LakeMungoGirl
Member
- Nov 6, 2025
- 30
They say as my body deteriorates. The chronic disability they refuse to acknowledge making every conscious second an inescapable hell.
It's been approximately seven years of trying. Seven years I've been chasing recovery because of what they did to me, but there is no cure.
Unlike most people with PTSD, my suffering is not purely mental. If it was, I'd have been able to get over it by now. Instead, I'm reminded every day by my permanent physical disabilities of what they did to me. I'm 19 but I still feel 12. Every day I relive the same memory as I rot in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom. There's truly no hope for me, and the person I once was— the one who loved art, writing, reading, who laughed loudly and shamelessly, who was mentally acute and had endless passion and vigor for the things she cherished, who could concentrate for hours— days— on a single task by unwavering passion alone until it was completed— is now completely gone, and they are never, never coming back.
Sometimes I wish it were actually my fault. The damage. At least then I could feel some semblance of control over it and take responsibility for my mistakes. But of course, in a cruel twist of irony, since I can never again lead a normal life, I'm completely reliant on those who hurt me in the first place for everything from food to shelter to clothing to medicine that doesn't work, etc. They pull all the strings, and what they did to me can never be undone. My condition will continue to get worse. What's the point in living only to suffer? I'm only still holding on because I'm scared, but I'm under no false pretense it's going to get better.
It sucks, man. Life could've been so sweet. If I could take a magical pill right now that would cure me, I know I would live every day appreciating the little things I can no longer fully appreciate. An immersive book. The moon at night when I take out the garbage. A funny movie. Because I know what it's like for every pleasure to be swallowed by misery, to have everything ripped from your hands and be told it's your fault. But I was just a kid. There was absolutely nothing I could have possibly done to deserve this.
"That means that all the damage I got isn't 'good damage'. It's just damage. I have gotten nothing out of it and all those years I was miserable was for nothing." - Diane, Bojack Horseman
It's been approximately seven years of trying. Seven years I've been chasing recovery because of what they did to me, but there is no cure.
Unlike most people with PTSD, my suffering is not purely mental. If it was, I'd have been able to get over it by now. Instead, I'm reminded every day by my permanent physical disabilities of what they did to me. I'm 19 but I still feel 12. Every day I relive the same memory as I rot in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom. There's truly no hope for me, and the person I once was— the one who loved art, writing, reading, who laughed loudly and shamelessly, who was mentally acute and had endless passion and vigor for the things she cherished, who could concentrate for hours— days— on a single task by unwavering passion alone until it was completed— is now completely gone, and they are never, never coming back.
Sometimes I wish it were actually my fault. The damage. At least then I could feel some semblance of control over it and take responsibility for my mistakes. But of course, in a cruel twist of irony, since I can never again lead a normal life, I'm completely reliant on those who hurt me in the first place for everything from food to shelter to clothing to medicine that doesn't work, etc. They pull all the strings, and what they did to me can never be undone. My condition will continue to get worse. What's the point in living only to suffer? I'm only still holding on because I'm scared, but I'm under no false pretense it's going to get better.
It sucks, man. Life could've been so sweet. If I could take a magical pill right now that would cure me, I know I would live every day appreciating the little things I can no longer fully appreciate. An immersive book. The moon at night when I take out the garbage. A funny movie. Because I know what it's like for every pleasure to be swallowed by misery, to have everything ripped from your hands and be told it's your fault. But I was just a kid. There was absolutely nothing I could have possibly done to deserve this.
"That means that all the damage I got isn't 'good damage'. It's just damage. I have gotten nothing out of it and all those years I was miserable was for nothing." - Diane, Bojack Horseman
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