He's still in my head. In my head, in my head, zombie zombie zombie. I could pretend that he's a zombie, and that I'm Michonne from The Walking Dead. Or, I could take some sagely wisdom from my favorite human and pretend it was only an evil sea witch who stole my voice.
Or, more likely, I'll just have to face this like a grown-ass adult.
I skimmed an article today about a Dutch girl with PTSD that was so bad that she chose, her doctors thought it best, to be euthanized. That's horrifying to me, but mostly because I can pinpoint moments in my life during which I was almost, almost in that same place. Thankfully I'm not there now, but good God. It's the worst. It's constant. It doesn't go away. He's in my head.
Listen, I know that you are all probably pretty sick of me eventually coming around to how much PTSD sucks in every single post for the past several years. But let this be a testament to its resilience and its choke hold on my fragile existence: this does not go away. Left untreated, or maybe even after years of trying everything, I could die with it.
But all things considered, I'm kind of okay. My psychiatrist kept asking me about revenge; like whether or not I wanted revenge or if revenge was on my mind...it isn't. To be honest, I'm not sure exactly what she was asking me; perhaps it was to establish that I am in fact not homicidal, or rather to help me make a list of things that, in a perfect world, would make me feel better. Either way, I'm not at all concerned with revenge. I think that at the end of the day, there is probably enough poetic justice in the universe for things to smooth themselves out naturally. And even so, because the phrase "statute of limitations" is so real, revenge is especially not on my mind. And furthermore, I'd like to momentarily get a little preachy and note that forgiveness is even more real and more freeing. But, even with all of that soul-searching and self-soothing and spiritual revelation, I'm still flighty. Might as well say it; after all, my doctor has been trying to figure out what I'm running from: I'm trying to get away from him. Permanently. For real, this time.
I'm a giant cliche and I know it. I thought I'd go off to Alaska and figure out my life (insert peace sign emoji here) and in some aspects, I have. I've learned a few things about myself, mostly an awareness that I have been holding this sickly feeling in my tummy that stems from feeling like I've betrayed myself in some awful manner. I am endlessly conflicted about my (in)ability to find a meaningful romantic relationship without feeling like I'm, well, somehow raping myself. I am scared. And my heart is torn in two.
Yours probably is, too, so don't pretend like I'm all alone in this.
I feel like I've missed so many opportunities, but I'm smack-dab in the middle of one. My head and heart are always two steps apart, and I wonder if I've become, actually become, as flighty as I seem. Things are actually coming together in my life, for the record, but I'm still afraid that I haven't grown enough; meanwhile, I've done more in the past year than most people squeeze into a lifetime. I've been killing it with the resources that I have, and I'm thankful for that. Proud, even.
But the fact remains: I can't have it all. I haven't figured out how to be un-damaged. I most likely won't; not today, anyway. And even if I find somebody who loves the survivor in me, loves the gypsy in me, loves all of me...will I be able to choose him over this fortress I've built for myself? Rather, will I be able to partner my queendom with his kingdom and do a full renovation, love it or list it, of our castle?
Part of me is afraid that I'll be running for the rest of my life, for adventure or from trauma. But another very small, hopeful seedling inside of me expects to be reflecting in ten years time, thirty-five and a different person, gently laughing at this prose. Maybe totally in love with somebody, hopefully totally in love with myself.