I don't trust people. I don't let them in. I can't. And those few who see through chinks in my armor never stand by me. There is too much suffering inside for them to bear, so I am forced to do so alone.
In my aloneness, like so many others, I turn to the Internet.
All I asked of Trouble was that he wait for me to get better, he who WANTED me to get better, or said he did. I asked that he support me in this process with a five-minute daily phone call saying "I love you, I support you, now tell me what progress you've made today." And maybe a real hug once a week, which I would travel to his work or home to receive. I didn't think it was all that much to ask, when I was willing to endure medication, therapy, group counseling, and a 5-day-a-week 3-month intensive PTSD program. 40+ hours a week vs. his 5 minutes, but he apparently can't deal with my crazy for even five minutes.
So fuck it. I turn to the Internet. I am back to blogging, and I hope to publish my five minutes of progress at least four days a week. Because maybe some folks I've never met, who live a continent away, can give me what an ex-boyfriend who still claims to love me won't or can't.
I guess today's five minutes was just deciding this, having spent all day in bed crying when I wasn't having almost continual flashbacks and trying to drown them in a bath full of steaming hot water. I missed two doctor appointments last week to time loss, I simply didn't know what day it was or where I was supposed to be.
I am sober. I am alive. I haven't cut myself although the urge was there, to bleed out the demons so that my outsides match my insides. I haven't punished myself. I even ate some vegetarian tacos AgtOrange made for me. I guess some days that is all I can ask of myself. More tomorrow.