LastLoveLetter
Persephone
- Mar 28, 2021
- 661
Note: I originally wrote and posted this in 2022, so some may recognise it. Back then, my writing abilities were better compared to now and I was more able to express myself. Some of the information is not applicable (e.g. I am no longer receiving therapy, I'm mostly housebound but not currently constantly bedbound etc). However, the feelings behind it still stand.
After being deeply hurt by someone who weaponised my trauma history against me, I deleted a lot of posts about my past to protect myself and later regretted it.
After reading through saved notes I've kept, I decided to repost this one, as it's an important piece of my story. A part I want to share before I die.
If you take the time to read this, thank you.
I truly believe that some traumas are insurmountable, haunting victims like a revolting monster no-one wants to admit exists, until they die. The best any therapist, medical professional or peer can offer is either a bandaid or blindfold.
There are experiences that can break a person into so many pieces, that the shattered fragments are simply impossible to put back together. We are expected to either crudely and flimsily reassemble these remains, or construct a new sense of self altogether out of the ashes, even if we never had the opportunity to cultivate our characters from the beginning. There is nothing to salvage, because I have never built a life worth saving.
As a little girl, I was too busy scavenging for stale food, hiding under my bed in a futile effort to evade beatings and being passed around my family like a sex toy to develop an identity or work towards a brighter future. How could I when living in such a dangerous environment? I have never been able to envision the decades ahead and the milestones I ought to have reached, because I never anticipated being alive for this long.
Society tries to tell us that we can overcome any obstacle. I have watched talks delivered by kidnapping victims, amputees, war survivors. A commonality they all share is that they instil hope that life after trauma is possible, that they are living proof, that anyone can do it.
The mainstream public imbibe this like kittens enthusiastically lapping up milk in a saucer. If they meet someone like me who has not "moved on" and "recovered", they remind me that there is hope, that there is light at the end of the tunnel, that I only need to "let go" of the past. Other people have done it, so why can't I? There is this insidious insistence in their words, this indisputable impatience, this apparent antipathy towards me for being a "victim" instead of a "survivor" or better yet, a "warrior."
I am a survivor in the strictest sense of the word: I endured abuse that on multiple occasions almost killed me, but I didn't die. I was born on the brink of death, with my intestines growing outside of my body and with brain damage that would later lead to a diagnosis of an incurable disability. I have survived botched abortion attempts before birth, a car crash with a psychotic parent at the wheel, attempted smothering in my sleep, and the life being choked out of me by a relative (for the unforgivable crime of incorrectly guessing her age by one year). I have been chased by my mother wielding a knife and have had the blade of a sharp pair of scissors pressed against my throat by my adopter.
However, I do not fit society's interpretation of a "survivor": Someone who transcends their tragedies and thrives. I barely clung onto life from one trauma to the next, like clutching the sinking debris of a shipwreck. Years later, I am still clinging onto it now, except there is little left to hold on to and the wreckage appears more like a graveyard every time I peer into it.
I certainly do not have the fortitude to be a "fighter." Is trauma truly a war to be won or an obstacle to be overcome? Such rhetoric seems to place responsibility entirely on victims of severe suffering. We are to blame if we cannot combat our pain, even if we have spent our entire existence struggling to survive. We are to blame if we do not recover, even if the tools (e.g. medication, therapy etc) that supposedly aid this process are archaic and inadequate. We are to blame if we are disadvantaged and disparaged, even if we never had the opportunities presented to our more privileged peers. We are to blame if we are suicidal, even if life has only ever beaten us to a pulp and pushed us into a corner. Those of us who only become poorer and sicker are disposable and undesirable.
Yet, these factors are often a consequence of losing the lottery of life: It's luck whether or not you have any genetic faults or predispositions. It's luck whether or not you are born into a loving family. It's luck whether or not you are raised in a safe, wealthy country. It's luck whether or not you are born into a life of poverty that you then have to perpetually climb out of. It's luck whether or not you are born with any characteristics - such as deformities, disabilities and illnesses - that will make life harder.
When the odds are repeatedly stacked against you, it is hard to keep fighting against them, like pointlessly pounding on a brick wall with your bare and bloodied fists. We live in a society that is brimming with entrenched systemic disadvantages, yet the onus is always on the individual to persevere and prosper, not on the system to change to create a kinder, more equitable world.
This is a reality the toxic positivity brigade hate to recognise, because it contradicts their conviction that we all have control, that life is what we make it, that our successes are self-made. And how dare we disprove that?
I have grown tired of it. Tired of continuing this charade, tired of holding onto hope that my chronic conditions can improve, when they only ever deteriorate. Tired of the platitudes and trite tripe, which rapidly transform into blame and invalidation if you challenge them. Tired of treatments I can access being at the mercy of bureaucratic processes upheld by officials who cannot imagine what a day in my shoes is like.
I am tired of sitting across from a stranger in therapy, someone devoid of any emotion or empathy. My agony is incomprehensible to him - a man with an excellent education, a secure career, a loving family and a beautiful wife. The horrors of my history go in one ear and out of the other. There is a brief flicker of shock registered in his eyes, an acknowledgement that it must have been awful for me and then the moment is forgotten. For him, my past is a ripple in the ocean that has stilled. For me, it is one wave after another and another that I have spent my entire life drowning in. It is a sea of sorrow and suffering that I never left.
Those without lived experience could never understand. And don't get me wrong, I am glad for that. I wouldn't wish such abhorrent abuse on anyone.
However, it is frustrating being surrounded by those that simply adhere to the lifescript and expect everyone else to do the same. When I explain that I cannot work because I am bedbound, I cannot just make friends because I am incapacitated, lack social connections and feel alienated due to my deformities combined with years of abuse and I cannot simply get up and out due to the severity of my physical and mental illnesses, my therapist immediately identifies my explanations as excuses. I have been told to "push through the pain", "get out of my comfort zone" and "force myself to work." This is not only utterly tone-deaf, but genuinely dangerous "advice" to prescribe to those with chronic illnesses. It's even more precarious for a psychologist to spout this shit, and only serves to prove that people like me with "treatment-resistant" ailments are pariahs that the health industry prefers to purge.
I truly believe that some traumas are insurmountable, haunting victims like a revolting monster no-one wants to admit exists, until they die. I have also grown to believe that the only way I can rid myself of these demons is to accelerate my death, leaving this world and its corruption and cruelty behind. Right now, that is the only kind, merciful option I have left.
After being deeply hurt by someone who weaponised my trauma history against me, I deleted a lot of posts about my past to protect myself and later regretted it.
After reading through saved notes I've kept, I decided to repost this one, as it's an important piece of my story. A part I want to share before I die.
If you take the time to read this, thank you.
I truly believe that some traumas are insurmountable, haunting victims like a revolting monster no-one wants to admit exists, until they die. The best any therapist, medical professional or peer can offer is either a bandaid or blindfold.
There are experiences that can break a person into so many pieces, that the shattered fragments are simply impossible to put back together. We are expected to either crudely and flimsily reassemble these remains, or construct a new sense of self altogether out of the ashes, even if we never had the opportunity to cultivate our characters from the beginning. There is nothing to salvage, because I have never built a life worth saving.
As a little girl, I was too busy scavenging for stale food, hiding under my bed in a futile effort to evade beatings and being passed around my family like a sex toy to develop an identity or work towards a brighter future. How could I when living in such a dangerous environment? I have never been able to envision the decades ahead and the milestones I ought to have reached, because I never anticipated being alive for this long.
Society tries to tell us that we can overcome any obstacle. I have watched talks delivered by kidnapping victims, amputees, war survivors. A commonality they all share is that they instil hope that life after trauma is possible, that they are living proof, that anyone can do it.
The mainstream public imbibe this like kittens enthusiastically lapping up milk in a saucer. If they meet someone like me who has not "moved on" and "recovered", they remind me that there is hope, that there is light at the end of the tunnel, that I only need to "let go" of the past. Other people have done it, so why can't I? There is this insidious insistence in their words, this indisputable impatience, this apparent antipathy towards me for being a "victim" instead of a "survivor" or better yet, a "warrior."
I am a survivor in the strictest sense of the word: I endured abuse that on multiple occasions almost killed me, but I didn't die. I was born on the brink of death, with my intestines growing outside of my body and with brain damage that would later lead to a diagnosis of an incurable disability. I have survived botched abortion attempts before birth, a car crash with a psychotic parent at the wheel, attempted smothering in my sleep, and the life being choked out of me by a relative (for the unforgivable crime of incorrectly guessing her age by one year). I have been chased by my mother wielding a knife and have had the blade of a sharp pair of scissors pressed against my throat by my adopter.
However, I do not fit society's interpretation of a "survivor": Someone who transcends their tragedies and thrives. I barely clung onto life from one trauma to the next, like clutching the sinking debris of a shipwreck. Years later, I am still clinging onto it now, except there is little left to hold on to and the wreckage appears more like a graveyard every time I peer into it.
I certainly do not have the fortitude to be a "fighter." Is trauma truly a war to be won or an obstacle to be overcome? Such rhetoric seems to place responsibility entirely on victims of severe suffering. We are to blame if we cannot combat our pain, even if we have spent our entire existence struggling to survive. We are to blame if we do not recover, even if the tools (e.g. medication, therapy etc) that supposedly aid this process are archaic and inadequate. We are to blame if we are disadvantaged and disparaged, even if we never had the opportunities presented to our more privileged peers. We are to blame if we are suicidal, even if life has only ever beaten us to a pulp and pushed us into a corner. Those of us who only become poorer and sicker are disposable and undesirable.
Yet, these factors are often a consequence of losing the lottery of life: It's luck whether or not you have any genetic faults or predispositions. It's luck whether or not you are born into a loving family. It's luck whether or not you are raised in a safe, wealthy country. It's luck whether or not you are born into a life of poverty that you then have to perpetually climb out of. It's luck whether or not you are born with any characteristics - such as deformities, disabilities and illnesses - that will make life harder.
When the odds are repeatedly stacked against you, it is hard to keep fighting against them, like pointlessly pounding on a brick wall with your bare and bloodied fists. We live in a society that is brimming with entrenched systemic disadvantages, yet the onus is always on the individual to persevere and prosper, not on the system to change to create a kinder, more equitable world.
This is a reality the toxic positivity brigade hate to recognise, because it contradicts their conviction that we all have control, that life is what we make it, that our successes are self-made. And how dare we disprove that?
I have grown tired of it. Tired of continuing this charade, tired of holding onto hope that my chronic conditions can improve, when they only ever deteriorate. Tired of the platitudes and trite tripe, which rapidly transform into blame and invalidation if you challenge them. Tired of treatments I can access being at the mercy of bureaucratic processes upheld by officials who cannot imagine what a day in my shoes is like.
I am tired of sitting across from a stranger in therapy, someone devoid of any emotion or empathy. My agony is incomprehensible to him - a man with an excellent education, a secure career, a loving family and a beautiful wife. The horrors of my history go in one ear and out of the other. There is a brief flicker of shock registered in his eyes, an acknowledgement that it must have been awful for me and then the moment is forgotten. For him, my past is a ripple in the ocean that has stilled. For me, it is one wave after another and another that I have spent my entire life drowning in. It is a sea of sorrow and suffering that I never left.
Those without lived experience could never understand. And don't get me wrong, I am glad for that. I wouldn't wish such abhorrent abuse on anyone.
However, it is frustrating being surrounded by those that simply adhere to the lifescript and expect everyone else to do the same. When I explain that I cannot work because I am bedbound, I cannot just make friends because I am incapacitated, lack social connections and feel alienated due to my deformities combined with years of abuse and I cannot simply get up and out due to the severity of my physical and mental illnesses, my therapist immediately identifies my explanations as excuses. I have been told to "push through the pain", "get out of my comfort zone" and "force myself to work." This is not only utterly tone-deaf, but genuinely dangerous "advice" to prescribe to those with chronic illnesses. It's even more precarious for a psychologist to spout this shit, and only serves to prove that people like me with "treatment-resistant" ailments are pariahs that the health industry prefers to purge.
I truly believe that some traumas are insurmountable, haunting victims like a revolting monster no-one wants to admit exists, until they die. I have also grown to believe that the only way I can rid myself of these demons is to accelerate my death, leaving this world and its corruption and cruelty behind. Right now, that is the only kind, merciful option I have left.
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. But I will try. I can perhaps barely relate to some of your pain, some of my life challenges give me a hint, just a small bit of what you've gone through. But if I had had to have the whole experience of yours, I would have succumbed by now. You're a hero from where I sit. Heaven, if it exists, will be very kind to you, no matter how you get there. 
