Oct. 13th, 2011

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It's hard to tell when I became ill. In some ways I always was ill and just got sicker. In other ways I found myself encountering new difficulties right across my life. The result is the mess writing here now...

In many ways I can accept my life will never be a success, that I may never have the things other (more normal) people aspire to. That's OK. It's part of living life on your own terms and if money and stuff did mean so much to me then - Well them I wouldn't be me. Yet there are things I do value in my life. Mostly they're people though some are principles and values. Your values can change but they never leave you. People do though.

Today I'm having difficulties. Sometimes seeing or even thinking of a persons name is enough to trigger this fugue state where I'm trapped for a while in the past trying to work out what went wrong. I know the answers of course. They're just the usual hodge-podge of drifting apart, misinterpretation, effects of illness and very often (possibly misplaced) pride. Knowing doesn't make it any better though. Because along with my oh-so-useless intelligence, I'm blessed with almost photographic recall of things that happen to me when my emotions are running high. From peering over my own shoulder and seeing what a panic attack had reduced me to, to arguments with others in many circumstances, but here the example is going to be the steering-group meetings I attended before deciding to drop a small dinosaur-killer on the mess. That's safe, the people who matter to me who were there still talk to me and even understand some of what I did. But I remember other times too. Like they were yesterday. When something triggers those memories, they overpower me and set up a cycle of thoughts and emotions that it's hard to break out of.

Worse, one triggering is like a mousetrap in a room full of mousetraps. There's a chain reaction of recollection that goes right back into my early childhood. It's one of the major reasons I'm so ill.

I suppose I'm writing because I sort of resent having to remember. Not the events themselves, just having to remember them so clearly and feel the emotions and pain I felt at the time again. Time is supposed to be able to heal by cushioning our psyches against trauma and drawing a blurred veil over our memories. That doesn't happen for me.

There aren't any choices here for me. I've just got to wait it out once more until I can return to the present and the things I'd like to be doing today. I don't want to go back and change the past, I don't want to make it all better. It won't ever be because we all have bad things in our lives.

Is it too much to want to be able to move-on, to find some kind of closure with time and to be able to face new problems with a little more strength?

Of course resenting my memory and intelligence is effectively hating myself. Which means on some level perhaps I believe I deserve this. But not on a conscious one.

If anyone sees my subconscious, do me a favour and give it a good, hard, kicking for me please.

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johanna_alice

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