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Final Year, Part One

My Final Year Grade 12. My final year of school. My final year of life at home. I could legally leave and she could not hold me. Freedom. If I survived. I was afraid of being free and even more terrified of staying. I knew nothing of the real world. I never held a job, banked, or even had a clue how to do those things. You see, I hadn’t learn to wash a dish correctly, or clean the floor perfectly. Until I did, I could not learn more.  Mama told me. “If you can’t do the simplest things, how will you do more complicated things, like work?”.  My freedom was so close, and so frightening. I could smell it, and touch it. I wanted it so bad, and I feared it. I did not know how to survive. I knew the day, when it came, and if it came, would go like this. “You are 19. Get your lazy ass out now. No, you are not taking your clothes, I paid for them. It’s not my problem you have no money. Maybe you should have learned to wash a dish properly. Perhaps you could lay on your back and earn mon
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Impossible Choices and a New Battlefield Plan

I did it. I started to write again and I’m not letting me stop them this time. This is my story. This is my truth. It has nothing to do with them. Such brave steps, and I hear the uproarious laughter in the back of my mind. Laughing and laughter echoing and rebounding on the walls of my imprisoned head. Mocking me, daring me. They will try to take it away when they find out. They will smear me. They will sue me. They will try to “lock me up”. Except it is them that are crazy. I only live with the results of their crazy. People have a right to tell their story, in their way, and in their words. You have a right to choose the place, the time, and the way you will do it. My family has different ideas about rights. Many families like mine are the same. They don’t want their shame revealed. It is not my problem. The shame they left with me, and make me carry, has resulted in my illness. The constant smears help keep me that way. Today I am brave. I am also scared. It’s the laugher.
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I'm not insane for God's sake. I'm Scared.

Still no retuned phone calls from anyone at any agency I’ve called, requesting help. I would be laughing if it wasn’t so serious. We are the outcasts of society. Make it so hard to find help, and when you do, take away their rights. Commit them without their knowledge. That happened to me. A few years ago, I presented at a local emergency stating I needed help. I was rational, cooperative, and non combative. I had had a self-harming event a few days earlier, I was crying, not sleeping, obsessing, and fearful. I asked them to “Please help me.” To my great relief they said yes and after some questions back and forth, asked if I minded being admitted. Since I had come requesting help, of course I did not mind and said yes. Two days later I wanted to leave the floor to get coffee at Starbucks which is in the lobby. The clerk asked me to wait while she checked me file. She was just as sweet as could be, and popped up and said, “You can go with an escort, do you have one?” I stood
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Sleep. Wherefore art thou?

After a very trying and exhausting day I fell in bed at 10:30. I fell asleep but woke up at 12:30. Here we go again. I got up at 4 after turning this way and that way, and having intense spells of sweating and feeling so incredibly hot that even sitting under the fan with a wide open window didn’t help. I understand it to be adrenaline. My current quack doc thinks I'm a drug addict looking for sleeping pills and he does not believe in them. What the hell does that even mean. I don't believe in doctors not helping people. Who is right? A number of years ago, a really good psychiatrist took the time to listen. He did all kinds of tests including measuring the amount of adrenaline in my body. The results, as he relayed them to me. “It’s not that you have trouble sleeping, it’s that you can’t. Your body is making too much adrenaline.” So there I am. Someone who knew the situation, understood, and was really trying to help. Then I moved. Now I am a suicide threatening drug add
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The Load Is Heavy

In addition to all the stuff above. I also have Dissociative Disorder, Panic Disorder, Social Anxiety, GAD, Depression, OCD (Obsessive Thoughts), and I self-harm. I am also a very strong empath and have just come to understand what that really means. Must makes sense, but I have trouble discerning what is mine and what is not. I have struggled all my life and after some stability the ribbons no longer hold me. I'll fall in to ocean below and drown. My life story is crazy and mixed up. I don't know what I will write. I'm told writing helps, but if not, perhaps it will touch someone else. There will be many triggers here so read at your own discretion. Ribbons of Red. I could say ropes or chains, but everything always appeared beautiful and right. The world mama lived in was about image. Never truth. So for her, I will make my chains red ribbons. It sounds better. For her. I'm okay with it. See, red ribbons are all of a sudden so appropriate. I sometimes see red ribbo
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