slip week

I was doing so good and then I slipped the last couple of days.

It’s not my fault that my fight-or-flight reaction is a little screwy and sometimes my brain genuinely thinks that playing in traffic would solve problems. I’m not even sure if that was suicidal inclination or just wanting to be in a coma for like the next month so I don’t have to deal with the emotionally-manipulative bullshit parade that is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. (Which is… another post I may actually do at some point between now and Christmas, and a pretty important part of my emotional journey, and probably gonna be my next tattoo since it’s the off-season for my preferred expensive hobby.) Yes, Monday was a shitshow and I’m not sure how I’m gonna apologize to my wolf for this one (or if I even need to), but I didn’t DO anything.

I didn’t DO anything yesterday either, when my week got derailed ten minutes before I was supposed to get off work. Yay family emergency. Unfortunately too many of y’all know my fam in real life, and I’m not sure how we’re publicly handling this one, but there’s some chaos going on there. Not my story to tell, but still stressing me out because right now I look like the normal child and that’s a little weird.

And I didn’t DO anything today either, unless you count crying for like half an hour because yet another of my casual acquaintances is pregnant. ANOTHER ONE. That makes… idk, I wanna say right now six or seven people spamming my social media feeds with their baby bumps?? And most of them are younger than me, which is so not helping. I’m 24. I still probably have fifteen years of fertility left. But I wanna USE those years, dammit. I want to BE the one obsessing over every little detail of my imminent tiny human. Not the jealous single girl watching.

So, I guess I’ve been good. Lot of bad brain stuff but all kept safely passive-aggressive. I need to find a way to make things right with one person in particular, but I’m pretty sure I’m gonna spend the rest of my life trying to balance out that relationship and I’m not sure it’s doable. Otherwise… yeah. It’s only Wednesday. Anything could happen.

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the walking wounded

I’m not sure exactly when I got disillusioned with organized religion. It’s one of those things that obviously happened at some point, but out of all the things that caused this particular cluster of jadedness, one catalyst stands out – in a culture that values martyrdom, wanting to die and wanting to feel pain for your own reasons doesn’t go over so well.

The church I grew up in (which my family has recently left, freaking finally) did not handle mental illness very well. Or at all. Ever. If anything, my community of origin tended to follow the approach of “if we don’t talk about it, it won’t happen to our kids”. This got applied to everything, and the results were predictably awful. Premarital sex? No way to confirm numbers on that one (yet), but I’d bet money that not all of my peers were as innocent as we thought. The entire concept of different sexual orientations? I still turned out bi. Mental illness? Ooooooh boy, that one got blown to hell and then some.

I’m not actually sure when I developed depression either beyond “some indefinite point in high school”. I had a nice little self-harm phase when I was 12, and I’ve got some tiny little scars on my thighs to prove it (life tip – safety razors are appropriately named, but I still did a little damage), but somehow that one hasn’t recurred. I’ve probably had anxiety since I was a little bug, but that only got confirmed and medicated a few months ago. I have recurrent suicidal thoughts, and every time I think those are gone, lol no. I’m not ashamed of any of this.

According to the culture that created me, however, I ought to be. Assuming it’s even real, and a lot of ’em don’t think it is.

I grew up thinking that the church was supposed to be a place of healing. For me, as a woman with multiple mental illnesses, it was anything but. Instead of hope, I found victim-blaming and denial, and I’m not that kind of a martyr. I can’t survive that thought process anymore.

Suffering is all well and good, they said – beautiful, even. I call bullshit. I am the walking wounded and I know better.