I lived with PTSD for 40 years, after molestation by a Catholic priest at age five. Read my story as I write it here through 2015.

This is a True Story

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Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Refugee from My Own Life

(December 2011 going nuts in West Virginia)

I'm so damaged, so- so damaged.  The tearfulness comes on me like a wave.  It surrounds me, it's so familiar it feels comfortable, homey, natural. 

Little old lady alone in an apartment, in a town where she has no history or reason to be, except she landed here.

Saving money to go to Chicago in pursuit of the priest.

But I've spent a good part of the last two days sobbing, loud and out loud. There’s this underlying sob under everything I do and say and think.  And of course the body pain is monstrous, as usually the two go together. 

Sometimes the sobbing, if I let go and let it be full-fledged crying, will cause a rush of pain relief, endorphins released with the tears. 

If I just get out every day and talk to someone, I'm better.  Today it was the woman in the Post Office, just that short conversation made my life ten times better than the previous several days when I didn't speak to anyone at all.  There are lots of those days. 

I almost want to be alone.  There aren't a lot of people who are interesting, when you get down to it.  Most people don't think things through, most people don't listen, most people now days don't read and instead rely on mainstream sound byte media for news so most people know very little about anything. 

I've gone from lonely wishing I had people around to not wanting people around and when they are here, I wish they’d leave. Too bad that transition happened but it happened.
(2014: So glad I got outta there, found this in that journal I'm mining for back story, more TK )

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