LSD Revelations in Mental Health

So, yeah, I honestly don’t feel like I have PTSD anymore. Like, I don’t have the crippling-anxiety-hyperventilating-might-be-about-to-die bad memory flashbacks anymore. The memories are still there, and they do seem to still randomly float to the surface of my thoughts, but they don’t trigger me anymore.

Example:

I realized very suddenly just yesterday that I spent all of those years with the Wanker being trained into (further) believing that I should feel apologetic about my mere existence. Every little thing I did, every noise I made, annoyed him. He would suddenly turn his head and glare at me from across the room if I sneezed. I can remember having pneumonia once and having a coughing fit while he was playing some stupid video game and was in a group voice chat. He couldn’t hear what the others were saying over my coughing and literally just glared at me until I got it under control and then said, “Why don’t you get a drink or something?” Because, you know, a drink will cure a coughing fit caused by liquid in your lungs, yep, sure thing. And I remember apologizing to him for coughing. I apologized for sneezing. I apologized for damn near every sound I made for four years. I did the dishes too loud, even. I cooked dinner too loud. I laughed too loud. And I clenched my teeth too loud. Yes, that is really a thing he brought up. Me, a person with multiple mental illnesses, including PTSD and anxiety. Yep. Clenched my teeth too loud. Nevermind that I was clenching my teeth because of the anxiety I felt merely by being in his presence. I was constantly aware of myself, of every move I made, every word that came out of my mouth. Eventually, I would leave the room to cough. Couldn’t always get out fast enough to catch the sneezes before they disturbed him, but… Yeah. I had gotten to the point that my existence in my own home was not just mentally and emotionally painful, but physically painful, too. All of the tension I carried in my entire body all of those years, constantly worrying about what I was going to do next to annoy him, constantly wondering what more I could do to maybe make him love me.

I had the entire paragraph above worth of thoughts and memories while standing very, very still at my kitchen counter, about to pour my coffee. The countless memories of dirty looks and careless words poured over me, a waterfall of utter shit.

A waterfall that just continued to fall, down and away, and none of it stuck. There was no anxiety, no trembling hands or shaky breaths, no pounding heart and blurred vision. There was only a sadness for myself, for that me that I was before I became this me, the me that was before LSD. That poor, poor thing. She believed she deserved all of it, that she certainly didn’t deserve any better. She was raised in a way, and had that education continued by men into adulthood, that made her believe that love had to be earned, that it was never freely given. You have to be just so to be worthy of love. Get good grades, be fit, be pretty, don’t be too picky, be grateful for whatever scraps you’re thrown. Be quiet, by proper, don’t talk about things that make people uncomfortable, and never, ever have an opinion that someone might disagree with. Be agreeable always. And accommodating. Understand that a man needs to feel needed, strong, powerful. Men need to take care of and protect women, even from themselves, and everyone knows that we are our own worst enemies, right? I mean, jeez, we’re so emotional.

It’s like the trauma is all still there but it doesn’t have any real power over me anymore. I think that acknowledging it, writing about it, is still vitally important. I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist, that it doesn’t still, to this very day, shape who I am and how I behave. It affects my thought processes. I can’t pretend that it doesn’t, but I can correct it. When I have a thought like, “If I do this, this person will like me more,” I can immediately correct myself. I don’t need to do or be anything other than exactly what I am for people to like me. I don’t need to go out of my way, change my behavior, say things I don’t mean, just so someone likes me, or keeps liking me. What matters is that I like me, and I don’t like me at all when I feel like I’m performing for someone else’s comfort.

I’m not sorry for existing. I’m not sorry for coughing or sneezing or making normal human noises while performing normal human duties. Life is loud and I will never be a silent specter of a person. If I’m too loud, if I’m too excited, if I bang the dishes together too loudly while I’m washing them, well fuck right off. Obviously a person who cannot handle me in all my messy glory isn’t worthy of sharing space with me, much less a life.

So there, Wanker. I hope the silence of your loneliness is enough for you.