I know I don’t have hope for myself much of the time, but it sucks so much worse when others lose hope also. It’s like everyone expects me to fail at recovery and healing… it really sucks to hear it from professionals. Why bother trying if the people paid to keep me on track all believe that I am never going to change, and that ultimately, I will kill myself anyway. Sometimes I feel like my wife is the only person who believes there is good in me, and that I can get out of this hole I so frequently find myself in. I understand their concern for her well-being, but thanks for dismissing me altogether like that.
Am I really as hopeless as I believe myself to be? Am I really doomed to take my own life? Because if so, someone please tell me they know for sure, and then just let me do it. Don’t force me to struggle through all of this if it inevitably ends with me offing myself. Don’t make me go to the hospital, don’t force drugs on me, don’t put me through traumatic treatments if it’s all going to fail anyway and I’m just going to be dead. Let’s all cut our losses and end it here and now. Cuz really, how else am I supposed to interpret the loss of hope even from professionals?
Today’s blog was supposed to be about my poor communication skills, and recognizing that I have a lot of work to do on that front. It was supposed to be me recording for myself that I communicate poorly through words because so much of my stuff is rooted in non-verbal. Much of it is emotions I have no name for, or even true concept of what they are. And it’s pictures and flashes of images. It’s verbatim fights between family members, but ones I can’t translate, just feel. It’s stuff I have no words for, so of course the words fail me when I try to describe or convey it to anyone. A lot is lost in the translation in my head from thought to word. This is especially true if I happen to be caught in the emotion. I have much more trouble finding words amid turmoil than I do when detached from it, even by a few minutes. And I long ago learned that speaking was dangerous. Being heard meant that you could get in trouble for what was overheard (especially if it was snippets of conversation). I learned, quite literally, that having a voice meant being in danger. I think that is why writing comes so much easier. It was something I did in private, and left little to misinterpretation because it was all in one spot and accessible more than once.
Writing was also the only way I had to explain myself. I can’t seem to get across to people what it’s like growing up trying to explain yourself only to be silenced by the phrase “Don’t talk back!” I heard that from just about every adult in my life, and often. It’s no mystery why I have trouble standing up for myself in the moment (and verbally) as an adult. If every time you tried to explain a situation or misunderstanding you were told to stop talking because nothing you say could make things any better, you soon learn to just stop talking. If every protest or attempt at clarification yielded yelling and anger, it stands to reason that you start shutting up to keep from being in trouble.
I know physically I am an adult, but emotionally, I got stuck somewhere in my childhood. Much of the time, I don’t see myself as an adult, but as a child that needs to bow down and make everything right. It’s my responsibility to fix everything, and it’s my responsibility to shut up and take it when people see things go wrong. There are times I feel more adult, but much of the time I feel like a kid in my head. I look at this body and wonder where it came from. I see my face in the mirror, and hold no connection to it. It’s the weirdest feeling, to be foreign in your own body; to have such a lack of substance in your head contrasted with the very real substance of a human body. And that goes beyond the “not grown up” feeling in my head. The disconnect is more of a shock that there is actually anything corporeal there at all, let alone a grown-up. How do you explain to people that, inside, you are still 5, 6, 10, 17 when your body is so much older? How do you even begin to tackle the concept of being emotionally and mentally stuck as a child, when you have to look and act like an adult? This wasn’t as apparent a problem when I lived up north, but down here, I can’t escape that sensation… Maybe more of that can be explained through dissociation, I don’t really know. I used to know. I used to have a good handle on this stuff, but that was when I was an adult. It’s all very confusing now, and the details of my training blur, and the details of that understanding blurs. It truly sucks.
And we are back to hopelessness – both external and internal.