The Calendar Says It Is A New Day

It is a new day. I know because my husband’s alarm went off and he busied himself and readied himself for work. As we hugged goodbye, he said to have a good day, I said, “I think I am going to stay right here (meaning our bed) it is the only place I do not get in trouble.”

When I think about it, that is probably pretty far from the truth, but I did not mean to lie. I only meant that I do not mess with the world from this corner of it. I actually get in alot of trouble here, because if I do not sleep, I think. If I think too much, I see my pink medicine bag beside my bed, and often want to reach for it. I have always reached for the phone instead.

Yesterday, I am very afraid that had I been alone, I was so far gone, I would not have reached the phone. I felt as if I was controlled by “her” and “her” fears and insecurities, “her” pains and frailties, her abuses and abusers yelling loudly that “she” was bad, usless, and “her” life, my life not worth living.

My angel of a Mother knelt in front of me cradled my face in her hands and talked to us. Expressing love and support, and telling us we are not bad. Daddy sat in his chair behind her, and echoed each of her words. My parents are the best parents, so supportive. I hate that they are having to deal with this.

This morning, I am still in fight or flight. My anxiety lessened yesterday a little, Heavenly Father sent our “Tender Mercy” the deer that seems to come when we are having a really bad day. Then when I got home I explained the events of the day to my husband, my anxiety came back.

I recognize in the world this is small, in my PTSD world it is crushing. My parents had generously let me drive their new van to pick up groceries for myself and a couple of friends, because of my memory problems and so I would not be alone on the trip the friend rode with me. After we unloaded her grocercies I was headed home, and my phone rang, it was her saying that they accidently took part of the other friends groceries. Something told me to let Mother pick them up when she goes to deliver them to that friend, but I was only a few blocks away so I went back. When I turned on her dirt road a car came up on my bumper really fast and rode it. My friend’s gate is very narrow, and when I turned, I thought I cleared it, and it scratched and dented the right side of my parents van. My parents are not upset at all, or at least not expressing it in front of me, but I could not handle it. Humiliated and devestated are the mildest terms I can come up with.

Last night as I laid in bed, thinking of the day, and regrets, so many flashbacks came. I could not stop them. Gratefully I finally went to sleep…

I awoke once throwing the pillow that rested on my arm off because I had a nightmare of “his” legs pinning my arms down. Frozen in fear, my heart raced, and I listened to make sure I could hear my husband breathing, I then reached over and touched his shoulder for comfort.

When I have spoken to people about having dealt with depression and anxiety all my life and just recently having remembered the abuses. They say atleast now you know and you can work with them and move on. I am not at that point of being grateful that I remembered. I think I would have been better off thinking it was my inherited chemical depression and anxiety, because this is not living. My family cannot live and when they do they live in fear of what I might do to myself, if I lose touch with reality. I feel like I am not being fair to them, but I am fighting so hard. I wish I could just snap out of this.

I used to always think I would die in my 30’s, I am 39. I realized this week I have died, the life I once lived no longer exists. Yes, I breathe and have a pulse, but I do not live. I pray, sincerely pray that I can ressurect and be the person God intends me to be, pure and whole.


About Shanna

I'm Shanna. Living each day the best I can. Trying to learn and grow to be the daughter my Father in Heaven sees in me. Trying to overcome the trials of this life, and find some joy in each day.

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