EPTWhy am I writing this on TL? Where else would I? I guess. I could write it in my old Livejournal that my ex and I talked in. In truth though, I don't want to ever visit it again. I haven't since I finally closed that door; or at least, closed her out of it. I guess she won't ever truly leave me inside. She wanders my heart still occasionally, and lets me smile on the happier memories, so I guess having to occasionally feel the hurt and shame and jealousy is just an intrinsic part of it. I don't want to visit that Livejournal again ever though (maybe in fear that she may have written in it, maybe just because). And what the hell, am I going to blog regularly about myself anyway? So TL it is.
I've started working again. I didn't for a long time. A long ass time. I've just finished training; I'll be starting my first real day on Saturday. Going is hard. It's kind of pathetic to think about, going to work being hard. I'm delivering pizza. How hard is delivering pizza and doing dishes and making sure my food isn't fucked up? It's still hard. From my perspective, disgust inducing to someone else as it might be, it means I'm maybe getting better. Maybe I am moving to blooming by making myself go.
I thought for the longest time that I just wanted to be at peace with myself. To not hate myself or want to die or scream at myself in my head or have two of me fighting all the time. Just to be, and be okay with the me that I was. I thought that the aggressive self-hate and hurt and nightmares all ending was my sign that I was at peace with myself finally. I'd won. It's a lie. I've been floating for almost two years, drowned in my own sinister ocean of deadness. That's how I've started to think, and I believe I might be right. I haven't done...anything. I justified it as waiting for something I really cared about and felt passionate about to just...come along. But I have loved things in that time, but not enough that I've really pursued it and driven myself for it. I love this game: everyday I sit for literally hours theorycrafting in my head and imaging and fantasizing and watching vods of other people doing what I want to...and don't practice. Or I practice and go up a league and then don't play for 5 or 6 weeks straight. I love to paint. Do I paint anymore? Am I actively pursuing a degree full time? No. I've been letting myself drown.
In my misguided belief that I was waiting or that I was better but not quite on track I've let myself fall to exactly what my PTSD has wanted me to be: nothing. What the guy who raped me for a year and a half treated me like: nothing. Just to cease to exist like I feel I deserve.
That's why it feels good to go to work. It hurts, and it's hard. I feel really insecure there; I don't feel safe, my stomach is a mess on the way there. I'm light-headed and my head is chaos, motivating myself and talking to me all the way there about getting better and what not. And then I'm there and it's okay. And then its done and I did it. I've been taking a few classes at a time for the past two quarters; in fall I'm planning to go as full-time as I can afford to. I guess those are baby-steps and another step too.
I need to take care of me before I can worry about any crazy dreams and goals. Not that I'm back-burner-ing them. It's not a "shoot for the moon but remember you can't breathe in space without help", but rather, "hey if you think you're a worthless unlovable dirty shit and you can't support yourself or function as an adult you might want to make that your priority." It's not my priority, at the same time. It's not me knowing it and then not doing it, or anything like that. And I say that while being terrified that I'll look back on this in three months and find it soul-crushing.
I want to say that I'm hopeful that this means I'm starting to let myself grow like I should. Like part of me so desperately wants to. That's not correct though. Being hopeful implies that it's not my responsibility. That I just want it to work out and if it does or doesn't it's not my fault. To a degree I can definitely say I feel that way. But, quietly, I'm smiling to myself: I feel like I can do it, and I'm going to. And IM going to do it. Maybe it's just a whisper right now, someplace really deep. But that's more than enough. My soul is screaming.
