I am going to be moving in two or three months, that is if my heart doesn’t fail me. I don’t care if all I’m going to be able to do is nothing in that new place– I will have a better chance to heal than in a house where I am constantly told I am supposed to be doing more than I can physically do and my physical pain is minimized or just flat out not understood. No matter how many times my parents say they understand I know they do not because in their affect they are annoyed or confused or skeptical of my pain. I am sick of it. I am not stupid and their general disbelief in my severe suffering is painfully obvious.
So I will be moving. I will find a way and I don’t really care how much of a struggle it is because if I don’t I will continue to be tortured by invalidation and well meaning confusion. I’m sick of it.
They look at me and see their own worst fears and do not see me, my feelings, needs or my experience but in small moments and ultimately they still do not understand. They are deeply loving but they simply do not understand me.
I am going to have to accept they probably never will.
My plan is to enroll back in my online masters program for creative writing and hopefully I will have left overs from the loan that I can live off for a while and then as I recover get a job.
These are all based on fragile if’s. But frankly I do not care. I have to get out of here if I am going to survive.
This past week I’ve been following the words of the adrenal book I purchased and I’ve had slightly more energy and improvement in sleep. I am still damaged but I figure if I’m having some improvements now is my chance to get out of a situation that is not helping me get better at all, but making me much worse.
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