Guess what, motherfucker, I’m apparently ‘stronger’ than you thought I was, because I’m still here. I may not be the same person I was back then, and I may be covered in the injuries of war, but I’m still standing.
So fuck you. Fuck you you cowardly asshole. Fuck. You.
No matter how bad it hurts, no matter how many times I want to give up, I won’t. If for no other reason than I’m not letting you win this war. And if there’s an endgame type situation for all this, bring it on, motherfucker.
The fact is that men at core are afraid that women will laugh at them. And, women at core are afraid that men will kill them, and often believe that if you’re not nice you increase the likelihood of danger and risk, when in fact, the exact opposite is true. It’s when you’re nice that you open up and give information, that you engage with someone you don’t want to talk to.
Read the last sentence of that quote. Read it again. And again. And again.
I am very, very, very protective of who I let get close enough to me to know the ‘real’ me. The me that doesn’t post certain parts of my life on this blog. The me that reacts one of two ways when people try to engage me and I’m uncomfortable with it-by shaking, sobbing, and full on melting down…or flat out rage. The me that would rather die than allow another human being inside my home.
I know exactly what can happen if somebody knows too much about you because you just wanted to be ‘nice’ to them. I know letting people become ‘close friends’ can turn into a living nightmare, simply because they know you so well. I know what can happen when somebody knows all your strengths, weaknesses, and fears and decides to use them all against you.
I stopped being ‘nice’ in April of 2010. April 18th, to be exact. That little voice that had always been in my head telling me to ‘be nice’ to people even if they were making me feel uncomfortable or unsafe because it would make somebody physically attacking me less likely…that voice died. It was replaced by the most strict ‘boundaries’ possible…and the knowledge that sometimes being nice can get your life stomped into so many pieces that going on 5 years later you still can’t find all the little shards.
And y’all…seriously, learn to trust yourself well enough to follow your true/raw intuition. If somebody is giving you a bad vibe, don’t ignore it. Even if you can’t pinpoint what it is that’s making you feel that way, do not ignore it. That intuition is there for a reason.
I remember the last times I felt happy. April 9 & 10, 2010 were the last days I remember being able to feel some version of happiness coupled with a sense of safety. I was so fucking naive for thinking that way…
PTSD….stahp. Seriously. Or at least wait until I’m off work, because I cannot be a hot mess in the middle of an antique store. People do not buy fine furnishings from a girl that’s just standing around shaking like a leaf or crying.
There’s no crying in antiquing, PTSD. No. Crying. In. Antiquing.
For the first time in ‘Merica…Cymbalta is available as a generic drug. I even found it as a generic at a pharmacy. Expensive as fuck Cymbalta that does all kinds of helpful things for people is motherfuckin’ generic in this country. The price is slated to go down as much as 80-90% for those folks paying out of pocket…so let us cheer that Eli Lilly will no longer make up to 22% of their 22.6 BILLION dollars in revenue from a drug that was already a generic in all the other first world countries on the planet.
(For the people that do not understand the gravity of this situation, be thankful for that.)
Through wrecking UHauls to literally freezing myself to paint ‘incidents’ to ‘golden camels’ to watching fragile antique pieces of glass shatter to pieces because I’m clumsy as hell…I survived my first year in a business I never in a million years would’ve thought I can do, much less do well at. Y’all, this whole thing was a legit experiment where when I failed somebody would give me a ‘you tried’ star & I’d go cry that I fail at adulting.
I haven’t gotten that star. I’m oddly proud that it hasn’t happened. ‘Cause this is me…Ginger…that will never be ‘good’ at things, because anxiety/PTSD/depression/lupus/fibro/etc. would be all ‘hahaha, no’ & I’d fail in an epic way. But I didn’t.
Guise…what the fuck is going on. What. The. Fuck.
3 years ago if you’d told me I’d be able to do anything that involved doing more than going to my mailbox once a week I’d tell you that you were a liar & then go continue to hide in my closets all day long. I don’t know what the fuck happened between then & now…but I’m gonna keep on doing these baby steps or some shit.