joeys-time-capsule

[joeys-time-capsule]

9/3/2021

First entry wooooo. This will be vaguely reminiscent of shitposting, so I will not be using my journalism skills whilst writing this. I’m just going to write, no strings attached. 

Today was fairly okay, and by okay I mean I didn’t necessarily want to off myself. I mean not very much, I guess. 

I started my morning by waking up at a crisp 7am, my usual routine set from being in the facility for so long. Its hard to break those habits, but at least that can be coded as something positive and rather productive. I do enjoy waking up in the morning glory, with the sun attempting to peek through my blackout curtains... it feels like I’m doing something properly rather than just laying in bed until I’m forced by my body to get up for food or the bathroom. 

For breakfast today, I just made eggs and toast because it feels like the further into the week I get, food is just... difficult. My dad works completely from home because of the pandemic but also because (and I can admit this without shame now) I’m a little bit high maintenance when it comes to mental health and basic human functions like showering and eating. 

Therapy was an absolute chore today. Always is, always will be. Listening to fucking Christina cry for half an hour seems counter-productive, and we hardly ever get to other people, let alone me. I think I would like it more if I actually got to talk through my issues more, but group therapy just isn’t a great place for that. If you’re not loud, you don’t really get to speak unless they force you. 

And when it comes to speaking, I’m worse-off in that department than ever. I don’t think I’ve actually said much in the past two weeks outside of “Hi, my name is Jocelyn, I go by Joey, I use they/them pronouns, and I’m a journalism and literature double major.” 

I seriously order everything on my phone and show the fast food workers my name and order number. It’s actually kind of pathetic, the more I think about it. I’ve said more in this post than I have verbally in days. Maybe weeks. I had to teach my dad a few signs like “water”, “school”, and of course “yes” and “no”. I feel like I disappoint him when I don’t talk, but... at least he tries to understand. 

I feel bad for my siblings, too. Step-siblings, that is. Today my brother wanted to play video games when I got home and I was so mentally exhausted from the week I’ve had that I had to just shake my head and walk away. He’s too young to understand all of this. Why I don’t talk. Why I hole myself up in my room and busy myself with homework that isn’t due for a week or two. And I’m never going to be able to explain everything to him. 

Oh, and not that any of the people who might read this know him, but shit with Anthony just keeps hitting the fan. He is a Grade-A pain in my ass. I wish I could look him in the eye and tell him that. If I had to think and count, I would say he’s given me.... 7 panic attacks this week alone? You do the math. I’m averaging one a day. One a day is for fucking vitamins, not anxiety attacks. 

Skip this next part if you don’t want a play by play about who Anthony is and what he’s done. 

Anthony is the man who ruined my life. Plain and simple. And he lives rent-fucking-free in my brain. Always. And I hate it. You know how usually when someone hurts you, a normal person would be able to move on? Nope. Been years. I still haven’t. Sorry, but I’m never going to “move on” from my assault. Especially not when he caused me to have a psychotic break right on the damn anniversary of said assault. It’s because of him that I’m terrified of fucking parties and pick up trucks and why I can’t wear skirts without feeling like I’m heading straight for death. It’s because of him that if I have kids one day, I will be driving them to their school dances. They won’t be riding with their dates. Not until I can gauge whether or not their prospective partner is good for them. And believe me, he was good to me. Until he wasn’t. And he’s all I’ve thought about this week, a relentless memory that plays over and over in my head like a broken record. This is the shit I need to spout about in therapy, but I just can’t. I want to talk about every detail. How he picked me up that night with the most charming smile, and by the end of the night, seemed to hate my guts. How he looked my father in the eye knowing what he was going to do later on if I said no to him. I want to talk about how I didn’t move from my bed, until I had to, how I didn’t go to school for DAYS. And how when I came back, I was just another whore. A football player’s trophy. How his actions have ravaged me and made me the submissive, sad, little person I am. How I can’t talk most of the time because of him. I want to sit and dissect all of it, find out where the hell I went wrong. But goddamn, there isn’t enough time in the day to do all of that. 

Anyways. Enough about him for today, because I assure you there will be a time where I can tell my story fully and I don’t want to bore you all before I get to that point in my life. 

In summation, didn’t kill myself today. I call that a win. I ate two full meals, I did my homework, and I went to therapy. That’s good enough for a Friday. 

Until the next time I ramble,

Jo.