In which my PTSD is explored.

I'm laughing. Having a moment with teh lulz. I thought I would write something about PTSD today and I literally cannot remember what I've written about it before, I've blocked it out. My brain is so effective! It won't even let me keep memories of writing about memories. Sometimes I feel like I'm being trolled by my own brain, and it's just trying to make me look stupid. Or maybe I am just stupid. Trollolol.

I have two seperate PTSD 'instances'. I call them PTSD#1 and PTSD#2. I don't talk about PTSD#1, but I have been working on PTSD#2.

PTSD#2 is the 'easy' one, the one most therapists can help with, I am sure. When I have asked them (and I've had a few) about PTSD#1 they will not touch it and say it requires training they don't have. So I don't talk about it, because it even scares therapists (and that scares me). I don't know if it can be fixed, or by whom.

I just spent an hour trying to describe PTSD#2 but it was all crap and sounded ridiculous so I got backspace happy and wrote this instead. How's the weather where you are? Spring yet? Denialdenialdenialdenialdenialdenial! Repress that shit. Hurrah! I am cured.

This is much harder than I thought it would be. I can speak about it, I can tell the PTSD#2 story - but why can't I write it? Hmm. Then again, when I really think about it, I don't think I speak about it very well either. Basically I think I would say something like "My dad was very angry. He yelled a lot. He drank alot. After mum moved out I had to take care of him. And he drank more. It was not a great time."  

What? Fuck. Suddenly there are tears. This is all so very confused by the fact that when my dad died three years ago he had changed from The Man Who Gave Me PTSD (though it is unfair to pin it all on him) and we were good friends, and hung out quite often. But then he died. And for some reason the only thing I can think about right now is the way he used to chew his food and drink his milk while reading Donald Duck comics at dinner time.  

I'm not angry at him. At least, I don't think I'm angry. I just feel guilty. I'm guilty because I wasn't stronger and couldn't survive those 7 years without making myself sick and making that my dad's fault.

I'm guilty because who I'm actually angry with right now is my mother, because she didn't save me, because I wasn't protected. I'm sorry, mum, I really am. It makes me want to weep with guilt when I think bad things about my family. But the truth is - please, forgive me - nobody fucking protected me and I was too young - TOO YOUNG - to be unprotected. To witness all the things I did. To shoulder all I did. And I'm sick now and I'm struggling to get better. And I'm sorry but it's all my family's fault, because none of you protected me and all I ever did was try to protect you (and I still do.). And now I'm sick and in a situation where nobody can protect me, because all those things happened and nobody protected me when I could have been. 

The skin of my emotions is raw and torn and the medicine stings worse than the wound.

I guess I am angry. My mother could run away to her new life and ask me to come with her all she wanted, but how was I to leave my alcoholic, broken father who needed me? My siblings - oh please, forgive me - didn't see me. They were deaf, dumb and blind while I stayed up to make sure my dad didn't set the house on fire when he fell into an alcohol induced stupor with a cigarette in his hand.

I guess I am angry. But there is more of my guilt than my anger.

I am so sorry for writing what I just did. I am so, so sorry. I wish I had the strength to protect every single one of you forever.

I know they all have a story too. A story when they were hurt, when I disappointed them, when I failed them. We all have stories about how we were failed by eachother. I guess this is just me documenting mine. And I'm really, really sorry about that.