It's been seven months since going through psychosis. And I've written this post in my head about a million times. But I can't get past the explaining part. I have to sit here and explain that my husband raped me and it drove me insane. Three times. And it landed me in three psych wards. It ruined friendships, it drove me to sell my house, it forced me into a two-month-long therapy program. It led to a schizophrenia diagnosis. And yet here I am, still hot.
You know, some of the previous posts are from right in the middle of my schizophrenia brain and I've been too scared to read them. And I could delete them, it's true. But I was desperately trying to make my life make sense. I lost all sense of self, I had almost no memories of my childhood and it was my attempt to piece myself back together through writing, so out of respect for psycho gab, I'm keeping them up. They're real. I even went through my old Tumblr account, painstakingly I might add, to see if I was a good teenager because I don't remember anything other than my father hating me. I'm proud to say that my version of acting out was being a radical feminist.
I did some really awful, terrible, and embarrassing things in my psychosis. And that is really hard to admit as someone previously immune to embarrassment. Fuck I mean I thought I gave birth to the universe, so how's that for a god-complex? But I think about how alone I was in that hotel room thinking that I was trapped in a sex trafficking ring, because that's how my brain decided to rationalize what happened to me, and I feel so scared that something worse could have happened to me. Something like what happened to Eliza Lam. And it paralysis me.
And now I'm sitting here, seven months later, at my desk, at my normal job back in normal life. Not sure how to move forward. I'm doing all the right things. I'm knitting, journaling, working out, going to therapy. But there's no more light in my life. I don't laugh like I used to or crack jokes. I just feel spent. That's the reality of it all, he made me feel spent. Like I've aged 40 years and 30 lifetimes. I sometimes wish I felt vindictive or angry or something productive even if it's bad. But I don't feel that way. I feel empty. And most of the time, I just want to go back and do things differently. Anything differently. One thing differently. Enough that I don't lose my best friend.
A large part of me wants to delete this whole thing, yet again. But I know if I don't write this, there's no moving on for this blog. Something this big can't happen without me writing about it and I want to keep writing on here. I want to try to take a step forward. Even though I feel like I just started untangling the web of white-hot trauma that I got tangled up into. So welcome to trauma time. It's been nice having you.
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