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Trauma 3 : Letting the pus out

I’ve started to compare my PTSD or trauma to an abscess or an infection. When treating an abscess you have to let the pus out. The abscess is scraped out and drained. They don’t let it heal over until all of it has drained. So there’s a continuous process of scraping out all of the infection and it hurts like hell, but each scraping gets easier. That wound becomes easier to touch.

I’m filled with emotional pus.

As a reminder this is separate from my DBT series as it tends to be much darker.


TW probably all of them

I missed a session because it was eaten up by Canada Day. We started by going over the previous session and it physically hurt me less. But it still hurt. The short version is that we went over the fact that no one sees me. The lack of affection I got growing up. That I’ve always wanted to be seen, hence why I’ve done theatre, I love public speaking etc. I feed off the love of the performance or for the work I do. Which is strange, because I get so uncomfortable at affection directed at me for being me, but I need people to love my performances.

This session was much harder. I don’t remember all of it. I just numbed out afterward. I binge watched episode after episode of NANA on netflix and flipped through a bunch of Gothic and Lolita Bibles I bought before I got into my long term relationship. I use to read NANA before I dated too. It was like I was reflecting on a totally different person who I’d forgotten about. One that liked to sew, make costumes and clothes. One that use to think that if you worked hard enough life would be good to you. But I didn’t have time for that when I was dating. I wasn’t allowed time for any of that and hard work is largely meaningless.

I wanted to do something. Anything. Cut off all my hair, get a tattoo, dye my hair, make a new dress. Anything. I just needed to change something. I painted my nails and dressed myself up, which the one group leader noticed and asked if I was teaching again, (I tend to dress causally when I’m not teaching) which no I wasn’t. But I needed something to feel in control.


Back to the session.


We talk about so many different things. How I eventually need to leave one of my jobs and minimize the amount of time I spend with my Dad because it’s just harming me. I know it is, but I can’t leave now.

We got back on to me needing medical care. How I’ve been avoiding getting my blood work done or seeing a doctor. New therapist is an RN, she tells me that if I keep waiting I won’t get to choose what happens. That I’ll have to do what they say.


“But I do get to choose. This way I get to control my pain. I get to say what is enough. I won’t be tortured again. I won’t do it. I choose to die this time.”

“You won’t die from anemia.”

“Not quickly. I can sick again and no one will notice like last time.”

“How did you feel last time?”

“Tired, but I could still function. I had constant migraines, which weren’t migraines because I don’t get them anymore. And my left side of my face would sag, and my left arm would tingle. I had chest pains, it felt like my heart was going to explode, like it couldn’t pump hard enough, like it was choking. My heart rate was so erratic. But I never looked anemic.”


“Do you want to be that sick again?”

“I don’t want to be tortured. And no one is going to believe me anyway, so I want to die.” tears are running down my face now.


“I want you to sit with that. I want to you close your eyes and say “I want to die” over and over and feel it in your body.”


I did and the pain went away. All of it. I felt so relaxed. It felt good. It was like everything ease in my body. I told her that.

“Then why did you come here?”

“Because no one ever really wants to die.”

I can’t remember the next part. Other than saying that sometimes I don’t get the point of it all. I go to work. I try to make art work. But all of it is really meaningless. It feels so pointless.


“It’s like I keep walking into walls or meeting terrible monsters. I get up and move again, only to find a different wall or monster. It’s better not to move. All that happens if you try is that you get punished. So why bother trying?”

“That’s what you’ve been shown your whole life. You’ve worked so hard at your adjunct job, and then the moment a full time position comes up, they don’t even consider you (I missed the deadline by a day, and none of my bosses ever responded to my emails). In your other jobs, you’ve worked hard but only been told you’ve done terribly and when you did do well, you were still told how terrible you did. You went to school, and were told about how much you wasted your time. You tried to communicate that you were sick, and were told you were overacting. So of course, you are angry.”


“They don’t all start out as monsters, he was nice once and I was nice too.”

“Ya, and that’s what they do to nice people, they see how much crap you’ll take and they give it to you. Guys like that find people like you, who have been through things so they can do the same thing to you that your family did.”


I hate hearing that. My brain always wants to take sentences like that and change them too “See you deserved it because you’re an idiot. You let it happen. It’s really your fault, because you are bad.” I know it’s not true, but it feels true. It feels like it was my fault.

I had a cousin who was with several abusive men. My Dad would joke “Ya, she really likes the ones who hit her.” and a few days ago he said to me “Maybe you make bad things happen to you.” It makes me so angry. That it will never be his fault, it’s never the abuser’s fault, it’s apparently always the victim’s. I don’t want to think about that, because it makes things seem even more pointless.


If this was a videogame, like an old school Nintendo game, this is the point when I would gotten up and walked over to the machine and punched the reset button furiously over and over. Even though I’m the player, and things are suppose to be in my control, the game is designed so poorly I want to take it out on the machine. It’s not suppose to be like this, but it is. It makes me feel like a child, so lost and ridiculous.

I’m sitting here with an open wound wondering how long I’ve been ignoring it? When did it get there? When did it get this bad?


I’ve always known it was this bad. I just got through it.

She tells me that this is really hard. I don’t believe her. I just think I’m being weak.


She asks me if I have anyone in my family that I can talk to about how I feel.

“No one wants to hear ‘I want to die.’ It’s too hard. If I told them, they’d tell me I was doing it for attention. Which I probably am, because why is attention so bad? Why is letting someone see me hurting, so bad? Oh right, because people don’t want to see. And a person that can see me doesn’t exist.”


“I see you.”

I think, yes because it’s your job to see me.

She asked me to imagine my adult self going back in time and seeing my childhood self. That I should try to watch myself and then hug my childhood self. So I went back, and well, child me pushed away and said “I don’t need you!” I had to laugh a little because we started arguing. The only thing we could agree on was that I was allowed to sit beside her on a grassy hill that doesn’t exist anymore. Apparently, it’s very normal in this visualization for the child to fight back.


Exhausting. Hence the binge watching....

I got my blood work done. It only took eight months. I bought a pack of cigarettes. I don’t smoke, but I needed to do something. So I smoked 5 today. I’ll probably smoke the rest sometime. But right now, it was enough.


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