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PTSD is a bitch.

There is no other way to describe it, I cannot offer any expertise in dealing with it, because I am only just beginning to figure it out myself, but I’ll tell you this, it’s a fucking cunt.

There is a person I love, more than anything in the world, a person who deserves the absolute amount of happiness the world offers, and that person is me, and I am not loving myself y’all. I’ve taken a break from loving myself, to sit back and stare at my life in utter and complete confusion.

I feel like people are on me all the time to do certain things like clean my house or take a shower or write a blog post and I have nothing real or tangible to say.

Another shooting in Surrey, another person who is about my age, that Death is clearly chasing, and I just sit back and wonder “how come I am so well protected, what choices did I make that prevent people from wanting to kill me?” don’t get me wrong, I am super grateful but at the same time I am also utterly fucking confused.

I am confused as to how I made it to this age without a job, without friends I can call in the middle of the night and then I remember, it’s because I shoved everyone away, and so I feel less bad about the fact that I am so alone.

I am alone because I CHOOSE to be, I am alone because I CHOOSE to be, I am ALONE because I ASKED to be left the fuck alone, and at the time it was a good choice, but now I am in this place of being in my thirties without any idea as to how to get back into the world. Into the flow of the world, I’ve lost that thing, that drive that keeps me going in any direction but the one I am going in, and while it could be chalked up to being a part of PTSD, it could also just be that my body is moving by instinct because that is all I know how to do.

I am looking at this time in of itself as an opportunity to grow and to become wiser in my ever growing ages, I am using this time to hand write love letters that I’ve been handing out at public events, and donating to both PACE Society as well as the Surrey Women’s Center, which are two organizations that I absolutely adore. The former works with women who were or are active sex workers, the latter works with all women to help combat the negativity that comes with being a woman. Both organizations were utterly grateful and that in of itself was a pay off I didn’t expect that I needed, but am intimately grateful for.

Recently at the Holland Park Labour Day celebration I was asked why I started writing the letters so I answered with a simple “it’s just healing,” when pushed to answer “healing from what?” I was struck stupid.

Ummm I’m healing from being gang raped several years ago and a fuck ton of recovered memories” did not seem like the appropriate answer, so I went with the ever useful “life, life is hard“.

Life is fucking hard, some days it’s hard to get out of bed, or shower, other days it’s hard to do anything other than curl up and cry, because I remember the hopes and wishes I had for the future, and I’ve seen so few of them come to fruition that it’s easy to believe they never will and yet ever I hope.

I hope that it gets better, that I keep forcing myself to write when I don’t feel like it, even if the words are written only on twitter, hell even yesterday I did a PitMad event, which is pitching your novel, and one person retweeted it, which was…fucking cool, usually my PitMad’s get completely ignored, it went something like this:

Siddha Lee Saint James is the protector of the tribe living in BC, Canada, it’s her job to protect the tribe, but whose job is it to protect Siddha when the supernatural gets too unruly?

Or something I can’t remember, but that is a book that I would read, because it hints at the overall storyline in a way that I’ve been trying to describe for years, at least now I have a starting off point, so therein I have found hope.

Here’s to all us PTSD Brothers and Sisters looking for hope, I love you,

Devon J Hall

 

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