Category: health

brainsick

精神錯乱

I had about half an entry about the ungodly PTSD-filled disaster today was written, and then I just kind of…stopped, because…

…literally who cares? no, really. nobody cares.

I spent half an hour unable to do anything other than shiver violently and cry into my hands and nobody checked on me. my PTSD does not matter. my trauma does not matter. I do not matter and I’ve run out of energy to try and matter. online, offline, wherever. I don’t matter.

and like, I’m not going to lie and say I don’t care about that, because I do. the weight of nothingness is unbelievable.

I just want someone to give a flying fuck. I want my pain to be acknowledged and seen as valid. That isn’t going to happen in a living situation where 50% of the household looks at me like I’m a cockroach and will get on my ass for not saying thank you while I’m white-knuckling what little sanity and calm I have available to me to get away from them, the fucking actual triggers.

like, I’m super glad everyone else is “calm” and the “hiccup” is over for them, but it’s not for me, because it can’t be, because fucking PTSD is a whoring son of a bitch.

I don’t know what to say or how to put it that doesn’t make it…I don’t know, dire? Overdramatic? Childish? But I’m fucking tired. I’m fucking tired of twisting myself into knots to try and get people to give a shit about my pain and my trauma and my right to feel safe.

I want someone here to see my pain.
I want to be able to change it.

Neither of those things will ever happen while I’m stuck living here, and I’m not being dramatic or catastrophising or anything. I do not matter in this place. I’m not a person, I’m just a thing. I’m less than a rodent or an insect. They can scream and shout and kick walls and break doors and do whatever they like; if I cry because I’m frightened I’m just a selfish bitch.

Living here is killing me. I literally can’t remember what happiness used to feel like.

So I fell off the SI wagon. And in a sick way, I’m almost glad I did, because it’s like…proof. Proof that this was not just a little thing that didn’t affect me.

I’ll be told that it wasn’t that bad and that was such a silly thing to do and blah blah blah and like, yes it was? And yeah, I know? I just. It’s that Richey quote, you know: “I’m not a person who can scream and shout so this is my only outlet. It’s all done very logically.”

I wanted that oxytocin rush. I was too deep in PTSD hell to get it. So it’s even stupider now.

Everything is stupid. My whole life is stupid.

I just want to matter, even if it’s just to myself.

Merry fucking Christmas.

health

This isn’t FAIR.

I’M SICK OF BEING SICK.

I just want to sit up and code, for the love of god. I don’t want to run a marathon or attend a dance party or hit the city or anything, I just want to code a stupid webpage about stuff that literally probably NOBODY cares less about anymore. I’m not asking to do anything major, I’m asking for the strength to SIT UP and perform a SEDENTARY. HOBBY.

I know it’s rotten of me, but I also don’t care: I’m so sick of people whining about (supposed, newsflash: people online tell lies, especially about diseases completely lacking detectable biomarkers) ME/CFS and then…just living a normal life?! Going to their jobs, dancing around their cities, hanging with their friends, etc. But remembering every now and then to remind everyone about how ME/CFS sucks…without mentioning a single symptom that’s ruining or even mildly affecting their day, mind you…just how they’re ~*~sicker than you~*~ because they definitely, absolutely, totally have it.

Being sick with this horrible disease is not an identity. ME/CFS is not a cute trendy accessory. Being sick with this is absolute life-destroying hell, and if you think otherwise, you aren’t sick. Eat me.

I gatekeep because I care.
(About people suffering like me. I don’t give two damns about the accessorisers.)

I can’t. sit. up.
Trying to do so has me passing out.
But do tell me again about how AWFUL your life with “CFS” is, please do, especially while you zap down the street to grab a coffee, something that would have me collapsed in bed for a week if I even tried it. I am all empathetic ears, by which I mean I hope you get hit by a train.

Actually, no I don’t.

I hope you end up like me.

(“OMG, you’re such a monster, you’re so mean!”)
Cry me a fucking river.

I’m going to go lay down for another three hours because I had the utter gall to attempt to sit upright for five minutes.