I’m afraid. That means I have to go do whatever is scaring me, doesn’t it? In this case I have been thinking about PTSD stuff. I’m trying to have patience with myself. I tell other people to be patient with themselves. Life is a process. But I’m impatient.

I was asked today how long I have been suicidal. More than twenty years. I can’t remember not wanting to die. I have good days when I don’t make active plans but I think about how nice it would be to stop. I think about it a lot. Everything is so hard. It has always felt so hard. I am broken. This life is too much.

So I read up on treatment for PTSD in my spare time. It’s comforting and terrifying. Yup my life sucks and it’s gonna. Settle in and figure out how to cope with it. It’s kind of weird reading that whereas some people do successfully “get over” all of their symptoms I am a complex case. The probability I will ever be “normal” is virtually zero.

When I close my eyes and I feel my body and I feel my soul I am not much different from when I was three years old. I’m just me. It’s weird trying to figure out who I am if I am not defined by what I do or what happens to me. I’m just Krissy. I don’t know what that means.

Today I ran sixteen miles. I’m not sure how long it took me because my phone battery died. I’m feeling cranky with my phone. I think it took me ~4:20. Which is ironic and fitting.

I don’t feel like I know who I am. But I know that what I am is bad. I’m waiting for the next round of punishment. I’m waiting for the next big nasty rejection. The next friendship that ends in acrimonious words. I’m a fucking asshole. If the only common element in your problems is you then maybe you are the problem. It’s hard to know how to live as the problem. It’s hard to be silent enough. Invisible enough. It’s hard to ever stop being bad.

If I am the same me as I was then how much of what has happened to me has been my fault because I was bad? Because I was stupid? I don’t honestly feel like my father raping me was my fault. But I feel like I am drowning in wild grief because my family hates me for talking about it.

How can I just “get over it” when watching my children grow up reminds me over and over that I have no idea what I am doing. When I think about what I did at every age my blood goes cold. I hate myself. I hate what I have done. I am a disgusting little piece of shit. How can I teach anyone to be anything other than that?

People don’t give a shit about me. Ok, there are some people who care about me. And there are a lot more people who are willing to profess to caring about me on the internet. But when push comes to shove and it is my needs vs. someone else’s needs… people don’t give a shit about me. I don’t rank that highly. It’s not a pity party. It’s not about whining for attention. It’s a blunt statement of fact. People are serving their needs through our interactions, not mine. I need to remember that more. I certainly mostly interact with people when it serves my needs instead of theirs. When they bring me their needs I hide under the desk and cry because I just can’t bloody do another thing.

Does that mean I don’t give a shit about anyone? It’s a good question. Let’s just say that I limit how much I can let myself care about other people. If I want to be alive tomorrow I have to.

Running is this weird experience for me. On one hand I spend a lot of time crying because I feel undeserving of the people in my life (I really like you, Noah) and on the other hand I am moving relatively slowly through space. I have time to notice my body that I don’t normally have. So I have these weird little, “Oh, I’ll stop with the self-inflicted tirade and do a check. Ok, bottoms of the feet, how are you doing? Toes? Ankles? Give me more information than that, Knees” etc. I haven’t spent a lot of time really feeling my body in a long time. I feel more alive than I usually do.

And as I run along I list the ways of killing myself. I notice which vehicles I could step into. I notice the  low height on the freeway overpass railing. I catalog poisonous plants. I look for places with just enough privacy to get the job done. I see appropriate branches and beams on houses and think of hanging. I notice carbon monoxide. I want to die.

Sometimes it almost feels like a fetish. Like something that has been a part of me for so long and now I can’t let it go. I don’t know how to change the habit of hating myself and wanting to die. I’m sure that some of my nerdy friends will lecture me on how I should go about doing so. To put it bluntly, unless you have a lot of training in working with complex PTSD or you are one of the handful of people I have met who have genuinely pulled their lives together after serious trauma I don’t want to hear it. That sounds more hostile than I mean it. Don’t be surprised if I don’t take your advice too seriously. It’s not personal.

I have lived with brain damage before. If I think about the years of extreme stress and trauma as damaging my brain through excessive fight/flight hormones… well… You don’t tell someone who is a paraplegic to go change all the lightbulbs. Unless you have special adaptive equipment, otherwise you are an asshole. If someone gives me well meaning advice that would get someone like me in a lot of trouble then I can’t take it. Even though it makes people feel all ignored and butt hurt.

I don’t tell battered women what to do. I don’t know their situation. Every situation is so complex.

Lately I feel like I should hurry up and change several big parts of my life. I’m feeling dissatisfied. Some of those things are actually changes for Noah and not me. But I have fifty days until I run a marathon. Surely it can wait until I am done driving my body into the ground.

I have limits. I can only do so much.

Where are my limits problematic? I do leave the house. I do socialize occasionally. Just not much. Just a very low amount compared to most of the people I know. Is that actually a problem? Why am I always on the edge of the bell curve? Why do I feel so in danger of being culled from the herd if I am the slightest bit different?

I try to remind myself that I don’t want to die for a long time. Even though it is hard to not die, that’s worth a lot of effort from me. If that takes a lot out of me and I don’t have enough space for other things then that is life. Every choice has a cost.

I think really hard about my choice to be so dependent on Noah. It’s not just about job security stuff. I actually think I would transition back to work and do fine. I’d make it work. I would have to. If I’m pragmatic I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have to work while my kids were little. It would be tight, but there is a lot of insurance coming. I’d be able to last many years on that money. I’m not scared because of money. Regardless of death, desertion, or divorce Noah has insured that I am provided for. I don’t think I have ever had a personal relationship with a man who is that kind of practical and honorable. It’s not just that he can make me that safe. It’s that he wants to. It’s a huge priority for him. Noah chose to be responsible for me.

I struggle with how emotionally dependent on him I am. I feel like it’s not fair. No one should have to carry the burden of being my sole support. That’s unjust and excessive. But there is no one else. I can’t ask my kids to meet my needs. If I can’t do it for myself I can ask him or do without. It’s scary. I’m so scared of what it will mean long-term that I am so wrapped up in him. I lose a lot of sleep worrying about him dying. I know that isn’t healthy either. I sincerely doubt I would try again for something like this. I don’t know how capable I would be of going through a period of intense vulnerability in front of someone.

My suffering is private. I may whine about it on the internet but by and large no one gets to fucking see it. It’s none of your god damn business. It’s not going to alter the course of your life one iota so why should I show you my pathetic gaping maw of need? No. I don’t want to deal with knowing that you know what I need… and you won’t do anything about it. No one will do anything about it.

It doesn’t help that when people offer to do things for me at this stage of my life I snarl at them. I won’t let people do things for me. I would much rather sit here and fester, thanks. I’m tired of being disappointed. I have to not care about the result in order to let someone help me. I usually do care. It’s not worth feeling upset with people who are doing their best. Just do it alone. Just be alone.

For some reason Noah puts up with me. I don’t understand it, but I’m grateful. I’m not alone. The important bit is I’m not alone. Not really. Not actually. Except when he’s at work. That sucks.