Over the weekend and today I’ve been cracking up completely (yeah, I know, <insert standard comment about it ‘being a bit late for that’ here>), and losing pieces of what fragile sanity I have left little by little. I posted the other day about how ‘They’ were plaguing me with their bile mantras emphasising my sluttery, and how a hallucinated Paedo kept showing up in very close proximity to me. What I didn’t mention (and neither did I mention them to C on Thursday, simply owing to a lack of time) was the flashbacks. Oh, the flashbacks. Dear God, I hate them. I would almost say they’re worse than the hallucinations. It reminds me of my writing in this post, where I tried to put the finer points of the abuse into real, tangible words. One of my overriding conclusions was that the abuse was not then, it is now. How true and prophetic that statement has proven to be.
On Friday night I collapsed in the middle of the street in a tearful dysphoric panic, as fake-Paedo wouldn’t leave me and at least in part owing to his ‘presence’, I couldn’t stop reliving what he did to me. A scooped me up and took me home, bless him, and Saturday was mostly fine (about which I was very surprised, but also immeasurably grateful). In fact, the problems didn’t start again until early on Sunday morning – about 2 or 3am – when I was unable to sleep.
Certain things always seem notably amplified during nights of insomnia. Things that one can just about deal with during the day are things that one is utterly incapable of fighting during the darkest recesses of night, and to that end the flashbacks and voices threatened to overwhelm me completely. What’s more, my mood plummeted into the depths of a metaphorical abyss too; throughout all the madness of the last few weeks, I had still managed to remain in a passably alright mood, at least during the flashbacks’ and hallucinations’ temporary remissions – but this episode saw a very distinct and definite end to that. I’m still in a very deep depression, with no interest in anything nor any concentration. All I have done, and want to do, is sit here and stuff my face with rubbish. These 300 words have taken me, on and off, about four hours to write, which is unspeakably pathetic.
I’ve been thinking of doing myself in again. I won’t actually do it, in all probability, mainly because I don’t want to put A through it – but it’s certainly on my mind a lot. It’s liberating to know that I can stop it all – the depression, the voices and visions, the panics, the delusions, the anxiety and agitation. All it takes is a bit of careful planning – then I could be free of it permanently. But then, on the other hand, I’m a bloody wuss too, because although I don’t believe in an afterlife, it would be just my luck if there was one, and it was populated by ‘They’, Paedo, and any other number of as-yet-unknown nebulous nasties.
‘They’ like it when I contemplate suicide. They haven’t as yet considered the reality that it would probably be an escape for me, and therefore a Good Thing; no, they believe instead that it would be the ultimate act of self-punishment that I deserve for being a whore, a liar, an insidious, disgusting, hateful being. They’d like me to do it painfully, of course – no clever cocktails from The Peaceful Pill Handbook or similar for me, oh no. ‘They’ want me to drown myself, or alternatively to douse myself in petrol and self-immolate – two of my greatest, Room 101-esque fears.
I won’t do it, worry not. To be fair to ‘They’ (how ridiculous that clause sounds!), they haven’t been babbling on about me killing myself in an unsolicited way – they only address the subject when I have been contemplating it myself. So for now at least, I can resist them. The rest of the time, they just shout at me and remind me how much I deserved to be raped and tortured, whether they do it directly in my head or whether it’s in a more vicarious way (Nick Clegg and Noel Edmonds are two of their latest ‘hosts’, though frankly it serves me right for bothering to watch the electoral debate and, worse again, Deal or No Deal).
Someone keeps phoning me over and over. It’s some old sales bollocks, I know, and to that end I wouldn’t answer the calls anyway – but my irrational mind is simultaneously convinced that it’ll be ‘They’ at the end of the line, seeking another avenue to abuse me. So I’ve put my mobile to send all calls directly to the answering machine, supposing that anyone legitimate can leave a message – though knowing my luck, someone legitimate will phone and ‘host’ ‘They’ anyway.
*** TRIGGER WARNING ***
But, as I said, the worst of the lot is the flashbacks. They’re almost like a psychosis, in that they’re entirely sensual experiences; it’s as if it is all completely real, and happening right now. I can hear his breath in my ear and feel him inside me, harshly thrusting into me, causing me indescribable agony. I can see his sweat drip from his hideous chest hairs on to my own exposed (flat, as it then was) chest, I can hear his grunts. I can feel him choking me when he forced me into fellatio and I can feel his vile, disgusting tongue flicking around my own genitals.
I feel it all physically, mentally and e-fucking-motionally (and in any other possible way, for that matter). And I feel nauseous to my physical core, not to mention despairing and lost with every neuron that fires through and every chemical that imbalances in my traitorous brain.
I will be OK, I’m sure. I don’t know how to get through this in the next 36ish hours until I see NewVCB, my psychiatrist, but I’ve managed it for a week without any self-harm or a suicide attempt – and even though it’s getting progressively (regressively?) worse, I’m sure I’ll manage (whatever ‘manage’ means).
It’s just so hatefully exhausting, so overwhelmingly depressing and painful in every way conceivable. I don’t know how to get out of this vicious little mess, and I therefore I wish I could turn myself off, even if only for a little while. There is no ‘off’ switch visible to me, though, which fills me with dread and foreboding.