but one of the only things in the fridge for me to eat.
My mom was a drinker. She also liked to use drugs. She also wanted to have men over. She won’t ever admit this as the truth, so she let me walk the Earth as if the reality of my childhood — the one of me being locked down and scared of everything — isn’t genuine. Seeing people going through the same emotions I did as a child during the quarantine has validated my story on some level. It showed me what happens to people when asked to stay indoors for an extended amount of time. But, unlike my childhood, we still had some liberties under this lockdown that I did not when younger.
As I gain the strength to post about my story, it might seem as if it’s a mosaic through different timelines, and you wouldn’t be wrong. My memories are scattered and reappear under stressful circumstances and surprising places like a concert or sushi restaurant. Sometimes I have them come back when looking at a picture or hearing how someone says my name or specific words. It isn’t very comforting to have c-PTSD, and another lockdown did not help me with this.
Last October (2020), I started to feel myself “slip” into some depression (with mania and dissociation) due to listening to music. Everything began to degrade after that point. I tried to pull myself out by writing (I was attempting to write the invert of my story as something, I don’t know what), but I had issues taking myself out of it. I couldn’t make new people replace those I knew who abused me, especially not my mom.
I am using this space to share my story when I need to. My website is the safest place to do so as other avenues online (Facebook, Twitter, etc.) or in the real world, outside of therapy, hasn’t worked for me so far. The moment you say something about a tarnished life, people want to take you down with it. So, this is my safe space. Please respect it as I am trying to get better. Hiccups, no matter how small or large, could throw me into a tailspin during recovery.