Going nowhere, but at least I’m moving

I’m doing therapy, and it’s kinda good but not quite what I need.

She gets that my family is fucked up and that I had a shitty childhood, but I feel like she doesn’t fully grasp how abusive they are and how much that affected me. It sucks.

I mean, that was the whole reason I want to go to therapy, so I can talk about all the shit I’ve been through and get it off my chest. I feel like I won’t fully recover till I do that.

But yeah, I don’t know. It’s better than nothing, and getting a different therapy would be really difficult.

I’m also trying to get a diagnosis for ADHD, I already called a professional to set an appointment. Just getting the diagnosis is expensive as fuck (and I fucking hope I get it), so I probably won’t be able to afford treatment any time soon.
I just want to get the diagnosis for now, so I can show my abusers I’m actually mentally ill and not a lazy piece of shit. I hope I get it.

I’ve been trying to work and do stuff. The depression is kinda gone, but I’m still anxious and obviously ADHD. Just existing and living is so hard for me. It feels like I wasn’t made for life. It’s because of the abuse, I’m sure, at least most of it.

I’m trying to meet people. I’m just trying to… get by I guess.

Hope things work out.

My story

Trigger warning: child sex abuse, incest, abuse.

 

I was born two decades ago. My whole life I suffered from emotional abuse from my family, and was sexually abused by one? of them when I was possibly a toddler. They also brainwashed me with a sort of “religion” that they created.

I had no support, from anyone.

I first wanted to kill myself at 13, and during my teenage years that was all I could think about. Some of my symptoms where extreme maladaptive daydreaming, hallucinations, and being completely disconnected from my identity (years later I discovered it was OSDD-1).

I hit rock bottom right after finishing high school. I was delusional, convinced that the world was going to end (by my religious family member), and ready to die.

I had been so hurt by my abusers, to the point that I could not longer pretend that didn’t happen, but I didn’t know how to feel anger. I had never been allowed to feel it, so I had no idea how to express it.

With time, I was able to do it. I was feeling angry for the first time in my life. I was venting, and complaining, and validating my emotions (not in front of my abusers, obviously). That’s when I decided I wanted to live, but I would do it for me, not because I had to” or because that’s what my abusers wanted.

So that’s when I started recovering. And when I say “recovering”, I mean doing that completely on my own. My abusers had convinced me that therapy/psychology/just the world in general was bullshit, so I didn’t seek out professional help. But I started reading about mental health, journaling, analyzing my thoughts, etc.

It actually worked. I started recovering. Of course, it wasn’t a simple process. The period where I started college was also extremely hard, I had to drop out eventually, and my abusers where as cruel as always. But with time, my mind got a little better.

It actually got so much better, to the point where I didn’t hate myself or the world anymore. But I still was depressed. “What’s the problem, then?” I thought. That’s when I realized: it was my family. That’s what pushed me to be mentally ill in the first place. That’s what’s keeping me from being happy today.

I had a really hard time remembering my past, so I started reading my diaries from when I was younger. I started to remember, and puzzling everything together.

That was a year ago. Being able to see the fact that you’ve been abused is not something easy, every abuse survivor knows that. Specially when you’ve been as brainwashed as I was. I was going back and forth, seeing the abuse, and then denying it completely and wanting to kill myself for being so “stupid and crazy”.

With time, the doubts went away and I began to fully accept it. It was very painful, and I felt completely alone (which I was, and still am). But I guess I got over it pretty quickly. At the end of the day, I’ve never really had a relationship with my “family”, so seeing them as strangers wasn’t hard.

It was also a good thing, in a sad way: for the first time, my life made sense. For the first time, I could understand why I wanted to die, why I saw myself and the world the way I did.

But it wasn’t over. I had a period where I would get triggered very time I masturbated. It wasn’t the first time, but it had never been that often. A couple of weeks went by, and I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Why was that happening?

I started wondering if something could have happened. If I had been abused not only emotionally, but also in other ways.

Memories came up, flashbacks came up, and I realized I’ve had symptoms of sex all my life. Things still aren’t clear, but I know something happened. For now, that’s enough. Digging into it provokes a HUGE fear in me, like I’ve never felt before in my life. I don’t have the support or resources to process it right now.

Which brings me to the other thing. During this time, I tried getting professional help. It was a disaster. All three therapists that saw me couldn’t understand why I was struggling (I am NOT joking). They would treat me like I was stupid, and just being dramatic, and refused to acknowledge as true anything I would bring up. Things as basic as my mom being absolutely insane, or me having panic attacks.

When I brought up the fact that I thought I might have been sexually abused because I was having flashbacks, one of them told me “Don’t you think that if you had been raped you would remember?”

She said that. She fucking said that.

Any professional in this planet should know that is not only possible, but absolutely common for people to remember their abuse years after it’s happened. But she fucking said that.

That was the last time I tried getting professional help.

And I just kept going. On my own, trying to recover, trying to accept what happened. It hasn’t been easy, but I’m trying.

Now, the focus of my life is on my work. Even though I still struggle a lot, I have to make money since I’m already in my twenties. Of course, my abusers refuse to acknowledge anything they’ve ever done, or even the fact that I’m mentally ill. Hell, they see me as an abuser, because I’m a “spoiled monster” who “uses them”. The truth is that I can barely function. But I’m trying, since I have no other choice, or I’ll probably end up in the street or dead.

Even when I feel a little bit better, my ADHD makes my life hard. Getting treatment for it is super hard where I live, so yay. Not only my family failed me, but also the whole fucking health system.

That’s where I’m at right now. Trying to work, trying to reach out to people. And telling my story. That way, if I die, at least the world will know that it was my abusers’ fault.

 


 

Writing this was so draining I don’t have the energy to proofread it, I apologize for the mistakes I’m sure it has.

If I die, it’s not my fault

I live in a place where treatment for adults with ADHD is pretty much nonexistent.

My life is a fucking hell because of it, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I need to work non-stop, to be able to get money and move out from my abuser’s house. But I’m mentally ill and have ADHD, which makes it really fucking hard.

I don’t have the support from my family (obviously), who don’t even know what ADHD is, and even if I told them they wouldn’t believe I have it.

I need to push myself every day, ignore my depression, my triggers, my trauma, and my ADHD, and just work as much as I can so I don’t die.

That’s my life. My abusers made me into a person who can barely function, and the place where I live doesn’t offer any help to people with mental disabilities.

This is not my fault. It’s the fault of all of these motherfuckers, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

This is your fault. If I die, it’s your fault.