#so many abusers have self hatred complexes and will have breakdowns over how awful they are and still not change

[katielynn2688]

War Zone

No one ever said life would be fair. Yet, the only motivation I’ve ever needed to do what’s right and to work hard was knowing that any other alternative simply wouldn’t work for me. I’m sure, at times, taking short cuts would have made my life a little easier, but the inner turmoil I’d create for myself by lying, stealing, cheating, manipulating or using people would prevent me from being me. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a profound understanding of human suffering. Before I was old enough to understand the true complexity of our nature I was able to empathize with every emotion I came into contact. I always tried to play the role of mediator, counselor, problem solver, within my own family. The tears of my sisters were complimented by my own. Although I often was clueless as to what was actually going on, I could sense that our world, our family, our lives were in upheaval and it frustrated me that instead of working together to find a solution, we pointed our fingers, stabbing the ones we were supposed to take care of with accusations, insults, blame, and hatred.

My life became a war zone - an innate sense of morality vs the actions of those around me. It was my view of how the world should spin against the way it actually does.

I worked my ass off all the way through school. I participated in countless after-school activities including 4H, theater, NHS, improv team, basketball, Arizona High School Rodeo Association and work. I volunteered for organizations like Gompers and did my best to keep up with all my chores; feeding and watering the horses, goats, chickens and various other animals, riding my own horses, mucking out stalls, cleaning my room, etc. Although a loner of sorts due to insecurities and crippling anxiety, I managed to have a fairly healthy social life and even acquired a couple of boyfriends who, for whatever reason, enjoyed my company. I suppose back in high school I wasn’t quite as neurotic as I am now. I knew how to have a good time and had high hopes for the future. Most people who have been involved in my life to some degree already know that I struggle with anxiety. Some have seen me at my worst, or at least pretty damn close. But not very many know to what extent my mental and emotional “disorders” have affected me my entire life. Looking back on all that I managed my adolescent years, I can only shake my head in awe. For someone who frequently battled panic attacks so intense that I would miss entire days of school, who fought constant self-criticism and punishment, and who lacked any kind of pride or self respect, it seems impossible that I accomplished so much.

And yet, I never allowed myself so much as a pat on the back. No nap went without a guilt trip, no naive or immature decision went without shame, no action or word was left unscrutinized, no compliment was accepted, no show of affection unquestioned, not a single accomplishment was ever celebrated. Nothing I did was good enough. I was never able to allow myself any credit, never any rest, never any peace. I never allowed myself to be; to be myself, to be human, to be a child. And it all boiled down to one thought. I wasn’t worthy of love. Not from others. Not from myself. And it hurt. I was tormented by wanting the world for everyone else, but denying myself everything.

The only escape I clung to was reading and writing. Words empowered me. They were puzzle pieces that I carefully placed together to give life meaning, beauty, hope. Literature, I believed, could solve everything. The only chance I had to save the world was with words. 

Then high school ended and I made a bad investment on a naive dream. I gave my heart away with good intentions and high expectations only to receive a massive reality check and devastating heartbreak. My entire life was yanked from the palms of my hands and I was sent reeling into the universe so fast that the stars shot like bullets all around my fragile soul. But, like always, I pushed through with stubborn determination and denial, and heavily relied on socially accepted poison to numb the pain. I didn’t know this pain would continue to eat away at my mind until finally chewing through all the wires. Eventually, it would short out the light behind my eyes. 

Drinking aside, I was an upstanding citizen. I was still a hard worker and, for the most part, optimistic about what life could offer. I was completely unaware of the patterns that had shaped my existence. After acting upon the same subconscious thoughts that implanted themselves in my mind many years before, I found myself in numerous toxic relationships and circumstances that continued to weaken all my natural and healthy defense mechanisms. 

Life isn’t fair: a fact that each of us have to mull over in our brains at some point when making decisions throughout our lives. And the fact that it isn’t “fair” for all of us should provide some comfort when answering the call of our life purpose. I’ve done my fair share of weighing every possibility on the metaphorical scale. But never so heavily as I have over the past year. While I have significant experience standing on the sidelines of normalcy, I was usually able to shrug, or drink, off my mental breakdowns, loneliness, addiction, and abusive relationships as mere quirks or lapses of judgement. Recently, however, after what feels to me like some absurd, yet terrifying, nightmare of sorts, I realized that I was seriously not okay. This realization was not so hard for me to make, since you can’t damage an ego that never existed. What was hard was that I suddenly faced the challenge of convincing others that I needed help. It was already incredibly difficult to reach out for help after 28 years of faking my way through literally everything, but I reached an impossible dilemma when I realized no one could hear my cry. No one seemed to care that, without help, I knew my existence would be cut short. 

I’m still trying to figure out how to explain myself to others. Normally I don’t so much care if I live a secluded lifestyle, because it’s easier for me to hide. But when you start questioning everything - the way you talk, your memories, your personality, the way you blink, what you do with your face, what day it is, how old you are, if you have a name, whether you’re breathing, if any of this is real and more so, if it is real, is it really worth answering all these questions? Trapped between fear and anger, defeat and death. It’s as if I woke up one day to a completely new and dark world where the rules of the game were left to those with the most sinister of motives. Things like love and trust became mere allusions used as pawns to a much larger, more corrupt, war. A war that I entered accidentally and completely unarmed.

When nothing is as it seems, and everything shifts shapes before your eyes as if made of sand, how am I ever supposed to know who I am? I’m still trying to find the right puzzle pieces to my own puzzle. But the thoughts in my head blur my vision and make me nauseous. The one thing I desire over everything else in the world is true human connection. But is that possible to attain when I’m usually floating above my body, detached from any reality? I can’t expect someone who has never experienced the same kind of psychological anguish to understand my behaviors, to see past all the triggers and walls that make up my personality. After all, now they say I have a personality disorder. Some of which makes sense, but even knowledge cannot shine light onto a hidden soul. Besides, even within the medical field this diagnosis is, at best, misunderstood and, at worst, disregarded or deemed untreatable. Furthermore, how do I travel this road toward normalcy and recovery when, for so many, it leads to a lonely and bitter dead end? I have no strength or motivation to convince another person that I’m good enough to love. Most days, I don’t have the courage to allow myself to be seen. So the battle continues in this war my brain inflicts upon my soul.