Wreck

Wreck

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Bleed American – Jimmy Eat World – Bleed American

“I’m not alone cause the TV’s on, yeah. I’m not crazy cause I take the right pills everyday. And rest, clean your conscience, clear your thoughts with speyside with your grain. Clean your conscience, clear your thoughts with speyside. Salt, sweat, sugar on the asphalt. Our hearts littering the topsoil. Tune in and we can get the last call. Our lives, our coal. Salt, sweat, sugar on the asphalt. Our hearts littering the topsoil. Sign up it’s the picket line or the parade. Our lives. Won’t they give it a rest now? (give it a rest now now now now) Salt, sweat, sugar on the asphalt. Our hearts littering the topsoil. Tune in and we can get the last call. Salt, sweat, sugar on the asphalt. Our hearts littering the topsoil. Sign up it’s the picket line or the parade.”

My Trauma Related Beliefs

The_PTSD_Workbook_Simple_Effective_Techniques_for_Overcoming_Traumatic_Stress_Symptoms-73727Belief #9

I don’t believe that I have to live up to obligations-I think it’s okay to say “I forgot” or just ignore what I’m supposed to do.

Situations in which this belief determines my actions:

I have definitely demonstrated this behavior, though I believe it pertains mostly to my attempts at higher education. I’ve done this for years and years whenever I’ve attempted college. I take on the responsibility of courses, then when I make a mistake, I’m late to class, I’ve a low grade on one test, etc… I feel so ashamed, embarrassed, and defeated that I just start ignoring it. I honestly think it ties back to the abuse I went through when it came to school. As early as kindergarten my Mother would make me sit on her bed with my homework. I remember whenever I had to study for a spelling test, she would give me the test and all the words I missed, she would then make me write five times each. Then she’d give me the test again and all the words I missed, she would make me write ten times. It would go on like this until she could give me the test and I’d spell all the words correctly. When I close my eyes to think about it I can still smell the lead. I feel the pencil in my hand, after awhile it would begin hurting my fingers. I would get tired and I would start to whine or cry. But I couldn’t leave her room until I spelled all the words correctly. If I came home from school with a test grade of less than 100, she would get disappointed and then angry that she’d spent all that time studying with me and I’d still missed a word or two. Sometimes she would cuss me out, call me stupid, etc… By the time I got to high school, this was the routine. My Mother locked me in her bedroom closet most of freshman year. She made me sit in there and study. She refused to let me out until I was done. Then she would proofread all my work. Sophomore year we’d moved into a house without a walk in closet, unluckily this meant I had to sit on her bedroom floor and do my work with her a foot away. By the time senior year came around we were having brutal physical altercations. I was skipping school constantly. I was failing everything. I was sleeping in my car half the time, then finally I moved in with another family member for a bit, though that didn’t last. I felt homeless. No one wanted me. No wonder I followed my boyfriend off to college. I had to escape. It went well for a semester. I took sixteen credit hours, had my own dorm room, starred in “The Fantastics”, worked at the college library, and made a 3.5 GPA that semester. I believe the rush of freedom drove me in the beginning. But it turns out my demons have followed me everywhere I’ve ever run away to. I haven’t finished college. I doubt I ever will. It makes me insane. I’m never good enough. I’m always having panic attacks and crying. Just typing it right now I’m having trouble breathing and I’m tearing up. I can just hear her screaming at me over and over again that I’m not good enough. I have flashes of having my books thrown at me, though I’m not sure if that happened… I avoid this obligation I believe because I still associate it with the trauma surrounding it. I’m not really sure at this point if college is something I still want, or ever really wanted, or if it was just my ticket out of here. If I did want it though, I’d definitely have to get to a place where it didn’t hurt this way, I didn’t have so many flashbacks, panic attacks, triggers, etc… or at least I knew how to cope and not ignore or avoid all the work that comes with taking classes. Honestly, I like to idealize my first semester away in college, since I did so well and all. But truthfully, I was manic. I was so stressed that my hair was falling out. I would break down sobbing in my then-boyfriend’s arms at least once a week. I had no idea then that I was suffering from post-traumatic stress. I think the musical I starred in that semester kept me sane. I could just go to rehearsals after classes, then after work each day and immediately slip into character and pretend I was someone else. I’ve always been pretty method when it comes to acting. I think that semester was such a success because I became sweet, mild-mannered, albeit a bit thrill-seeking, Louisa. I could flit around campus and pretend to be her, which clearly helped with classes because she was very optimistic and saw the world through rose-colored glasses most the time. That next semester I was low. So low that I didn’t even try out for the next production they were casting. I was the props mistress and then also inherited the role of stage manager. But, that didn’t lend to my disappearing as someone else, so much as disappearing backstage. That semester, along with the next, I scraped by with a couple completed courses, but most I had failed. My shining 3.5 GPA, was suddenly down to a 3.0. I broke up with my boyfriend. I told myself that I was coming home to face my problems, really I was afraid to be alone at college out of state. I moved back in with my parents. I was drunk for a couple years. Suddenly I fell in love, deeply in love, it was serious. I tried a semester at our local technical college. When I wasn’t in classes, I was nannying. Somewhere in the middle I was taking a week off to go visit my love as we’d become long-distance. I wasn’t doing my best, but I wasn’t doing too poorly that semester either. Then he ended it and my heart truly broke for the first time. I couldn’t get out of bed. He had been my way out, my light at the end of the tunnel, he had been the one. My driving force, the purpose that I’d found in my life was gone just as suddenly as he’d appeared. I quit. After nearly six months wallowing in bed, I got up and began working full-time. Though I hopped through several jobs, it went on like this for several years, work… work… work… I didn’t attempt college again until recently, just this past semester. I was failing miserably. I couldn’t make myself do the work. I dropped everything. I’m now even further in debt than I was before. I also wasted my Grandmother’s money for the second time, according to her the third, since the first time I went to college it was on bonds that she’d given me that were cashed in. They barely paid for that first semester, then came the loans. My Father has been paying those off for me the past several years. I’ve wasted everyone’s money, but I’ve mostly wasted my own time when I could’ve been facing my demons, going to therapy and getting help. If my father weren’t paying 100 dollars on my student loans each month, perhaps he would just give me that to go to therapy. Though he shouldn’t have to give me anything. I’m the one who is twenty-five and can’t find a decent job and can’t stick with anything and can’t support myself and don’t know how to survive on my own and how not to constantly break down. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know about college. I just know if I’m going to have a chance to undertake any obligations, to succeed at anything in life, to get better, to move past this, I have to go through it all again. I have to complete this workbook. I have to read everything I can find on post-traumatic stress disorder. I have to continue blogging about it because this is my only release and I have to hope that my honesty will help others. I have to work through what I can on my own and then I have to find a way to afford therapy so that a professional can help me. I have to find the job stability and the strength to move out of my parents house again and this time to stay out, away from the person who has abused me and tormented me and made my life so damn difficult. I have to accept obligations daily, if only for myself. I have to get up, brush my teeth, wash my face, and live my life for me beyond all this suffering. There has to be more to my life than this. I have to learn to see a future for myself so that I can begin taking on obligations that will help get me to where I so desperately want to and need to be. Wherever that place is, I hope it’s far away from here.

Consoler Of The Lonely – The Raconteurs – Consolers Of The Lonely

“Haven’t seen the sun in weeks. My skin is getting pale. Haven’t got a mind left to speak. Lightbulbs are getting dim. My interests are starting to wane. I’m told it’s everything a man could want and I shouldn’t complain. Conversations getting dull. There’s a constant buzzing in my ears. Sense of humor’s void and numb and I’m bored to tears. If you’re looking for an accomplice, a confederate, somebody’s who’s helpless, you’re gonna find, you’ll find yourself alone. If you’re looking for cut-throat, singing above note, looking for a scapegoat, you’re gonna find, you’ll find yourself alone. Looking for sympathy. I can get you something. Something good, something good to eat. Haven’t had a decent meal. My brain is fried. Haven’t slept a week for real. My tongue is tied. Lightbulbs are getting dim. My interests are starting to wane. I’m bored to tears, yeah… bored to tears, yeah…”