The Truth.

I think there may be all of.. three people, possibly four, that know this story. I'm not sure my best friend and my adopted sister know. I've hidden it, glossed it over, pretended it didn't happen. Yet, it's the number one, solid-adult thing I can think of that really triggered 'the change'.

What change? The change into the paranoid, social recluse that had severe issues with going out.

It all really started when I asked my therapist for an official diagnosis. Bipolar, he said, which I knew. I'd been in the hospital for that one. And PTSD. That one floored me. PTSD was something that happened to people that'd suffered extreme trauma like child abuse or war. But when I started to dig into what PTSD actually -was-, I discovered it wasn't that black or white.

And well.. I have a fair amount of emotional trauma in my history that I simply Do Not Discuss. Until now. Out of anything I may write in this blog, this post is probably going to be the hardest. Therefore, I'm going to write it first.

In college, I didn't socialize so well. Poor Vicki tried to get me ready for it, and I love her dearly for that. The truth of the matter was... I went from graduation where all of my friends had turned their backs on me in the last week to college where I was suddenly free to do whatever I wanted -- and responsible for doing whatever I wanted.

My first semester bombed miserably. I ended up in the 'if you don't do well this semester...' group. I was determined I was going to do well. Needless to say that didn't happen. Part of the reason it didn't happen was because of a guy.

I was waiting outside the Psych building for my roommate the first time I met him. He seemed nice enough. Asked me to come chill at his place. So, I did. I don't.. honestly remember how I ended up on his couch with his hand down my pants. My memory does that, sometimes. It blanks out. But that's where it started..

He would call me at ten, eleven, twelve o'clock at night and ask me to come over. Come get me. He'd use me, leave bruises from biting, then make me sit and listen to his exploits about girls he picked up at the clubs. Eventually I'd fall asleep. He'd wake me up, basically kick me out, make me walk home and do it all over again in a couple of days.

At this point, any sane person would've gone "what the hell." Dropped him like a hot potato. And I tried. Oh, I tried. But I've been thinking about it a lot this morning, and this is what I think. A lot of people with my kind of disease end up trying to self-medicate. They use drugs, alcohol.. anything to retain some semblance of balance. This guy was like a drug for me. I kept going back, even -after- he told me I was just a psychological experiment to see what he could get away with.

When Vicki introduced me to the internet, all of a sudden, I was.. free. Or, perhaps, chained to another addiction. But free of him. I met my first, serious, post-highschool boyfriend at school and suddenly I had the power to say "No" and mean it.

Not that that relationship was any healthier, but at least I was no longer a psychological experiment. I was, however, severely damaged.

When things in that relationship started to go sour is when I really started to become, for lack of better description, unhinged. I decided I was going to move to California. I had the money. I had the place to stay. The day before I was going to leave, my parents showed up at the apartment. One of my online buddies had ratted me out. Dad took my keys and proceeded to spend the next few hours laying into me.

I don't remember everything he said. I do remember him telling me that I never finished anything, and that I was a failure. I was crushed. I was 20, then. Now, at 32, I still wake up from nightmares of him screaming at me. For a while, it was literally a once or twice a month occurrence. Fairly regular. He and I have sat in a therapy session, though, and in the three or four months since, I've had -one-. And I'm less afraid to talk to him about things that bother me. I consider it a success.

The problem is that I'm still timid. I still jump, emotionally, at the slightest hurts. When I feel used, I break inside. I start to wonder if anyone even -wants- me around except as something to entertain them. "She'll be there when I need her." And I hold it in, and I hide it. I still have my dangerous people-addictions. My drugs. And in the capacity that I need him, I still have the one that I'll never completely let go of.

I just don't let anyone see -this-. When I've shattered from stress, from feeling used, from being empty. When I cry for six hours and have trouble going to sleep because I feel like I'm going to throw up. When I wake up the next day and cry more, trying to hold it in because I have my two year old nephew in my arms.

But if I don't do this.. if I -don't- open up and stop trying to pretend everything's okay, I -am- going to relapse. This hurts a lot now, letting people see this, but.. it'll hurt a lot worse if I don't lance the wound and let it heal.