"there's no rules or laws to unchain your life." @jamjamjam53 - Tumblr Blog

I have a therapy appointment today. I don't want to keep it. Very honestly I don't want to keep it but I'd have to pay over $100 to no show. I don't want to get into my shit again. I fucking hate it. But I don't have better days naturally. Tbh what I want from therapy is someone saying this is why you are who you are and then just rip the damn thing out of me. I want an exorcism for the haunted house.

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Some days I just want to cry and cry and cry. Bad dreams about my brother + TOTM+ alcohol= wanting to cry for days.

I remember one time during Dad being sick, sitting and listening to this song in my car and eating Chipotle before I went into work. Being slightly fucked up on pain killers and feeling paranoid about a police car in the parking lot. Then chain smoking. That summer my sister was in a hospital on top of that. I'd work the shitty job then drive a half hour at night to see her, exhausted and, once again, high. I'd be so worried that someone at the hospital would see my pinpoint pupils. That my sister would smell the cigarettes on me.

One of the absolute worst times. My mental state was bad. The self destruction close to its height.

I think back on that time and wonder who that was. I'm not the same person. Still a struggle some days but I was drowning then.

I wish I could go back and comfort that version of myself. Everyone around me was either expecting me to function as normal or trying to take advantage of the situation or smothering me in pity and morbid curiosity. I would hold that version because no one else knew how or even wanted to. Tell her yes this will kill you, this version. It will be one of the most painful times of my life. But you will find some relief and remain.

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I think looking back, I'm trying to forgive old versions of myself more. Trying to accept the desperation, the terrified, the naive, the confusion. To see that version of myself and realize this was also who carried me to this point. That burned bridges to start over, that kept pushing through even while I suffered and struggled.

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When a friend tells you they're in Trauma therapy now and they were diagnosed with CPSTD. And you've known them for over 10 years, love them as family, know things have never been easy for them.

But you think, well shit. I'm the one who for beat up as a kid and then lost a brother and father in 3 years. If your friend has CPSTD, what the fuck does for me

What does it mean to be my father's daughter? I think I've struggled with that alltmy life. I was shy shy shy growing up. And here was this man trying to fucking force me to be fierce in this life. I could never believe he had ever been shy or timid as a kid like he claimed. He said he changed after his parents were gone, that he didn't care anymore.

I am the child of a man who got high on PCP and jumped off a roof. That drove drunk. That had so little regard for his own life. I am alive yet he had times of not wanting a life himself. What does that make me

In that picture I was still crying almost every morning thinking of him and Phil. I was at the lowest capacity for dealing with life. Am I better now, I don't fucking now. But it put the fight in me. I am my father now, daring people to fuck with me - see what happens. I've been through enough shit that I will force your hand and I won't be scared. He put me here to fight. Isn't that why I'm here

I might be high. Just of a gummy- being a lightweight. But I've been feeling like shit off and on for awhile.

Here's the thing. Without medication I was drowning. Every day. It is such a goddamn relief to have it.

But now I feel like I'm cheating. My brother died. My Dad died. And I go around now getting through every day, getting to deal with mundane things. And I'm still alive. Having to compartmentalize.

I just shoved it in a box. I take it out when I need it. Just like Dad said. And I had no fucking idea what he meant at the time. I'm like him. I tried therapy- couldn't hack it.

I can not deal with all the pain and anger that actually really dealing with their losses would bring me. And I feel like a fraud. Because I wasn't supposed to be like him, like them. Yet here I am

So it's getting to be that totm - I can tell because when I think of the old old situation I just want to rip him to fucking shreds. But he is a goddamn delicate flower who can't own up to his actions so I restrain myself. I don't engage. But at least once a day I want to just let it out.

Fuck you and your 11th hour maturity. It's too goddamn late. I needed you, or someone back then. All I got were words from a distance. And I let the absolute bare minimum slide because i was so desperate, in so much fear and pain. One of the smartest things I've ever done is gotten away from you. I figured out a way to improve my situation in life on my own. I did. But you think there's a chance that any of the old me still exists that would reach for you. You think you can prove something now.

I don't care if I ever see you again. I don't care what you think you offer. Your bullshit. I've seen that side. It's too late you goddamn fucking asshole.

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I've had this dream, or a variant, for the past 9 years.

My brother didn't really die. There was some weird mistake/confusion. Or he did. But now he's back. And in the dream I think how do I tell people? Cause what the fuck.

But it's not a happy dream. Because he's still doing the same shit that lead to his passing. And I'm very very upset in this dream crying, angry, trying to tell him. This is your second chance.

When I cry in my dreams, as I often do when he shows up, it's a lot of crying. And I wake up upset. And it makes me depressed for the morning.

I don't know if this dream will ever go away. It'll be ten years soon. How can that be.

I thought I should write this, idky because I want to cry now.

One of my last favorite things about sharing the losses in my life is the moment I can see the change in attitude toward me. Some people, it's subtle. Others are just in my face.

Like suddenly now that they know, I'm different than before. They sometimes make it obvious that they felt bad for me. And I just want to go, "Hey thanks man. I will take that to the bank. That is life altering pity. I cannot thank you enough actually."

Seriously fuck off and miss me with that shit. I've been here all along existing without the sad eyes pointed at me.

I impulsively booked a tiny vacation in the mountains. And I am excited about it. The place is on a farm right by the mountain! Horses, cows, pigs, all that shit. Hopefully the weather will be OK

Today I felt better than I have in awhile. I'm not sure what it was. I kinda think it's because I'm spacing out a med more, that it lasts longer that way.

But I have been feeling pretty shitty for some time. Especially at night of course. The depression was def creeping back up and for a minute I thought the meds weren't working as well.

But took one later than usual and I woke up almost in a good mood

Quit therapy.

Several reasons, the top reason is the trauma. I'm not trying to fuck with that anymore. I have to feel the worst I have felt in years in the hope that - what? There is no answer. There is no magic bullshit bullet that would make any of it ok in the least. My brother is dead. My father is dead. I'm just existing and going to friends, "Does therapy make you want to rip your heart out of chest or what. " And there's no one to go, I know what you mean. I'm alone again. Feeling sick and isolated, no one to understand.

It's for suckers.

I'm not repeating the stories to anyone. There's something to be said for Dad and his "no 3rd parties" insanity. Someone outside the situation can understand? Yeah ok pal.

The actual physical feeling. Not doing that again. I'll die with this tragedy in me.

I'm already failing at this journal deal.

What's really fun is how isolating trauma is. I'm trying therapy and talking about Phil, what happened, made me feel like absolute shit. Just physically, emotionally, horrible. I had a hard time sleeping.

I mentioned this to friends in therapy. It made no sense to them. They said " it can be hard to find the right therapist." But it has very little to do with him and everything to do with me. I would feel the same way with any therapist. Just having to talk about it.

And they haven't lived through trauma. So I'm alone.

So I'm going to try this new thing of journaling 3 thoughts that are in my head when I get up. I read about it in a book and supposedly this helps.

The first would be my job. How long I plan to stay there. I'm not planning to stay there forever, or even much longer. It's not a bad place but I'm bored. I want to do more. I want to find the right place I can stay before I get much older. But starting a new place is scary. I probably would have stayed at Airpark for a long time if it weren't for fucking Ruzbarsky.

The next thought is therapy. How long will it take for me to actually feel improvement? Is it just talking about all the shit I've been through? Part of me wonders what is the point. I want to be at the point where the guy just gives me the insight - this is why you are this way, here is how to stop.

Last is actually starting to understand self care. I kinda hate that term because it just makes me think of all those obnoxious "influencers" with their "yas Queen!" bullshit. But I'm starting to realize, it's accepting that you are an actual person that you need to be nice to. Not just go go go get through the day at any cost and then wonder why you feel like shit

I had my 3rd therapy session. I started going into Dad getting sick so soon after Phil passed, how it was hell. I looked at him and could sadness in his expression. I wanted to tell him immediately, "These are the facts. Why are you looking sorry for me? It was this way, and I will present it as facts. Don't annoy me with that face."

It reminded me of that goddamn useless social worker Jonathan at John Hopkins. There was some kind of meeting about Dad's care and the financial situation. Dad's health staus. I was holding my own hand right in my lap, bracing myself through it as Drs talked. And there was fucking Jonathan making sad puppy eyes at us. He couldn't pull what was necessary to get Dad into the VA for treatment, but he could look sorry for us. I hated him. I had left more than one voicemail trying to fuck with him and his position. I ranted about his incompetence.

And yet if I mentioned my anger to Dad, he told me to leave it. Dad, who had all my life told me I was too timid, too passive, that I would be eaten alive. He had spent most of his life rebelling, fighting for the hell of it. I thought he would be proud I was stepping up, being assertive. And here he was now telling me not to fuck with these people as the noose tightened around our necks. When nothing mattered more to me than getting these people to account for this situation, I was told to sit down.

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"there's no rules or laws to unchain your life."