Baby PTSD and depression

Today I have to attend my stepsister’s baby shower.

The one living in the house I was kicked out of for becoming pregnant. The one getting every bit of assistance, gifts, and advice because she isn’t having the father step forward. Not that I’m saying mothers can’t do it “alone”. Just that I got treated like a plague despite having a supportive partner and a plan of action. Not enough for the Daughter of My Father though.

Perhaps she gets more because I’ve always gotten less and should know better.

They keep saying “another accident” but the way this one is being handled breaks my heart into a thousand pieces.

This morning I sobbed four times while wrapping the gifts. I was able to part with two generic Carter’s outfits from the box I bury in my closet (and take out regularly anyway- just so I don’t forget her). Nothing personalized and definitely nothing handmade goes into the gift bag.

They’re mine. Not for others.

This pain is still some of the rawest feelings I’ve ever experienced.

Other guests just keep saying I look tired. Okay. Sure.

Two Ativan and a couple Zoloft with ephedrine probably does make me look tired.

Bone tired of this subject.

If I could get out of this party I would.

I would probably remove a pinky or toe.

No. More. Babies.

The Essence of a Home

I thought living alone would be the hardest thing I ever did.

The first time I tried was a disaster. Despite that house being etched into my soul, it still was not a part of the fabric of me and built entirely of safety

This house is a framework of trust. A coat of hope on the walls (such a soothing moss green).
Sunlight pours in with ease.
The kitchen is a perfect dream of space and honey-colored love.

The woods and cemetery in my backyard would probably concern most. But to my skewed sense of comfort, it’s perfect. Quiet, serene, and lonely. Just like I am. I’m rarely surprised by random passerby’s.

I do fracture regularly still. But the pieces of me all have comforting sections of the house.

There’s a small room under the stairs that only handful of people know exist (yes, like Harry Potter). A safe space to hide when the demons seem too strong and close.

The kitchen is another favorite, with a window seat right across from the long counter. Huge windows that easily slide open to let in air. Enough space for me to lie on my stomach, and even have Zoe join me.

Then there’s the balcony. Breezy, semi-private, and perfect to lounge on for hours.

Perhaps I can get this dang book put together finally. With a little help from this precious house that’s wormed its way into my heart and soul.

The Netflix Solution

I’ve spent the past couple weeks struggling with reality. I’ve been unemployed so long that time has lost meaning.

And for someone who’s main struggle and coping issues stem from disassociation, losing even more track of time is unraveling me from reality.

Time is measured merely in daylight or lack of daylight. There are no hours, no minutes, no days.

I curl into my nest and turn on Netflix.

And my superhero power rises to the surface.

See, I can find the show or movie most likely to overwhelm me with feels in less than 5 minutes. Call it a gift.

-Sense8
-Cake
-Skeleton Twins
-Drinking Buddies
-The Hours
-Neverwas
-In Your Eyes
-Life Partners
-Take this Waltz

I could go on.

I really should attempt to watch things that will tether me more to this reality. But it’s been hard. The most I can manage are horror movies. Those kind of help. In the sense that I’m aware life is not like that. Unlike when I watch the mental-health-like cerebral movies and shows where I find myself entwined with the characters.

I wish something would change soon.

I may float away.