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Whitetip reef shark (Triaenodon obesus)

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Images from a time that never was

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I bet you didn't even read my name.

I bet you didn't even read mine.

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Ew trauma

Reported

I bet you don't wash your hands after you use the bathroom. You should really change your ways, because that's gross.

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Let me be dead.

How do I live again, sharing space with someone who stole me?

How do I care for my life, if I don't trust that it is mine?

I'm not going to leave you, my once-jailor. I want to be your family, teammate, supporter, and friend. I forgive you and want you to feel forgiven. But I am afraid to breathe whenever you're around. I'm afraid to sing. To move, to change, to speak. I need to know that I am safe.

I believe that I love you. I even want to. But it's hard to know who has your love, if you don't own your right to give or withhold it. Please let me be dead, for a little while. Let me be dead - an invisible ghost in your house - unseen, unfelt, unbothered. If you let me be dead long enough, I may be able to live again with you.

Just let me be dead for a little while. Let me be dead, before I am.

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Bathing, baking, and saving my own life: Dreams of the future.

I took a bath yesterday and then continued to cry for twenty hours straight (and more, I'm still crying as I write this).

Does this mean I'm healing? Broken? Human? Not human anymore?

I don't even know anymore, dude. I haven't felt feelings so hard in so long, but I've just been laying here crying, working, not sleeping, drinking coffee and energy drinks, vaping, and crying. Crying, crying, crying. It's weird.

I don't bathe regularly. I don't move regularly, or eat regularly, or sleep like ... at all.

I just work. I work, I vape, I may or may not pass out from fatigue, I take impeccable care of my teeth because they are my last human strength, but let my hair tangle into dreadlocks, rinse, and repeat. I am a mother fucking mess.

But I bathed. I don't even know why. I really didn't feel like it. I was just in a state of derealization and dissociation, where thoughts were no longer the boss of me, and I just bathed almost of curiosity. Maybe I was subconsciously aware that I was crossing a threshold between passingly functional and alarmingly clinical if I did not force myself to take a bath right then ...

Bathing ... hurt. It felt really good. And that pleasure really hurt. It hurts to feel good, because I don't trust it.

Living hurts a lot right now. Every time that I am silent and alone with my thoughts - no media, no music, no conversations - all I can hear in my head is "ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch." I don't even know when that pain started, or how long I have been carrying it. I've grown so used to drowning it out and numbing myself entirely. But I'm feeling it finally, and it seems unending.

My husband and I are moving away from this God forsaken state that is way too sickeningly bloated with shitty history. I hate this town and I'm ready to leave, but I'm not excited. I hate being married to my husband. I hate living with him and being in the same room with him. I want to die when he looks at me.

Funny thing is, I don't actually hate him. I actually love him dearly. He is my family and my best friend, so although I feel absolutely nothing but pain when I am around him, I give him the spousal support and kindness that I feel my friend deserves. He deserves a teammate, kind words, and affirmation. I can only be his friend, but I try to be a good one ...

But my body writhes in agony around him, because it can't forget what he did to me. It sucks. My head and my heart forgive and want to move on, but my gut, my nervous system, my adrenal glands, my kidneys, they scream and shut down whenever they are in the same room. I am miserable.

There was a time when he was absolutely fucking awful to me. I tried to leave him, but he wouldn't let me. He would either hold himself hostage by cutting his arm with kitchen knives, punching himself in the face, or tearing handfuls of his hair out ... Or he would physically hold me prisoner. He would hold the door closed when I tried to open it, wrap me in a bear hug if I tried to run away, and lick my face (I am autistic and horribly disgusted by spit - even my own). These were the tamest methods he would use to stop me from leaving.

That period of time was the darkest of my life. And although he has seen a therapist, and things have changed, I have not been able to move. I've been physically frozen. I rarely leave my house - or bed, for that matter. I've dropped twenty pounds and three pant sizes from atrophy alone. I'm thinking about taking up smoking, just for the fresh air.

I'm free now, but in my body, I am still a prisoner. I think he broke me. As I mentioned, we've been moving. He hasn't lifted a finger to pack a box. I normally wait until he falls asleep to enjoy precious moments of alone time, when I can just be with myself. I recently spent those liminal hours packing. It took all of my will power to leave my bed and pack these boxes. They were, to me, my statement to the universe that I was ready and willing to "move." Truly move. To truly live, open to this next chapter.

The next fucking morning, my husband woke up and unpacked my fucking boxes. He did not repack the boxes, he just left the shit all over the floor. His reasoning was that he wanted to throw away everything in them, and that I did not pack them properly in the first place. I can't pack sugar with tea, apparently. FUCKING WHAT? Ugh, anyways.

Here's the fucking thing. Everything that he wanted to throw away was related to baking - the activity that I engage in when I am happiest. I never bake unless I am happy, and when I am happy, I bake all of the time. At one point, it was my dream to open a bakery; baking is the overflow of joy and light in my soul. This is exactly why I chose to pack that box. Isn't it just so fucking appropriate that he unpacked this specific box and left the shit all over the floor.

His reasoning was that we can just buy more baking ingredients when we get there. Apparently, it was a waste of time to pack the ingredients in the first place (clearly). Also, according to him, I used the wrong box I used a canvas box, when I should have used cardboard. It does not seem to matter that the sound of cardboard sets my level 2 ASD on edge, catalyzing almost instant sensory processing meltdowns. It's not like that exact detail, which I have shared many times with him, happens to be exactly why we have canvas boxes. Fuck, man.

Ultimately, I compromised, telling him that he could throw away only the expired ingredients ... This ended up being literally everything. Every item was expired, some by four to five years. We've been married for five years ...

The very last time that I made baked anything was for his birthday last year; the very last night that I felt any hope in my life. This particular night is what siphons my sleep and stabs me in every silent moment. This was the night that I silently packed my bag and tried to sneak away at 4 am; the night I got caught by him, and he almost took our lives in his manic delirious fit. The night that he cannot talk about or own up to when he asks me why I am too lazy to move, and why I seem to have given up on living. The night that I stopped baking and my soul died.

I absolutely hate my existence with him. I feel like I've been slowly killing myself, the long way around, with substance abuse and sleep deprivation. I know that if I were to just off myself, he would follow. But if I were to do it slowly, subtly, and outside of his radar, he might just be able to move on and be happy.

I'm basically already dead inside. I think I might still care about living, because I've learned to shut up and bite my tongue when we argue, because a part of me still feels primally afraid that one day he might just take both of our lives if he becomes unstable enough.

Anyways, I took a bath yesterday. I lit incense and played music, and just cried. I cried, because I remembered what bathing was like before I met my husband. What living was like before him. I stopped burning incense because he didn't like the smell. I stopped playing guitar and signing, because it triggered his insecurities. I stopped speaking and sharing my opinions with him, because his fragile fucking ego could not allow a single sentence that I said to make any remote sense.

I parted with every possible comfort that made my life beautiful, because he did not like them. And he would not let me leave to go be with them again. Every time that I tried, and managed to get away from his physical grasp because I was fast or sneaky enough, he would follow me to hotels, family members' homes, or other towns ... he would stand in front of my car when I tried to drive away, in front of the Ubers when I tried to Uber away. In front of me, every few steps, for miles, when I tried to walk away. I fought with every ounce of tenacity and determination, but he just beat me fucking down with his stubborness. I fought with all of my might; he was just stronger.

So, I gave up. I tried leaving in other ways. Mostly doing a fuck ton of drugs. I became infatuated with another man. I didn't allow myself to seduce this man the way that I continuously fantasized about doing, but I did allow myself to fantasize about doing it. Fantasizing about this stranger was better than doing drugs, for a period of time. And then it wasn't. I accidentally fell in love. After that, it got real for me. And when it got real, it got moral, and when it got moral, it became torturous.

So then I would just do drugs to not only escape my husband, but also to escape the fantasy of another man that emerged as a method of escaping my husband. Escaping to escape my escaping, I realized, was the most fucked up prison. But I just needed to escape. I needed to check out. I could not leave my house, so I tried to leave my body and mind. I needed to leave my feelings, so I could not feel the grating harshness of my husband's voice, the misery of his ego, his infuriating gaze, his terrifying mania, my ever present fear of him, my yearning for freedom, and my longing for someone else who represented life to me. It hurt. It all hurt so bad, so I just did whatever drug that I could.

When I was prescribed opiods, I popped them like candy. I don't even know how I survived that, and honestly, I don't think my soul did. I'm just a husk. I don't know if I will ever get myself back. I feel so dead inside. I want to say I got better. I stopped doing drugs. But I never stopped hurting. It hurts so much,

I hope that someday I'll see myself wearing a nice suit with good posture and combed hair, talking about something cool that I did to help people ... or even just to help myself. I hope that my future self someday speaks to my present self, about how strong, smart, sneaky, and strategic I was in saving my own life and escaping this absolute hell of a life, with all hearts intact. Including my husband's, but especially my own ... if I still have one, that is.

I think I really need to save my own life, assuming it isn't already over.

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“life isn’t about evading hell. life is about living beautifully despite it.”

— sulē cerdan

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After being physically held prisoner, my mind won't seem to let me leave. Even though things are better, and the danger is gone, I haven't left my bed in four months.

I think he killed my soul when he took my choice away. I don't know if I will ever come back. :/

#ptsd #frozen #alreadydeadinside

i will never leave this house

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dreams and aspirations <3