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Normally, I'm fairly isolated and only around my family but when I do happen to leave the house I tend to not notice people at all unless they speak to me or I have to interact with them in some way.  Individually, I can handle strangers but if there is a crowd my hypervigilance and anxiety is nearly unbearable, making me much too aware of everything and everyone.

I went to heavy metal concert a couple of weeks ago at the behest of an old friend and it took a lot of nerve for me to walk in there alone. There was a huge crowd of people, the music was so loud that it seemed that I could feel the vibrations in the air and thumping on my chest like a hand. It was a small club so I had to be in close proximity to about 200 strangers and it felt like I was having a constant low-level panic attack the entire time. I was shaking like a leaf because I felt like people were staring and when I realized that some of them actually were it took everything I had not to just walk out of there. I caught eyes with several rough looking fellows and when one of them approached me to ask me something it got worse.

But I just stood with my back against the wall and I kept playing with this rubber band on my wrist to kind of work some of the stress out. My friend took about an hour to show up and it was a great relief to see her but she had this entire entourage of friends with her that I didn't know and interacting with them was hard too.

We went out to the smoking area to talk but it wasn't any better. There were so many people and they were all looking at me at the same time whenever I spoke so I didn't really say much. One guy touched my arm to get my attention once and I almost jumped out of my skin. I just kept fidgeting with that rubber band and chewing gum but I didn't do a good job of hiding my nervousness at all. Everyone kept looking at me and asking me questions and I could feel the tension in my neck and shoulders getting worse and worse. For four hours I was on high alert and it was absolutely exhausting.

It was really good to see my friend but I was unable to really pay much attention to her because I was paying far too much attention to everything that felt unfamiliar and unsafe. I wish I could've relaxed and maybe even enjoyed myself but even drinking a little couldn't take the edge off. When it was time to go I told my friend goodbye and pretty much ran off the street to get the * away from what felt like a million prying eyes.

That night was hard but I actually did better than I have in the past in similar situations. I didn't have a huge freak out moment and I even spoke to people and looked them in the eyes. In the end I'm glad I went because I showed myself that I could do what seemed like the impossible.

Everything had been turning into complete * lately. EVERYTHING. I feel empty and hopeless and my stomach is in knots all the time. I can't sleep or eat. I've been trying to suppress them but I've been having thoughts about ending it all again. Ending it all because life seems to just get worse everyday. Every day there's a new problem or setback and I feel like I'm drowning sometimes.

Our car got totaled, we might lose our place to live, we're broke and we're struggling to feed our kids. The stress just keeps piling on day by day and I constantly feel like I'm either going to explode or just start sobbing uncontrollably any minute. I haven't exploded (obviously) but I have balled my eyes out several times and they were bitter, scalding tears. I don't cry often, only when my hormones get wonky, but this last week I've been in the bathroom sobbing into a towel so I won't upset the girls at least four times. This stress is really starting to * with my emotions just like it used to.

I used to think about killing myself all the time when I was a kid and I've always had a fixation with death but as I got a little older and got away from the people who hurt me it got a lot better.

Only in times like these do the bad thoughts get really loud and I have to fight bad impulses and tell myself "No, you won't. You can't. Don't give up."

Because I can't do it and I won't do it. It's not just me anymore and hasn't been for quite some time. My kids need me, my husband needs me. I can't give up or I'd be giving up on them too and I will never do that. They are the only people that give my life the sunshine it so desperately needs. Especially my girls. They drive me up the wall but at the same time they are the only people who keep me halfway sane most times. That probably sounds stupid but it's the truth.

They smile or say "I love you, Mama" and my heart fills with such joy that it aches. I am so grateful just to be their mom. They can be a handful most of the time; fussing and fighting, whining and talking back, not listening, making messes constantly. But they're my babie. Babies I vowed the moment I laid eyes on them to protect and care for every day no matter what. They are more precious to me than anyone else could ever be.

But I feel such worry for them. I'd do anything just to keep them safe and warm and fed. I'd rip my heart out of my chest for them at a moment's notice if they needed me to because they are all that matters.

I won't give up. I just won't. I will be strong for them and I'll tell that evil voice inside to shut the * up every time. I can be strong even when I am afraid. I can be strong for them.

I've been thinking a lot about things lately. Things have been bothering me. I guess I'm just in a funk right now. I go through them from time to time and I just have to ride it out. Tell myself these thoughts and feelings, these nightmares, they can't stay forever. They'll go quiet for awhile and I can live in relative peace once more.
I think that I know what triggered everything again. I took this ACE test a couple weeks ago and it's supposed to gauge your trauma in childhood or something. Anyway, there was only 10 questions and I can't remember them all but I said yes to 9 out of ten of them and the only question that was a no was if anyone ever went to prison. Haha. I felt pretty stupid when I realized last week that my memory had fooled me yet again. My mom went to prison for two years on drug charges and I'd somehow forgotten all about it.
So ten out of ten. Hoo-freakin-rah.

I've been asking myself lately if I'm depressed. Am I? These thoughts. Remembering things I've buried so long. Remembering things at the worst possible times also. I was intimate with my husband a few days ago when I had my first flashback in forever. It took everything in me not to push my husband away and curl into a ball. He had no idea about it. I bit my lip and turned my head away from him and screamed inside my head. It gave me goosebumps and my flesh was crawling, I felt nauseous. The memory only lasted for a minute or so but he tried to engage intimacy again last night and I couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth. It's like I'm ashamed. Ashamed at something that happened over half my life ago. I've told him so much but there's certain things I can't and it makes me feel bad. I've never told anyone. I've never said it aloud or even written it down. Even thinking about it just disgusts me. I know I'm not at fault for what happened. Intellectually, I know I am not to blame for the sick things that were done to me, the grotesque things I let happen because I was too afraid or messed up in the head to know that it was wrong, but somewhere deep down I still feel ashamed and disgusted by myself.
I cope the only way I've ever known how. I numb myself in various ways and I tell myself that it doesn't matter. None of it matters and the past doesn't need to be brought to light.
I'm certain that this isn't healthy. I'm certain that I have MANY issues to deal with but I don't know how. If I'm being honest about it, I'm afraid to try.

If anyone is going to read this I guess I should warn you that I am going to talk about some pretty horrible things. Things that may upset you and I don't want that. Please don't read if you are unable to handle talk of physical or sexual abuse.
I've been thinking a lot about my childhood lately. I usually try not to because it makes me feel angry and guilty. I can't remember a lot of my childhood, however. Most of it is like a huge blank space and a lot of what I can remember is pretty awful.
I remember playing with my little brother Ben. He was my best friend. I remember swinging and climbing on monkey bars and pretending that we were the X-Men. We had a lot of fun and we loved being outside in the sunshine, feeling like the day would never end and the dark of night wouldn't dare show its face. I also remember my dad hitting me with a belt and trying to cover my backside with my hands. It enraged him and he would swing the belt harder and faster and it would burn as my flesh rose in giant welts that covered me from my lower back down to my knees. I remember the way he would curse at me and that sometimes the welts bled and would stain my clothes.
I remember my older brother David, too. He was not my friend. He hated me and would tell me this often. I remember him giving me Indian burns that broke the skin and bled. I remember him tripping me and pushing me down and mocking me for everything no matter how small. And Matt, my oldest brother, I remember him when he was still around. He would tell David to leave me alone. And if he caught David hitting me or hurting me in anyway he would kick his * and make him apologize for hurting me.
But Matt left when I was 9 and he was 15. He left me there and my mother, who was never around and was an alcoholic and sometimes drug addict, told David that he was "in charge". He'd been beating the crap out of me every chance he got anyway but when Matt took off he didn't have to worry about anyone caring about it. Dad was 400 miles away, my step dad was forgotten like a bad dream, and David was " man of the house".
So he hit me at least once every day that I can recall. Sometimes only one punch, sometimes so many that I was covered in bruises pretty much everywhere. I remember pissing blood and him choking me against the wall or on the floor. I remember my vision getting darker and darker and how it seemed like waves of blackness lapping at the outer edges of my vision. And feeling like I was falling down a long dark tunnel as my face and chest somehow burned and tingled at the same time. How every breath tore at my throat like knives when he finally let go, how it burned to breathe in and out.
I remember when he hit me in the mouth so hard that a tiny piece of my top lip was pushed through the gap between my front teeth and how it ripped when I pulled it out and the blood poured down until my shirt and hands were soaked. So much blood that his eyes got wide and I knew that he was scared, not because he hurt me but because someone might know what he'd done. I remember the taste of it, I remember swallowing it and feeling sick to my stomach.
I remember him stomping on my head and then the darkness swallowing me. I remember waking up and seeing Ben crying and then him telling me I'd been talking in words that didn't make sense while I kinda flopped my hands like a fish. And oh god help me I remember him hitting Ben too sometimes. He didn't do it often but when he did I would feel helpless rage coming over me. I tried to stop him a couple of times but I was too weak. I couldn't hit hard enough and he was a lot bigger than me and he would just beat the * out of me.
I remember when he threw Ben face first onto that big ugly coffee table and when Ben didn't get up or move I vowed to kill David. Even when Ben woke up I planned on how I would take a steak knife and stick it in his * neck while he was sleeping. I imagined how the blood would look in the dark and wondered if it would be red or black? Would it smell like mine? Would he scream?
I remember standing over him one night not long after, my hands shaking, the knife gripped so tight in my fist that it hurt. I remember trying to psych myself up to do it. To kill the hateful, evil * and be rid of him forever.
But I couldn't do it. I couldn't find it in myself to do it. I knew somehow that no matter what he did, it wasn't right. I couldn't let him make me bad like he was, no matter how much I hated him.
I remember when his friend Jason came to live with us when his mom went to prison. I was 11 and he was 14 and my mom thought it would be a good idea to put him in my room because I had one to myself. I remember how I had a crush on him and how we'd talk at night when everyone else was asleep. We became friends, I thought. Even though during the day he'd mock me right beside David and sometimes he'd hit me too. He said he cared about me when no one else was listening. I remember him covering my mouth with his hand as he raped me and stole my virginity. I remember how for the next year he did the same thing every night and how I told myself it was because he loved me and I let him do it. Because that was what he said to me, even if he hurt me, he was the only person who cared or loved me. I remember not liking the physical part of it but loving the feeling that somebody loved me. That somebody cared because by then Ben was almost as bad as David. Mocking me, hitting me, and even if he only did it to stay on David's good side, it hurt so much more because I had no one who loved me. No friends, no little brother, no Matt. I felt so alone and all I knew during the day was fear and pain and sorrow and hate for myself.
I remember deciding suddenly to leave to go live with my dad and having hope for the first time in forever that I might be free from what seemed like a city full of people that hated me. I remember having that hope smashed when my mother insisted that David come too because I "needed someone to watch out for me". I remember praying to god to just kill me every night. I remember trying to find the courage to step in front of a bus or jump off of the bridge near the school.
And I remember the man, Raymond, who molested me at 13 in the camper on my friend's dad's property. I remember telling myself that he must care and being disappointed when he ejaculated on my leg instead of " loving me" in the way I'd become accustomed to. I remember telling myself that it was my fault, I was too ugly or dumb or fat or stupid for anyone to "love me" again.
I remember skipping school one day at fifteen and feeling something hard and heavy hit my back between my shoulder blades, knocking me against my dresser. I caught myself and spun around on my heel with my hands clenched in fists, ready to hit whoever it was. It was David of course and the look of surprise on his face to see me so. He knew I'd gotten bigger, stronger. He'd heard how I'd finally decided to stand up to the other kids bullying me, how I'd kicked the crap out of not one but two boys who tried to jump me. How I'd left them bloodied and shamed and scurrying away like rats.
He looked at me and my fists stayed raised. I'd finally * had it with him. He might kill me but I was going to hurt him however I could. I might just be a dumb, fat girl but I wasn't weak anymore. I would take out an eye or bite his face or whatever it took to get a little payback. He must've sensed it, as mean and as stupid as he was, he must've realized that I wasn't going to let him hurt me anymore. He turned around and walked out, muttering something but not looking at me anymore either.
I remember vowing to myself that I would never let another man touch me again. I would kill the next dumb * who tried. And no one ever has. I may have been my own worst enemy for the next three years with my suicide attempts, my promiscuous actions, my binge drinking and my total lack of respect for rules and authority but I've never had to piss blood or walk around with a black eye or fat lip ever again.

I was sitting in my living room watching one of my favorite movies at 2am. I like to stay up late because the quiet and peacefulness soothes me. Time when I feel like I am only responsible for myself (not true but it feels that way) is refreshing. My calm was shattered by someone pounding on my front door. Adrenaline dumped into my veins and I do my low-level panicking - who is it, what do they want, it's nothing good, go away, go away, go away!
I mute the TV and I can hear men talking in low voices outside. I have no friends that live within a 50 mile radius and my husband's friends wouldn't dare call on us so late and never on a weeknight - the bigger kids have school. I do not know these people. I creep to the door, silently, listening as hard as I can. I wave my hand in front of the peephole and wait. Were they watching? No. Their conversation continues.
I flip on the porch light and twist the deadbolts, being quick about it, and peer through with the stoniest face I can muster. Trying to look tough, trying to look mean like I'll bite their heads off. "Can I help you?" I inquire, deepening my voice, as always trying to appear as masculine and aggressive when I feel threatened.
The men standing there don't belong. They look rough and mean and, I assume, like a couple of drug addicts that I want nowhere near my family. The tall one with the pockmarked face asks, "Is Pat here?"
I know no one by this name. Scowling at him, I bark, "Wrong house, man."
I quickly shut the door, turned the locks and turn off the light. I can hear them again talking in low voices and I wait until they are gone.
I go sit back down and try to calm myself. Then the fear sets in. What if they come back, what if they think I'm alone and therefore an easy target?
I go to my husband and shake him awake roughly. "Crack heads beating on our door at 2am," I tell him. "Where is the pistol?"
He asks no questions, he knows me well, and tells me where it is. I ask about the bullets because he never keeps them together for safety's sake. He tells me and then adds, "Wake me up if they come back."
I retrieve the gun and ammo and go sit back down with the ammo in my pocket and the gun in my lap. It would only be a matter of seconds to load if they come back. I could be armed before they kick through my door and fill them full of holes before they take two steps into my home.
I sit there, rigid, waiting until the sun is about to come up before I put the weapon back and go to bed. I did not sleep long or well.
I felt silly the next day. I should've known, I say to myself, that they were only stupid enough to beat on a door not to try and break it down.
But I live in a bad area. People get hurt all the time around here. I've seen it. I've witnessed it happen and I've seen the aftereffects. I have three small children here who I never let out of my sight unless school is in session. I've always lived in the ghetto and I've been on the receiving end (as a child) of violence from forces inside my home as well as outside the home. This is not something that i will allow close to my children. My mother was unwilling and unable to protect or fight for me or my brothers. I will not make the same mistakes. My children deserve a safe world to grow up in and I aim to provide that for them.
Maybe I overreacted. Maybe. But no one will touch my babies. I would die before I let anyone touch them. I would kill anyone who dared.
Hypervigilence comes in handy in the ghetto.