by Band Back Together | Nov 23, 2010 | Abuse, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Emotional Abuse, How To Help With Low Self-Esteem, Infidelity, Loneliness, Psychological Manipulation, Self Loathing, Self-Esteem, Shame, Sociopathy, Stress, Trauma |
I’m planning on leaving my husband.
I’m running away.
Last night, after an especially bad fight, I was talking to one of my best friends. I told him what the fight was about (husband got upset at me because I was on my phone while he was asleep) and I told him that it’s my fault, because I’m such a bad wife.
My friend got mad at me. I mean, really angry, and I couldn’t understand why. He told me to search the term BWS. He said that he thinks that I have battered woman syndrome. But you see, it’s rare that my husband actually hits me. Generally he just throws verbal punches.
Since the day we met, something about this man has made me bend over backwards for him. I let go of long time friends (because he didn’t like them), I turned my back on family (because he said that he was my family now), I missed my little brother’s funeral (he thought it would be a bad idea for me to go back home by myself and wouldn’t take me).
He screamed at me and told me I was worthless, and I cried and begged him to give me another chance, because I CAN BE BETTER.
Let me give you some background information on me. Up until I met my husband my friends called me CK, or Cowboy Killer. I had a bad reputation for taking a man and turning him inside out.
Not because I was mean, because I wouldn’t be. But because they all usually told me they loved me within a week or two and then I’d have to let them go. CK rule # 1 is don’t get attached to me. Rule # 2 is I don’t take shit so back the eff off. So when my friends saw the little things that he started off doing to me, they were baffled.
To say the least, I’ve let this man run my life. Deep down there is a little voice in my cold empty heart that says that he is wrong and bad.
But everything else inside of me screams that this is my fault. After he hits me, he says things like “I didn’t hit you that hard, you must bruise easily” or “I didn’t push you that hard, you threw yourself” or “Baby I’m sorry, but you just shouldn’t push me like that”.
A few months ago he put me in the hospital because I said “I hate you” after I found out that he was cheating on me, again.
But the making up… I live for the making up. He is so sweet, and he tells me that I’m beautiful and he loves me and that he’ll change. He asks me to just stick it out, because he knows that he can be better. But a week later it’s back and worse than ever.
When he broke my nose last month another good friend offered to pay for me and my children to move back up north (my homeland) and live with him. He offered me a job in his company and a safe place for my kids and I to live, complete with 2 puppies and a fenced in back yard. I told him at the time that I would think about it.
Last night I did a lot of thinking. And a lot of web searching. Did you know that my husband matches almost every single sign of being a sociopath?
Manipulation? Check. This is the same man that says I force him to treat me this way because of the things I do, like buy myself a coffee with my money.
Lack of remorse? Yeah, we already went over that one.
Poor behavioral controls resulting in acts of rage? Mmhmm.
Promiscuity? LOLZ. This is the same man who has NO IDEA how many women he’s slept with. Since we started dating I know of at least 8.
Parasitic lifestyle? If you’ve read any of my other entries here on BB2G you would know that for the last two years I’ve supported him financially.
Apparently the sociopath’s main goal in life is to create a willing victim. That’s been me for two years. And I think I’m done. I sent an email to my friend, asking if I could still come up. I won’t tell my husband.
But I’m scared. I’m scared of taking my kids up to PA and worrying about whether I can support them. I’m scared that I won’t be strong enough to say no when my husband begs me to come home. I’m scared that all of this is in my head, and maybe I am the crazy one. I’m scared that he’ll find us.
But it’s what I have to do, right?
Because I can’t continue to live this way, right?
*On a side note, thank you all, for being the people that you are. Sometimes I just read over the comments that you leave and I cry and wish that I had people like you actually in my life. Thank you for trying to help me see the bright side, and for telling me that it will get better. A million times over, thank you…
Prankster, there’s no such thing as “abuse light” or “a little abuse.” Your husband is abusive. That’s not a question. The question is, “do you want to take it?”
You know that the answer is no. You don’t deserve it. Nobody deserves to be treated like that. Nobody.
You are loved. We will be here for you no matter what.
Whatever you do, please be safe. PLEASE.
by Band Back Together | Nov 17, 2010 | Abuse, Addiction, Alcohol Addiction, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Coping With Divorce, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Divorce, Domestic Abuse, Economic Abuse, Estrangement |
I am forty-three years old – an Interior Designer who has done well for herself over the course of sixteen years. I married thirteen years ago and have four beautiful children. My husband has had a series of losses in his life which turned him into a raging drunk, drug user and abuser (emotionally and physically towards the children and I).
After a series of abusive situations involving the children, I finally made my way to the attorney’s office and filed for divorce. Was that the right thing? I have been nothing but punished since that day in July 2009.
He destroyed the business I have had for seventeen years. He took all the money I had to support me and the children. He stole from the house and took all the money in our accounts.
He has not only hit me a few times, but he hit the children to the point that child services got involved. After they interviewed the children, they told me I would be charged for never turning in all these abuses in the past year. The children and I are all in counseling.
My first attorney did everything wrong, My second attorney took what money I had left and dumped me because I couldn’t pay any more. A guardian ad litem was finally appointed to our family and I had to pay for that out of the investments I had left. She actually believed him and never interviewed half my witnesses. She also never talked to the boys. Then, I was sent to another attorney (a third one) who said he would finish up the divorce for a flat rate. Well, I can’t come up with the rest of the money. He and my -soon-to-be ex’s attorney seem friendly and I feel like I am just getting screwed.
The worst part about all this is that the children are so messed up from the divorce and the abuse they suffered from their father. I have done everything I can to protect them but the Florida courts don’t seem to care.
We are getting ready for trial now and I can’t seem to get anyone to understand how bad this is for me and my children.
They hide in their rooms when he comes to get them.
My nine-year old ran nine blocks away and called me from a gas station because she was afraid to be with her dad.
My four-year old has seen his father throw me up against my desk and hold my head down as he threatened me. He nearly drowned at his cousin’s house and his father was nowhere to be found.
On his second birthday, he took my son out of his car seat because he was crying and stuck him out the window as I was driving down the highway.
My six-year old keeps getting thrown into walls by his father, his dad calls him pussy boy and tells him he cries like a school girl.
He makes him sleep on a sofa at his house to punish him for his mother filing for divorce.
My eleven-year old is pulling out her eyelashes and eyebrows.
Where am I to turn? I don’t know how to get people to understand what is going on and change this for my children.
I bought my house when I was single and have fixed it up, paid the mortgage on it for eleven of the fourteen years I’ve owned it.
In 2004, I walked into my house to find a lender and a lady sitting there because he wanted to refinance the house. I was stupid and signed the papers not really knowing how bad I was going to be screwed – until now, when I can’t afford food, let alone the house. I am about to be forced out onto the streets.
His attorney is trying to get me out of the house so he can move in. The only reason I would do this is for my children so I know they have a bed to sleep in and a roof over their head, but in the process I have nothing.
No money, no place to live, no support and an attorney who told me to marry better next time. My whole family lives up north and the few friends I have here have their own problems.
I never thought this would be happening to me.
I have gone to the courthouse for help with the abuse center. They can’t help me and just send me to the shelter. I can’t find a job and am so confused. I can’t figure out what is going on.
I guess I don’t know what to do at this point. I have tried everything I can except to just take the children and run away. Believe me, I have thought about this so much, but what kind of life is that for them? What if I got caught and then can never see them again?
Do I just give him the kids and walk away? I know that would kill me. I can sleep in my Suburban for a while, but since I can’t secure a place to live because he ruined my credit and took all our money, I will lose the children anyway.
I am a rat stuck in a very bad situation. Crying is not helping me out of this giant mess. Where did the strong business person go? Why can’t I get anyone to understand that I divorced this ass to make my children’s lives better? Where do I go from here?
How do my children survive this nightmare?
by Band Back Together | Nov 16, 2010 | Abuse, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Child Abuse, Child Sexual Abuse, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse |
It started with words. Yelling, angry words he slung at her for being lazy, or slow, or a bad cook. She’d just apologize and go on with life. Then he yelled at me, and she wouldn’t stand for it; she’d step in, and up, like she never did for herself. That’s when he started hitting her. I didn’t even know it was odd until I was older, and observed the parents of friends who never hit. By that time, it was ingrained; my stepfather hit, and that was just… life. I don’t know if my mother knew he started hitting me. I played sports, had bruises, a few fractures. Even my pediatrician never suspected abuse.
If it had stopped at hitting, I probably wouldn’t be so messed up. But when I was 8, everything changed. I was beginning to develop; their marriage was cooling off – they rarely even spoke. And he started looking at me differently. High on pain pills for some imaginary back spasm he used to get sympathy from his family – and drugs from his doctor – he came to my room one night, held a hand over my mouth, and touched me. I was lucky; he was flying so high that when he went to take his clothes off, I ran for the bathroom and locked myself in.
He couldn’t exactly break the door down without waking my mother, so he stood by the door and told me all the terrible things he’d do to me, to my mother, if I ever breathed a word. I believe he meant it, even to this day. So I never said anything, and by grace of some higher power, he never tried again. From that day on, I slept with a knife under my mattress, and told my mother I wanted to make my own bed. I learned to climb out my window in 30 seconds, found a neighbor who would take me in at any hour, for any reason, and kept a bag of clothes and a pair of old shoes stashed in a hidey-hole by the side of the house.
I learned what no child should have to. I lived for two years past that awful night in the same house with him, terrified that I would have to use my escape route and leave my mother behind to face him alone. My only solace was that neighbor, whose daughters loved me like a sister, and who slept next to a 12 gauge shotgun. I’m thankful every day that I never had to ask him to go rescue my mother from a maniac.
That’s the beginning of my story, but it isn’t the end. I’ve posted other pieces of my life elsewhere on this site, and on others… in comments, in my own posts. But what I’ve always failed to include, even when I’ve posted my “epilogue” is the Darkness. And yes, it deserves that capital D. It’s frighteningly close to the surface at times. That beginning shaped my life; the good, I’m a survivor and always will be, the bad, I am quick to draw blood, to use violence instead of words or distance.
I have three children. I love them with everything that I am, and more if it’s possible. I am so, so careful to keep them away from that part of me, but I’m still scared. The part of me that’s cautious of people, of situations, quick to react and deadly when I do, has literally kept me alive. But that same part of me could destroy the people I love. I’ve often heard new mothers being told, “If you can’t handle it, if it just gets too overwhelming, put the baby in a safe place and walk away to cool down.” I’ve had to do this more times than I want to admit, and not just during the infant stage.
My older two are only a year apart — god the stress of that! — and at nearly 5 and nearly 4, they are a handful. Any children of those ages would be, of course. But my oldest is intelligent; so intelligent that at times I’m frightened by how quickly she picks things up. I wonder if she’ll out-pace her ability to comprehend what she’s taking in. My middle child is different. Exactly how we don’t yet know, but I’ve seen these neon signs before. I know what they mean. Autism Spectrum Disorder. High-functioning, certainly, and thank god for that, but still… a challenge. I double-stack baby gates in their doorway to keep them in their room when I feel the Darkness crawling to the surface and I just can’t handle any more. I know this isn’t a terrible thing. They are fed, hydrated, clean, overflowing with toys and even a TV with a DVD player because they, like their Nana, love Disney movies. They are never ignored, but sometimes… sometimes Mommy needs a break from the go-go-go of two toddlers-turned-preschoolers. And I feel horrible. But I would feel worse if I let my Darkness get the better of me, I know that. Better to be safe in their room, cared for and dealt with at a distance than to become easy targets for my frustration. But still I feel like the worst mother in the world.
And now there’s the baby. Not so little anymore — 9 months now, goodness — but still so dependent on Mommy. I wanted her so, so very badly, and I don’t regret having her, not even the timing of it, so close to the others. I just get overwhelmed. So she goes in her nice, safe crib with a brightly-colored baby book to distract her while Mommy has a breather. It’s certainly not the worst thing in the world, and yet? Bad Mommy. I know it isn’t true, but that’s how I feel, because my own little babies should never make me so angry they bring out the Darkness. But after the thirty-millionth time of hearing, “Mommy, I’m hungry.” and “I wanna watch a movie!” and “Sissy’s hitting meeeeee…” and “Wahhhh! Wahhh! WAHHHHHH!” in the last hour, I just want to put my hand through a wall. I never, ever want them to see me lose it that way. It would scare them, scar them perhaps, and I love them too much to do that.
I rarely take people at their word. I always look for hidden meanings, reasons to get up in arms. Why? Because if I spot the attack before it happens, I have an edge. It’s like the abused wife who looks and listens and knows the instant before her husband is going to throw that first punch that she better duck. It’s a life-saving reflex that has no place in common conversation. But it’s there. I can’t make it go away. Ironically, I feel safer around men. Women scheme and connive; they are masters at smiling to your face and stabbing you in the back, and that scares me. If I can see the attack coming, I can prepare. I don’t like being blindsided. I can read men, I’m used to doing so, so they’re safer. But even with men, I’m careful.
I still sleep with a knife beside the bed. I take my cell phone with me to bed, too, just in case. I listen for noises in the night. I hate sleeping when it’s bright out because the sunlight makes it hard to fall asleep or stay that way, but I prefer it because the Monsters generally prefer the dark for their sport. Sleeping, I’m easy prey, but awake, I’m much harder to fell. I have nightmares about people invading my home, waking nightmares sometimes, when I try to fall asleep at night. I am still afraid to let my children sleep in their own room for fear of not being able to protect them should I need to. It’s that scared little 8-year-old coming out, waiting for “Daddy” to creep into her room. Every sound in the night that I don’t immediately recognize is a shiver of terror down my spine.
I’ve spoken to counselors, taken meds, but it never helps. Precisely because people can’t be trusted, and the drugs make me not me anymore. I can’t even recognize the person in the mirror and that might just scare me worse than the nightmares. This is a Darkness bred into me from childhood, reinforced through a lifetime of hardness, that cannot simply be erased. I must learn to live with it, to cope. And I hope (god I hope) that acknowledging it here helps.
by Band Back Together | Nov 16, 2010 | Abuse, Healing From A Rape or Sexual Asault, Helping Someone In An Abusive Relationship, Rape/Sexual Assault |
I feel so fucking ugly and dirty and slutty.
I don’t understand it. I know I am none of those things. But the idea is stuck in there.
All those times, all those fucking awful times we “made love”….can I ever allow a man to touch me again? I didn’t know how profound the impact would be until I try to sleep and everything I try so hard to forget comes rushing back and I want to fucking scream. I want the world to know what a fucked up person you are and all the fucked up things you did because it WASN’T right.
I need to vent because I can’t say these things out loud yet. I want someone to be there, but I’m too ashamed to verbalize a word.
Because in those years together, you degraded me into a sexual plaything that would react to your desires and run to please you. In those times, you liked me or so I thought.
How could you…
force me to let you inside?
push my face into the wall?
force me to suck on you, shoving into me until I threw up?
cum on me wherever you wanted?
rip my hair out?
pound into me so hard I screamed and cried and begged?
hurt me like this while other people are in the house and can hear?
leave your mark on me?
trap me in the bathroom to “get ready” for you?
invite another man into our bed to assist you?
call me those awful names?
humiliate me with pictures?
force me to sleep with strangers?
make me feel like I was doing this out of love for you?
put my sexual health at risk but not your own?
come home from work and bend me over wherever you pleased?
digitally assault me while in the presence of others?
How dare you…
make me feel like the only touches I deserve from men need to be rough and sexual?
make me feel like this is all I’m worth?
by Band Back Together | Nov 10, 2010 | Abuse, Addiction, Alcohol Addiction, Domestic Abuse, Emotional Abuse |
For my 25th birthday my parents threw me a party at a restaurant. I had an awesome group of friends and family that came, and it was a fantastic celebration. As I blew out the candles on my cake, I wished for a boyfriend. Lame, right? Well, be careful what you wish for.
I met Aaron two weeks later at a friend’s birthday party. He was charismatic, out-going, and handsome. And a paraplegic. He’d been injured in an accident at the age of 20 when he flipped his car on an isolated road. Still, his attitude was excellent, his outlook on life optimistic. He could talk to anyone about anything, something I really admired. We started dating, and it was fun, light and exciting.
I don’t remember where to pinpoint when it started to go wrong. When we’d been together about 9 months, we decided to take a road trip up the California coast. I went shopping for some new jeans, and I had to get a bigger size. Love and my career (I traveled for work about 60% of the time, so I wasn’t eating healthy homemade food) had made me fat and happy and I’d put on a few pounds. That was the first time he made a comment. He said he wasn’t attracted to fat girls. He didn’t say I was fat, but that he wasn’t attracted to girls who were fat. Either way, not exactly encouraging or supportive words from someone who’s supposed to love you.
In July of that year, when we’d been dating just over a year, we talked about moving in together. When I told my parents about it, they weren’t happy and tried to discourage me. That should have been a big warning sign. If only I’d listened.
I moved in at the end of September and things changed big time. Before we lived together, I spent 5-6 nights a week at his place. I knew his habits. I did his laundry, helped with the cleaning he couldn’t do easily, and did his grocery shopping. I knew more or less what it was like to live with him. But it all changed. Now, instead of just doing laundry, I was expected to keep everything in our home clean. He’d criticize if I didn’t do things perfectly. I became full-time girlfriend, full-time maid. I did it out of love, but there wasn’t any appreciation on his end for carrying the burden of keeping our home. Any attempts I made at cooking were met with criticism. Meals were thrown out.
And then the drinking started. He decided he liked scotch. He’d always been a social drinker, but it didn’t bother me; there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. And believe me, I watched out for it. I’d dated an alcoholic in college, and I was very sensitive to guys’ drinking habits. But suddenly Aaron was drinking more. He went from a double on the rocks, to a triple; then from a triple to two triples, and then to three. By December, he was drinking a Costco sized handle bottle of scotch every 10 days. I went to bed alone a lot, while he stayed up filling and refilling his glass before coming to bed with hot boozy breath. We fought about it. A lot. It was supposed to be none of my business. I still can’t stand the sound of ice clinking in a tumbler. It makes me want to throw up.
In November, I went to Florida to spend Thanksgiving with his family. We were happy that week. His brother-in-law was a CEO and lived in a $10 Million home down the street from Tiger Woods. It was a week of extravagance – expensive dinners out and fancy cars and private jets. We had fun and enjoyed the holiday. I loved his family, and his twin nieces adored me. One night, we stayed up late after everyone else had gone to bed drinking and laughing in the hot tub. We were both past tipsy. Something spurned an argument. He pulled out his camera and started video-taping me. Mocking me and my tears and my slurred speech. I still don’t like to be photographed or taped.
Christmas and New Year’s that year were strained. We agreed to work through some things. I wanted to go to counseling because I knew I wasn’t myself. I wasn’t ready to admit yet that it was because of him. He again made comments about not being attracted to fat girls. Only this time, his comments were coupled with a complete lack of affection. Now it was personal. And now when I cried, accusations of me being bipolar came along with the tears. In actuality, I was trying to keep up my front of happiness and was repeatedly failing. In my heart, I knew things were broken.
I was building strength to put my foot down on things changing when I lost my job the same day I had my first counseling appointment. Instead of being supportive and encouraging, he was furious, and questioned what would have happened if we had kids to support. I was out of work for three weeks when I started my new job on a Monday. He was coming back from a ski trip that day and made me leave my first day of my new job to pick him up at the airport. He never would have done that for me.
We broke up on Friday, four days later. That Sunday was Super Bowl Sunday. We went to his friend and coworker’s house to watch the game. He drank a 12-pack in 4 hours. In front of the friend’s kids. And then wanted to drive home. I was mortified and knew I had to get out.
Things weren’t easy leaving. We kinda sorta tried to make things work for another week before one final fight left me begging him to just let me go. How pathetic is that? That even though I knew it had to end, I didn’t have the strength to end it myself? I hate that about myself. I did leave, though, and found my own place. It was 9 days before I could move into it, so I stayed with him, living with my now-ex-boyfriend who took every opportunity to get in every last jab. We fought, I cried, and he made more accusations about my mental stability. He made comments about my choosing a second floor apartment and how that was a slap in the face to him. February 23rd, 2008 was the day I moved into my new home, my new beginning.
I met Dan in late May and we slowly started dating. Aaron called drunk one night. It was two weeks before Dan’s birthday, at the beginning of October. He was trying to make amends, wanted to be friends. I said we could be civil. A week later, I thought better of it and emailed him and said he wasn’t welcome to contact me anymore, that I didn’t want to hear from him again. His retaliation was a vicious string of venom and hatred in written form. Accusations of me being bipolar. Threats that my boyfriend (Dan, my future husband) had better have a lot of Kleenex. Other horrible things about me that I quickly deleted and have tried to erase from my mind. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
It’s been over two years since that horrible final email. I’m not bipolar (I never thought I was). I am mainly healed. I have a husband who is an absolute angel, who promised me he’d never be drunk in front of me, and who holds me tight when something in the present day draws a sudden memory or flashback that knocks the wind out of me. My husband never makes me cry anything but tears of joy. I was never physically abused or harmed by Aaron, but I have wounds. From emotional abuse. It’s hard to say. Emotional abuse. Abuse. There’s no other word for it – for the things he said and did to the woman who loved him – as much as I try to dance around it. I’m working to forgive.
I have so many things I’d love to say to Aaron if given the chance, to scream at him in anger. I like to think I’d be stronger now, and that I’d really fucking give it to him, tell him how all the hurtful things he said have followed me and threatened the happiness I deserve. But I’m scared to hope for a chance to say them, because I’ve learned you have to be careful what you wish for.
by Band Back Together | Oct 25, 2010 | Abuse, Child Abuse, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Forgiveness, Happiness, Helping Someone In An Abusive Relationship, Hope, Psychological Manipulation, Self Loathing, Shame, Stress, Trauma |
Sometimes the only monster we see is when we’re looking into a mirror.
This is her story:
I was controlled by a destructive, angry individual who did everything in their power to destroy the very core of my being.
The sad part is that I allowed it, and not only for a little while … oh no … I allowed this person to eat at me every single day … all day … for years, until there was nothing left but a shell of my former existence. They were mean and hurtful, yelled at my children, they could have cared less about my happiness … their main goal was to make me and everyone around me pay for their misery. They let their selfish need for pride crumble the walls of my life … I was sure there was no way to rid myself of this person … I was trapped … the very thought of ending the darkness they brought was unfathomable.
Murder.
I could simply just kill them.
The thought crossed my mind on more than one occasion … but what little common sense I had left stopped whatever notions that crept into my mind.
To escape this person was to escape my very self.
I was her … she was me, and deep down in her head, buried under the anger and depression was a tiny flicker of light that called out to her … “don’t drive your car off the road … you know better than that.”
The problem was that no matter how deep I analyzed myself, I could come up with not one valid reason to feel this way. What was wrong with me? … why was I spiraling into a hole? What was my problem?
Was it a learned behavior? … it was possible.
Was it genetic? … that was quite possible as well.
One morning I woke up and opened the refrigerator … a tub of margarine fell out and you’d think the world had just ended. My ranting and yelling and crying over something so trivial was ridiculous. Kind of like when my Dad didn’t have enough milk for his cereal in the morning … off he’d go to the store … tires screeching down the driveway … he couldn’t just have a piece of toast or something … no that was too easy … he had to upset the entire household.
I know now after seeing the same behavior in myself that it had nothing to do with the milk, just like it had nothing to do with the margarine. It was a sickness … one that I was passing down to my own children … I was well aware, yet I still refused to do anything about it.
Excuses.
I had a reason for everything.
I’m not getting help because I’m not a failure. I’ll be fine … it’ll go away. I’m not going on medication because I don’t need a crutch! And to hell with gaining any ten or twenty pounds by popping the pills either. Ain’t happening. Instead I chose to make my family walk on egg shells. Instead I chose to stop caring about my health … Instead I chose to put myself at the very bottom of the list.
I was and I still am stubborn.
Thankfully, there is a voice of reason in my life. A voice that knew how I felt … someone who had been where I was … someone who had made his way through the darkness … someone who said, “you don’t have to live this way and the only thing on my wish list is for you to get help.”
I felt like I was giving in … succumbing to failure … and making that phone call was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.
I thought for sure I was making a huge mistake. The doctor would put me on medication and that would be the end of me. I’d be a fat emotionless entity who drifted through the rest of her life wishing she could just be ‘like everyone else’.
I was given medication … my doctor said, “if you couldn’t see very well, would you not want to wear glasses?” … I filled the prescription … then I made my second mistake and scoured the depression forums like a mad woman trying to find out what was to become of me. The best advice I could ever give a person who’s never taken an SSRI is to stay the hell away from those forums. STAY AWAY. They will scare the living crap out of you.
I took the medication.
Slowly and surely each day was a little brighter. Each day, life became less hectic in my head. I could think … I could breathe and most importantly, I stopped bringing misery to the lives of those nearest and dearest to me.
Today I’m happy … I’m not fat, I didn’t gain the seven thousand pounds I was certain of gaining … I wake up every morning without that nagging rage. If I see a dirty coffee mug sitting on the table, I don’t start the next great war … nor have I lost my ability to emote.
I was wrong about getting help … I couldn’t have been more wrong if I tried.
It hurts me to see people who feel the helplessness that I felt.
You don’t have to live that way …
you really don’t.
