The Unveiling

Two months ago I joined an online support group out of desperation. I needed to talk. More to the point, I needed to be heard. I quickly figured out a support group was not going to be enough so I created a Facebook page. I could vent without actually interacting, without “rules.” Then the likes started coming in. I remember the first share. I was in a horrible place mentally, very isolated and lonely. I was laying in bed and the pain I felt was so intense it felt crushing. I sobbed. Someone I didn’t know actually thought a post I had written was worth sharing. Someone understood.

Those that think depression is not a physical illnesshave never felt it's crushing weight on their heart.

That brings us here, to this blog. I want to share more. All of it. I can’t walk around with all of this suffering alone anymore. I have so much inside of me if someone will just take the time to hear it. I’ve never told anyone my whole story. Bits and pieces. Never the feelings that were attached. It feels like a cancer that is killing me from the inside out.

I am not a writer. I am not eloquent or educated. I rely mostly on other peoples words to say what I can not. These talented people with their beautiful words have saved me in so many ways. I can communicate through them when my own words stay stuck and jumbled in my head.

My diagnosis is C-PTSD, (complex post traumatic syndrome), depression and anxiety. I began seeing therapists when I was in third grade, I would guess around 8 or 9 years old. The diagnosis’ started in my early twenties when I didn’t get up for work one day, and stayed in bed for eight days. I’ve been on just about every kind of antidepressant and anti anxiety medication there is. I no longer take medications and I’m not currently in any type of therapy. It’s a personal choice.

My experiences take me into just about every area of abuse. When I was two I was found abandoned with my baby brother in a shed. I was adopted into an abusive household where I was molested and raped from the age of two until I told a friend in 3rd grade. I began running away at age 12, dropped out of school and by the time I was 13 I had dealt with homelessness, multiple rapes, kidnapping and prostitution. I became pregnant with my first daughter at 15 and was married by 16. Since then I’ve been through physical/sexual/emotional abuse, addiction, abortion, divorce and probably the most traumatic experience to date, the “forced” adoption of my son.

I am tired of hiding what makes me the person I am today. I am tired of being told I’m crazy, or antisocial or a “tightly wound bitch”. They say you have process trauma to get over it.

Here it is.

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