This is Depression. This is Trauma. And I Still Can’t Describe It.

Let me take you back half a century to a home I knew for two decades.

Hell. I’d rather not. I live there still, in my mind. I described it many times over the past two years here on these pages. Scroll far enough, you’ll see “The House of Pain” and other posts. I’d like for you to read everything if you can stand it. From abuse to the supernatural to a neighborhood flasher who brandished an impossible weenie to frolicking in cat shit without knowing it, my life is here, laid bare for anyone to read. I’ve held nothing back. My mission was to show what becomes of the abused. How a bright, beautiful little boy grew up to be a wounded, sick asshole. There’s some funny stuff. Some scary stuff. There’s the bizarre, the tragic and the heartbreak of a victim. A true victim, not what idiot right wingers call “career victims who need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps”.

I didn’t want it to be like this. Nobody does. The victims of the world come in all colors and shapes and sizes. Religion cannot stop the harm being done to them. The law cannot make a predator think twice before acting. God in Heaven himself won’t step in front of them and protect them. That’s the worst part.

People who didn’t know my background asked many times, “If there’s really a God, why do such bad things happen to good people?”

I used to try to answer. I’d say, God doesn’t make people suffer, people do.”

But that is a half answer, and I don’t know the rest. I know that hardship makes us learn and grow stronger. But I don’t know what happens when one gets overloaded. Like me. Pious dicks have told me. “God will never give you more to carry than you can handle.”

Well, that’s not true. And I know, because I’m overwhelmed. Overloaded. Tired, worn out, fed up.

And I don’t believe that God piles us up with too many, or any burdens. Shit just happens, that’s fucking it. There’s nothing Godly about children being raped, beaten bloody and terrorized. God wouldn’t do that. I won’t blame him no matter what those morons think.

I know evil. I know it all too well, and I’m here to tell you, it’s for real. You can deny it if you like, but I’ve survived it.

I’m not really a survivor, though. I exist. I want it over because every day, I go back there, to my own home, I relive things I can’t describe in detail, and yet, part of me, when I think about it, might not really want to die. Because what the hell was all this shit about, anyway? I seek answers if I can’t have peace. I just want to know why.

Part of PTSD is severe depression. It’s a motherfucker, too. It kills people. It causes physical illnesses and debilitating pain. And the lack of will or the strength to do anything at all for days, weeks on end. Left untreated, it kills. Treatment by drug and talk therapy isn’t even a guarantee of survival. It can help, sure. But serious cases–like mine–may be resistant to everything available.

Trauma therapy is required. Before you can see improvement you first have to be allowed to be sick. Unfortunately, many doctors who administer drugs aren’t psychiatrists. Just regular doctors who maybe did two semesters of psych. I had one tell me not to come in and tell her anything negative ever again. I hated her from that second on.

Who the fuck did she think she was, anyway?

Look. After all this time, I still can’t describe what it’s like. I have tried. I don’t believe I’ve done a good job of it. How to describe not being able to take a shower? It has to come out as ridiculous. It’s okay; that’s not your fault. And I may not say it often enough, but I am very grateful for all who come here and read. Double for all who leave a “like” and even more for my followers. You make me fight just a little harder. I’m glad you’re here with me in spirit. I need you and you make a difference.

Yesterday morning, not having slept since posting at 03:00, I remained awake. I forced myself to shower and do two tubs of laundry. I went to market for some food. It’s a painful walk with my back, carrying groceries. By the time I made it to my building I was so bad that I was swaying despite my cane.

I ate a salad topped with albacore tuna and Old Bay, trying to fight chronic dehydration and vitamin D deficiency. I had to fight like hell to do all that, and wound up hurting. The pain is remarkable. I can’t describe it in a remark, though.

No more than I can describe depression and flashbacks. Or heartache. Loneliness. Darkness.

I just can’t.

But, just so you know, this morning I made my own miracle and did some things that had to be done. Perhaps God answered my prayer, too. I asked for a bit of help. Just a little bit. Maybe I was granted what I made a plea for.

But I’m not out of the woods yet. This is a dangerous time and I see that now. Often, people who have attempted suicide in the past end up finishing it. And since it is often a spontaneous act, I’m in trouble. But I’m going to hang. I think I’ve got another fight or two left in me. Those of you who pray, I wonder if you would be so kind as to mention me tonight when you are at prayer. In the meantime, this is the closest I can get to telling you what this is like.

Thank you for being here. You’re loved. Don’t forget that, okay?