Brain Spew in Lieu of Wit

This entry has been particularly difficult to write. I keep rolling "safe" around in my mind and I sense an overriding fear. My hackles go up and I prepare for a fight. I should have been safe at home. Instead, I was terrified. I was terrified of what would happen when I went to bed. I was terrified of what insignificant thing would set my dad off. I was terrified that I would eat too much, leaving nothing for anyone else. I was terrified that I would eat too little, leaving those closest to me to deal with my blood sugar crashes. I was terrified that Mom would have another panic attack. I was terrified that I would actually kill myself. I was terrified of what was happening to my friends when they were where they, too, should be safe. I fear the comfort of safety, the tranquility, the vulnerability. I felt safe in his  arms, and several after him. They hurt me, until I decided that I would hurt them first. It wasn't conscious, and I pelted myself with guilt for it. But

 ***If my previous blog posts weren't warning enough, THIS POST MIGHT TRIGGER ABUSE RESPONSES. Here is where I examine the stuff that I couldn't talk about last Thursday. Of course, it might also help you heal. Healing is rarely comfortable. Or done at an appropriate pace, at least for me. Enjoy. Or skip. It's up to you, and you are loved either way you choose.*** I have been called out on having Stockholm Syndrome, thanks to my astoundingly astute, tough, and supportive therapist. After some preliminary research, and some serious soul-searching, this really isn't a huge surprise. My abysmal opinion of myself, combined with my self-delusion of "saving" everyone who I care about, and how terrible I am at actually taking any time for myself lead straight into this week's painful and freeing discoveries, originally written in my newly acquired Journal of All the Hard Things, which I hope to carry with me everywhere. I found little that I didn't know [

****WARNING: My family should consider very closely and very honestly whether they want to read this. There is truth here that could break your heart. Or start an honest conversation. The only one who may be immune to this warning is my sister, with whom I've shared so much**** Like every depressive ever, I have always believed that I Feel Too Much. It's probably true. I know that I reach levels of depression and anxiety that I can't possibly explain to people who do not have a foundation in feeling either of these things chronically. Often, I get from my beloved, "I'm sorry that you're having a rough time"....though, that is after several attempts to raise me from whatever depth that I've reached and has run out of ideas or things to say, and I can't blame him. I don't offer much help. I can't help him understand, except through this blog, I suppose. So, I'm writing this post on the hardest thing ever for me - feelings. Feelings ar

I'm terrible at journaling, so here's my solution. I guess. I just had my first therapy appointment. Well, my first *real* one, anyway. I went to the university counseling center ages ago, but that was with the specific goal of attaining an academic withdrawal. I went to a psychiatrist, but as much as my meds help, it's really not the same. This was...terrifying. I pride myself on being honest with myself and others. I am the person who looks at the dark corners of her soul and laughs in the face of it. Yeah, right. Anyway, I like to believe that I am someone who is constantly improving, growing, expanding beyond my past and my crazy and my self-loathing and self-destruction. And I was faced with the possibility that it's just self-delusion. I almost didn't go today. I almost let myself sleep far too late, and the insomnia was an excellent help for that. But I went. With the support of my wonderful boyfriend and my truly inspirational friends. And I'm still