As the end of each year approaches we ready ourselves for new chapters and new changes we want to make in our lives. To turn the page and start the next year with a clean slate.
As 2016 came to it's end, there were so many things for me to look forward to- my beloved Granny coming down for a much anticipated visit. She would be here for her great granddaughters birthday and Christmas.
On the outside, you would've thought my life were perfect, and for the most part it was.
My daughter is smarter and more beautiful than I could of ever hoped she would be and it wasn't for lack of parenting on all parts. My relationship with my parents, which was once very tumultuous, had blossomed into a wonderful and reliable means of emotional support. I had a beautiful home, a dog, and a from what everyone thought, the perfect relationship with my child's father. Behind closed doors, we were failing miserably at making one another happy. It was a long time coming so, to make a long story short, we ended things amicably. I moved into the other bedroom until I could find a suitable place for my daughter and I to call home.
New Year's came and went with only two things in mind- creating and keeping a peaceful co-parenting relationship with my child's father (from now on we will refer to him as 'W') and figuring out who I was once again after putting myself on hold for 6 years to build a life with someone and slowly turning into who they wanted me to be.
(Just a side note to my reader(s): If you ever find yourself in a situation that requires you to lose your sense of "self", get out. NOW!)
Fast forward to January 8th, 2017- North Eastern, North Carolina was hit with a torrential ice storm, making most of its roads impassable for days. I was advised by my boss to stay home and off the roads for the day. So like most days, it commenced with my morning phone call to my Mom. Most of our phone calls consisted of talking about what we ate for breakfast, my daughter, and gossiping all while smoking cigarettes and doing our daily routine.
On this particular morning I was chatting about Amelia, my daughter, with her and the phone went dead. Now, this wasn't a rare occurrence, so I resumed my daily routine and figured she would call me back later.
About 30 minutes passes by and I receive an IM on Facebook from a friend saying, "Let us know what happens. We are praying for you." Confused, I respond back, "What's going on?" She tells me I need to call my Dad. I go to call my Dad and see that he has already tried to call me and has left a voicemail. I didn't need to hear the voicemail to know what it was going to say.
Call it intuition. Call it God. Call it whatever you like, I already knew...
I try to collect my thoughts, my sanity, and my will to think and final dial my Dad. He confirms what I was already thinking. Mom had a heart attack and they were on the way to the hospital. I told him I'd be right there. Keep in mind that the road is covered in about 6 inches of thick, dense ice, but I didn't care if I had to ski to get to the hospital, I was going to make it there.
Queue my first panic attack in years.
Trying to find my ability to breathe, form words, and see through my tears, I dial Amelia's grandmother, who thankfully, lives directly around the corner. She keeps Amelia while I make, the what seems unending, journey to the hospital. I call my Dad when I'm about 5 minutes away. I've already smoked about 15 cigarettes during my short drive, so I'm sounding more like a man with end-stage lung cancer when he answers the phone. I ask him how she is. He's silent. I ask him what room she's in. He's silent. He said that he will just see me when I get there. Right then, I knew. MOM. DIDN'T. MAKE. IT. I do believe I lost what was left of my sanity in that moment.
I knew I shouldn't have driven myself to the hospital. I knew, though I was only 5 minutes out, I should've pulled over and called for a police escort, but I had to get there. I needed to confirm my worst fear.
I was an orphan.
I arrive to the hospital and try to collect my thoughts. Try to restore some sort of sanity. I will refer to this as my "game face". It is term I use most often when I know the out come of a situation is going to be less than favorable, but I make this impenetrable facial expression that helps me face the battles I'm about to ensue. That would not hold out in this case.
I walk up to the ER entrance where my Dad and his friend John are standing, not expecting to see them there, I say, "Where is she?"
Before Dad can get more than one word from between his lips, I drop. I thought that this was a dream that I would inevitably wake from. My mom couldn't be dead.
First stage of grief - Denial.
I stutter through my tears and ask my Dad if this is some kind of sick joke. "No," he answered.
I entered the room where my Mom's lifeless body laid. I expected her eyes to open. I expected to see her chest rise and fall in the motion of air still making it's way through the lungs. I expected for her to still smell like herself. Instead, she had no smell at all. She didn't even look like my Mom. I sat in the room, by her side for hours begging her to get up. Questioning and re-questioning the doctors that cared for her. Questioning and re-questioning my Dad. Making sure that everything that could've been done was done. The only one I didn't question was myself.
If I had called my Mom back when the phone went dead maybe, just maybe, she'd still be here.
It was a massive heart attack that took her life, but maybe if I had called her back Dad would've heard her phone ring and when she didn't answer he would've wondered why, went to see why she didn't answer her phone and found her sooner instead of 30 minutes later. Maybe if I had called her back and she didn't answer, I would have called Dad. Maybe I should not have called back at all and got my ass in the car and drove over there, because in hindsight, the way the call just dropped like it did, felt "off". All of these shoulda - coulda- wouldas have me shoulding all over myself. Denial and blame is a hell of a thing, folks. They are the bullies on the playground endlessly taunting you.
I spent that night thinking of her funeral. Wondering what would be said about her. Would the Eulogist do her justice? Would the obituary capture her kind heart? I knew in order for people to know her, I needed to step up and deliver her eulogy and write her obituary. I wanted it to be her final goodbyes and my one last shot at making her proud.
When her siblings arrived from Saint Louis I spent the next few days learning about her childhood. They told about me their ups and downs as siblings. They shared with tear filled smiles the memories they made with their sister.
I will forever be in the debt of my family and friends who stepped up and made my mother's funeral nothing short of spectacular.
Life after burying my Mom went on like normal, but was significantly lacking, in what I can only assume is the presence of her.
Second stage of grief - Anger.
I met someone.I was trying to fill the void of a man and my Mom, so I searched and found the wrong one. At the time he was charming and perfect and said all the things I needed to hear. He even drove me around town in my car listening to my Moms type of music and letting me cry out my anger and frustrations. I trusted him too quick and let him get too close too fast. I didn't see it at first, despite the warnings from friends.
On countless occasions, I heard things like, "He's no good for you."
"He's not who you think he is."
"He's not the kind of guy you normally go for."
I addressed this with David and he gave me excuse after excuse of how he was not that kind of guy any more. I fell for it.
Hook, line and sinker.
In my misjudgment, I allowed him to meet my daughter, because I had hopes of our relationship progressing into something serious. Boy, was I fricking stupid.
That's when things started getting, for lack of a better term, awkward.
During this time, I finally found an apartment I deemed worthy of habitation, I was just waiting for it to be built and I started to move in. After the move in, David was there every day.
Every. Day.
At first, it was nice to have someone around, being as how I hadn't been alone in so long it was nice to have a warm body next to me. It started to become a problem when I wanted alone time. I was starting become questioned about my where abouts. I couldn't have a mother-daughter day without him showing up. The arguments were constant.
Then the lies started. He was caught selling cocaine by a guy friend of mine while we were on a double date. When I confronted him about it, of course, he denied it. Deny to survive, I suppose. At first I was skeptical, but then he did a deal right out of my car with me in it. There was no more denial. That was my final straw. I knew then I had to get away, but there had to be steps to do so.
He had already made it clear to me that if I had ever cheated on him and got caught that he would kill me. So this was no joking matter.
The night before I decided to end things with David, my friend and I went out for a few drinks to discuss how to safely go about ditching the douche bag.
We got to the bar after work and the only person aware of us being there was my friend's boyfriend and he was the one who caught David selling blow on our double date, so I know he didn't alert him to my whereabouts. Her boyfriend absolutely loathed David. But low and behold, no more than 5 minutes passed and David shows up, unannounced, to "check in on me" and to make sure I'm not "doing anything stupid".
My friend and I leave the bar and I head home. Around 3 a.m., when I was almost dead to the world asleep, I hear my front door unlock. Yes, I gave this clown a key to apartment. He crawls into bed with me. I ask him to leave. In his drunken stupor, he refuses. I told him that if he didn't let me take him home then I would call the police and they would make sure he made it home safely. He agreed, but not without begging and pleading for me not to break up with him first. To avoid further issue, and possible violence, I had witnessed his short fused temper before with other people, I agreed we wouldn't be ending things that night. I just needed him out of my apartment and time to change my locks. While we were in my car and our way to drop him off at his place he makes a call to, what I am assuming is, his drug dealer and says, "I need the hardest thing you've got," and hangs up the phone. All suspicions of drug use are confirmed at this point. He then turns to me and says, "Please understand, that I would never get high and hurt you, but I am going to get enough and hurt myself." This was my biggest, "WTF," moment of my entire life, and trust me, there have been quite a few. I told him that he didn't need to do that. I tried to tell him that if he thought of killing himself that he needed to seek help beyond what I could ever offer. He refused. I could not bare to have someone's suicide on my conscience so I told him he could sleep on my couch for the night and sober up, but he had to be gone when I left for work the next morning.
I turned around and headed back to my apartment. Filled with a sense of dread, I know I should have left him on the curb to rot, but my caring nature just couldn't leave him to his devices.
When we got back to my apartment, I headed straight for my room. I dressed for bed. He came into my room and tried to be intimate. I refused. He was forceful. I refused several more times and fought back as much as I could, but I was no match for someone who spent his entire life in the gym. He hurt me in a way no man has ever hurt me. He violated me. No matter how many times I begged and pleaded for him to stop, it wasn't enough.
When he was done. He laid next to me as if he had done nothing wrong. I told him he hurt me and I wept. I asked him to leave, he refused. He said that I brought him there and I could take him home.
How could he of ever thought that my screams and tears were an invitation for a pajama party?
I was scared for my life, but I was so relieved with the fact that Amelia was with her father that night. God forbid she had witnessed any of the nights proceedings.
I laid lifeless. If I could've bet, I didn't breathe, for what felt like hours. I waited for him to fall asleep. I snuck out onto my balcony and texted my friend and pleaded for her help. I didn't get an answer. I was thinking of ways to just get away from him that didn't make noise and alert him. I didn't want to occur any further injury, because so far the only thing broken was my soul.
He found me.
I told him to leave or I'd call the police. I guess in that moment he found Jesus, because without a fuss, he gathered his things and walked out my door. I locked the door behind him and called 911. Before dispatch could arrive, the ignoramus comes back to my door, knocking, banging, hollering, and trying to get back in my door. Thank goodness, I'm still on the phone with the dispatcher. She tells me the police have just pulled in my complex and to hang tight. They catch David as he is heading down my stairs and back into the parking lot.
In the early morning sun, I am shuttled to the hospital and ran through a number of invasive and even more mortifying tests. They take my clothes and just a bit more of my dignity. I am filled with enough antibiotics, pain killers, and mood stabilizers to make me have a literal functioning blackout for the next 24 hours.
(After I left the hospital I drove my car, showered, played with my Dad's dogs, went back to my apartment and the last thing I remember about that day is my legs in the stirrups. That, my friends, is a functioning blackout. Scary, to say the least.)
As a result of the sexual assault, Albemarle Hopeline and Crisis Center (these women are absolute Angels) is called in. They helped me every step of the way, from the legal aspect to counseling, to crying right along with me while I explained every excruciating detail of my rape in front of a judge, God, a courtroom full of strangers, my Grandmother, and my best friend so I could attain an Ex Parte order. I am currently waiting for this case to go to the Grand Jury.
After the assault, I had problems being touched, even by females. My moods would bottom out to the point where I wouldn't leave my couch for days, unless I was meeting the pizza delivery man at the door. With every low it was soon followed by an incredible high. I felt untouchable, but my acrimony would come to a head and I would "pop" faster than a white head on the face of a teenager. I would have incredible bouts of paranoia, and rightfully so, because while my assault might of been over, I was being stalked by my aggressor. Not forcefully, but at a legal length, just enough to creep under my skin.
My mania was out of control, even with help of counseling, to the point where I had a baby-sitter around the clock. When I was at work, my best friend kept a close eye on me, then from the time I got home until I went to work the next day a close male friend sat with me at home. When they weren't available my Dad was invited over to unknowingly look after me.
My last counseling appointment with Hopeline triggered something in me that finally reached it's breaking point. I had yet another panic attack in their parking lot and I drove myself directly to the ER, because this one felt more like a heart attack, the very thing that took my mother from me.
I was prescribed medication to help balance me out and move on with my life and it worked for a short time.
Things didn't stay copacetic with W (my child's father) and I. That is something I choose to keep private to protect my child, just know co-parenting isn't always sunshine, rainbows and unicorns.
With all the things happening and going on around me I started to feel such anger towards my mother. I started to have arguments with myself and how she raised me, because I refuse to make the same mistakes she made with me. Where she failed as being a mother, she excelled at being a grandmother and I feel such anger that she isn't here to see it through. She will miss out on so much- Amelia's first day of school. All of her dance recitals. Watching her walk across the stage when she wins the "Little Miss Tater Tot Pageant". The list is endless. She missed those things with me and now she will miss those things with the person she loved the most.
I know that if she were here all the problems W and I are having would be handled. My life would be so much easier if I could just have her back.
Stage 3 of Grief - Bargaining
With my 7 month spiral into perdition, I have began to have thoughts. Pretty bleak thoughts.
"Maybe Amelia would be better off without me."
"Would I really be missed if I just didn't come back?"
"Just put your car into drive and let it roll into the water..."
And the saddest one in my book, is that for the first time in years I prayed to God and I asked him,
"Send back my Mom to raise my daughter and you can have me."
Bargaining with the creator seemed like my only out and maybe I could see my Mom just one last time in transition.
Now, I was raised that suicide is a mortal sin, so bartering with God to take me in exchange for another couldn't exactly be taking your own life, right?
Stage 4 of Grief - Depression
The last 72 hours of my life have been this tendrillar motion of ideations. Having an organization actually drop the ball with my psychosis, because I lack insurance... Well, I happen to fall into that gray area of making too much for medicare and I cant afford $293 a month out of pocket for insurance and my job doesn't offer insurance, so I am joined to another object by an inclined plane wrapped helically around an axis.
I'm screwed.
I was finally seen by Port of Health and Human Services for an assessment. They determined that I have PTSD, bi-polar, high-functioning anxiety (which I was diagnosed with years ago), and situational depression. I was given meds by the hospital to try and carry me over until I can see a prescriber at PHHS.
Stage 5 of Grief- Acceptance
I have an issue with opening up about myself to others, especially things like this. People have big mouths and form their own opinions, so by all means if that is your intentions after reading this, feel free to do what you want. Your opinions are not what I'm here for. What I am here for is to help others.
There were moments when I couldn't find or see the light at the end of the tunnel. I felt no matter how far I walked the path just got longer. I wanted to give up. I wanted out. If it weren't for my amazingly supportive boyfriend giving the swift kick in the patootie and pointing me in the correct direction of finding help, you wouldn't be reading this post.
Though I have only been back on my medication for 24 hours, the amount of clarity and balance I feel is great.
I accept that I have mental health problems and I am seeking help.
If you are reading this and you feel like you need help please feel free to comment and talk to me.
There are numbers to call and text.
If you have already done something that could be potentially life threatening to you or someone else please dial 911
Text 741741
Call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline (US) 1-800-273-8255
Have a story? Feel free to share it in the comments. Someone may not connect with my story, but yours may be the push they need to finally seek the help they deserve.
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You are never alone.
As 2016 came to it's end, there were so many things for me to look forward to- my beloved Granny coming down for a much anticipated visit. She would be here for her great granddaughters birthday and Christmas.
On the outside, you would've thought my life were perfect, and for the most part it was.
My daughter is smarter and more beautiful than I could of ever hoped she would be and it wasn't for lack of parenting on all parts. My relationship with my parents, which was once very tumultuous, had blossomed into a wonderful and reliable means of emotional support. I had a beautiful home, a dog, and a from what everyone thought, the perfect relationship with my child's father. Behind closed doors, we were failing miserably at making one another happy. It was a long time coming so, to make a long story short, we ended things amicably. I moved into the other bedroom until I could find a suitable place for my daughter and I to call home.
New Year's came and went with only two things in mind- creating and keeping a peaceful co-parenting relationship with my child's father (from now on we will refer to him as 'W') and figuring out who I was once again after putting myself on hold for 6 years to build a life with someone and slowly turning into who they wanted me to be.
(Just a side note to my reader(s): If you ever find yourself in a situation that requires you to lose your sense of "self", get out. NOW!)
Fast forward to January 8th, 2017- North Eastern, North Carolina was hit with a torrential ice storm, making most of its roads impassable for days. I was advised by my boss to stay home and off the roads for the day. So like most days, it commenced with my morning phone call to my Mom. Most of our phone calls consisted of talking about what we ate for breakfast, my daughter, and gossiping all while smoking cigarettes and doing our daily routine.
On this particular morning I was chatting about Amelia, my daughter, with her and the phone went dead. Now, this wasn't a rare occurrence, so I resumed my daily routine and figured she would call me back later.
About 30 minutes passes by and I receive an IM on Facebook from a friend saying, "Let us know what happens. We are praying for you." Confused, I respond back, "What's going on?" She tells me I need to call my Dad. I go to call my Dad and see that he has already tried to call me and has left a voicemail. I didn't need to hear the voicemail to know what it was going to say.
Call it intuition. Call it God. Call it whatever you like, I already knew...
I try to collect my thoughts, my sanity, and my will to think and final dial my Dad. He confirms what I was already thinking. Mom had a heart attack and they were on the way to the hospital. I told him I'd be right there. Keep in mind that the road is covered in about 6 inches of thick, dense ice, but I didn't care if I had to ski to get to the hospital, I was going to make it there.
Queue my first panic attack in years.
Trying to find my ability to breathe, form words, and see through my tears, I dial Amelia's grandmother, who thankfully, lives directly around the corner. She keeps Amelia while I make, the what seems unending, journey to the hospital. I call my Dad when I'm about 5 minutes away. I've already smoked about 15 cigarettes during my short drive, so I'm sounding more like a man with end-stage lung cancer when he answers the phone. I ask him how she is. He's silent. I ask him what room she's in. He's silent. He said that he will just see me when I get there. Right then, I knew. MOM. DIDN'T. MAKE. IT. I do believe I lost what was left of my sanity in that moment.
I knew I shouldn't have driven myself to the hospital. I knew, though I was only 5 minutes out, I should've pulled over and called for a police escort, but I had to get there. I needed to confirm my worst fear.
I was an orphan.
I arrive to the hospital and try to collect my thoughts. Try to restore some sort of sanity. I will refer to this as my "game face". It is term I use most often when I know the out come of a situation is going to be less than favorable, but I make this impenetrable facial expression that helps me face the battles I'm about to ensue. That would not hold out in this case.
I walk up to the ER entrance where my Dad and his friend John are standing, not expecting to see them there, I say, "Where is she?"
Before Dad can get more than one word from between his lips, I drop. I thought that this was a dream that I would inevitably wake from. My mom couldn't be dead.
First stage of grief - Denial.
I stutter through my tears and ask my Dad if this is some kind of sick joke. "No," he answered.
I entered the room where my Mom's lifeless body laid. I expected her eyes to open. I expected to see her chest rise and fall in the motion of air still making it's way through the lungs. I expected for her to still smell like herself. Instead, she had no smell at all. She didn't even look like my Mom. I sat in the room, by her side for hours begging her to get up. Questioning and re-questioning the doctors that cared for her. Questioning and re-questioning my Dad. Making sure that everything that could've been done was done. The only one I didn't question was myself.
If I had called my Mom back when the phone went dead maybe, just maybe, she'd still be here.
It was a massive heart attack that took her life, but maybe if I had called her back Dad would've heard her phone ring and when she didn't answer he would've wondered why, went to see why she didn't answer her phone and found her sooner instead of 30 minutes later. Maybe if I had called her back and she didn't answer, I would have called Dad. Maybe I should not have called back at all and got my ass in the car and drove over there, because in hindsight, the way the call just dropped like it did, felt "off". All of these shoulda - coulda- wouldas have me shoulding all over myself. Denial and blame is a hell of a thing, folks. They are the bullies on the playground endlessly taunting you.
I spent that night thinking of her funeral. Wondering what would be said about her. Would the Eulogist do her justice? Would the obituary capture her kind heart? I knew in order for people to know her, I needed to step up and deliver her eulogy and write her obituary. I wanted it to be her final goodbyes and my one last shot at making her proud.
When her siblings arrived from Saint Louis I spent the next few days learning about her childhood. They told about me their ups and downs as siblings. They shared with tear filled smiles the memories they made with their sister.
I will forever be in the debt of my family and friends who stepped up and made my mother's funeral nothing short of spectacular.
Life after burying my Mom went on like normal, but was significantly lacking, in what I can only assume is the presence of her.
Second stage of grief - Anger.
I met someone.I was trying to fill the void of a man and my Mom, so I searched and found the wrong one. At the time he was charming and perfect and said all the things I needed to hear. He even drove me around town in my car listening to my Moms type of music and letting me cry out my anger and frustrations. I trusted him too quick and let him get too close too fast. I didn't see it at first, despite the warnings from friends.
On countless occasions, I heard things like, "He's no good for you."
"He's not who you think he is."
"He's not the kind of guy you normally go for."
I addressed this with David and he gave me excuse after excuse of how he was not that kind of guy any more. I fell for it.
Hook, line and sinker.
In my misjudgment, I allowed him to meet my daughter, because I had hopes of our relationship progressing into something serious. Boy, was I fricking stupid.
That's when things started getting, for lack of a better term, awkward.
During this time, I finally found an apartment I deemed worthy of habitation, I was just waiting for it to be built and I started to move in. After the move in, David was there every day.
Every. Day.
At first, it was nice to have someone around, being as how I hadn't been alone in so long it was nice to have a warm body next to me. It started to become a problem when I wanted alone time. I was starting become questioned about my where abouts. I couldn't have a mother-daughter day without him showing up. The arguments were constant.
Then the lies started. He was caught selling cocaine by a guy friend of mine while we were on a double date. When I confronted him about it, of course, he denied it. Deny to survive, I suppose. At first I was skeptical, but then he did a deal right out of my car with me in it. There was no more denial. That was my final straw. I knew then I had to get away, but there had to be steps to do so.
He had already made it clear to me that if I had ever cheated on him and got caught that he would kill me. So this was no joking matter.
The night before I decided to end things with David, my friend and I went out for a few drinks to discuss how to safely go about ditching the douche bag.
We got to the bar after work and the only person aware of us being there was my friend's boyfriend and he was the one who caught David selling blow on our double date, so I know he didn't alert him to my whereabouts. Her boyfriend absolutely loathed David. But low and behold, no more than 5 minutes passed and David shows up, unannounced, to "check in on me" and to make sure I'm not "doing anything stupid".
My friend and I leave the bar and I head home. Around 3 a.m., when I was almost dead to the world asleep, I hear my front door unlock. Yes, I gave this clown a key to apartment. He crawls into bed with me. I ask him to leave. In his drunken stupor, he refuses. I told him that if he didn't let me take him home then I would call the police and they would make sure he made it home safely. He agreed, but not without begging and pleading for me not to break up with him first. To avoid further issue, and possible violence, I had witnessed his short fused temper before with other people, I agreed we wouldn't be ending things that night. I just needed him out of my apartment and time to change my locks. While we were in my car and our way to drop him off at his place he makes a call to, what I am assuming is, his drug dealer and says, "I need the hardest thing you've got," and hangs up the phone. All suspicions of drug use are confirmed at this point. He then turns to me and says, "Please understand, that I would never get high and hurt you, but I am going to get enough and hurt myself." This was my biggest, "WTF," moment of my entire life, and trust me, there have been quite a few. I told him that he didn't need to do that. I tried to tell him that if he thought of killing himself that he needed to seek help beyond what I could ever offer. He refused. I could not bare to have someone's suicide on my conscience so I told him he could sleep on my couch for the night and sober up, but he had to be gone when I left for work the next morning.
I turned around and headed back to my apartment. Filled with a sense of dread, I know I should have left him on the curb to rot, but my caring nature just couldn't leave him to his devices.
When we got back to my apartment, I headed straight for my room. I dressed for bed. He came into my room and tried to be intimate. I refused. He was forceful. I refused several more times and fought back as much as I could, but I was no match for someone who spent his entire life in the gym. He hurt me in a way no man has ever hurt me. He violated me. No matter how many times I begged and pleaded for him to stop, it wasn't enough.
When he was done. He laid next to me as if he had done nothing wrong. I told him he hurt me and I wept. I asked him to leave, he refused. He said that I brought him there and I could take him home.
How could he of ever thought that my screams and tears were an invitation for a pajama party?
I was scared for my life, but I was so relieved with the fact that Amelia was with her father that night. God forbid she had witnessed any of the nights proceedings.
I laid lifeless. If I could've bet, I didn't breathe, for what felt like hours. I waited for him to fall asleep. I snuck out onto my balcony and texted my friend and pleaded for her help. I didn't get an answer. I was thinking of ways to just get away from him that didn't make noise and alert him. I didn't want to occur any further injury, because so far the only thing broken was my soul.
He found me.
I told him to leave or I'd call the police. I guess in that moment he found Jesus, because without a fuss, he gathered his things and walked out my door. I locked the door behind him and called 911. Before dispatch could arrive, the ignoramus comes back to my door, knocking, banging, hollering, and trying to get back in my door. Thank goodness, I'm still on the phone with the dispatcher. She tells me the police have just pulled in my complex and to hang tight. They catch David as he is heading down my stairs and back into the parking lot.
In the early morning sun, I am shuttled to the hospital and ran through a number of invasive and even more mortifying tests. They take my clothes and just a bit more of my dignity. I am filled with enough antibiotics, pain killers, and mood stabilizers to make me have a literal functioning blackout for the next 24 hours.
(After I left the hospital I drove my car, showered, played with my Dad's dogs, went back to my apartment and the last thing I remember about that day is my legs in the stirrups. That, my friends, is a functioning blackout. Scary, to say the least.)
As a result of the sexual assault, Albemarle Hopeline and Crisis Center (these women are absolute Angels) is called in. They helped me every step of the way, from the legal aspect to counseling, to crying right along with me while I explained every excruciating detail of my rape in front of a judge, God, a courtroom full of strangers, my Grandmother, and my best friend so I could attain an Ex Parte order. I am currently waiting for this case to go to the Grand Jury.
After the assault, I had problems being touched, even by females. My moods would bottom out to the point where I wouldn't leave my couch for days, unless I was meeting the pizza delivery man at the door. With every low it was soon followed by an incredible high. I felt untouchable, but my acrimony would come to a head and I would "pop" faster than a white head on the face of a teenager. I would have incredible bouts of paranoia, and rightfully so, because while my assault might of been over, I was being stalked by my aggressor. Not forcefully, but at a legal length, just enough to creep under my skin.
My mania was out of control, even with help of counseling, to the point where I had a baby-sitter around the clock. When I was at work, my best friend kept a close eye on me, then from the time I got home until I went to work the next day a close male friend sat with me at home. When they weren't available my Dad was invited over to unknowingly look after me.
My last counseling appointment with Hopeline triggered something in me that finally reached it's breaking point. I had yet another panic attack in their parking lot and I drove myself directly to the ER, because this one felt more like a heart attack, the very thing that took my mother from me.
I was prescribed medication to help balance me out and move on with my life and it worked for a short time.
Things didn't stay copacetic with W (my child's father) and I. That is something I choose to keep private to protect my child, just know co-parenting isn't always sunshine, rainbows and unicorns.
With all the things happening and going on around me I started to feel such anger towards my mother. I started to have arguments with myself and how she raised me, because I refuse to make the same mistakes she made with me. Where she failed as being a mother, she excelled at being a grandmother and I feel such anger that she isn't here to see it through. She will miss out on so much- Amelia's first day of school. All of her dance recitals. Watching her walk across the stage when she wins the "Little Miss Tater Tot Pageant". The list is endless. She missed those things with me and now she will miss those things with the person she loved the most.
I know that if she were here all the problems W and I are having would be handled. My life would be so much easier if I could just have her back.
Stage 3 of Grief - Bargaining
With my 7 month spiral into perdition, I have began to have thoughts. Pretty bleak thoughts.
"Maybe Amelia would be better off without me."
"Would I really be missed if I just didn't come back?"
"Just put your car into drive and let it roll into the water..."
And the saddest one in my book, is that for the first time in years I prayed to God and I asked him,
"Send back my Mom to raise my daughter and you can have me."
Bargaining with the creator seemed like my only out and maybe I could see my Mom just one last time in transition.
Now, I was raised that suicide is a mortal sin, so bartering with God to take me in exchange for another couldn't exactly be taking your own life, right?
Stage 4 of Grief - Depression
The last 72 hours of my life have been this tendrillar motion of ideations. Having an organization actually drop the ball with my psychosis, because I lack insurance... Well, I happen to fall into that gray area of making too much for medicare and I cant afford $293 a month out of pocket for insurance and my job doesn't offer insurance, so I am joined to another object by an inclined plane wrapped helically around an axis.
I'm screwed.
I was finally seen by Port of Health and Human Services for an assessment. They determined that I have PTSD, bi-polar, high-functioning anxiety (which I was diagnosed with years ago), and situational depression. I was given meds by the hospital to try and carry me over until I can see a prescriber at PHHS.
Stage 5 of Grief- Acceptance
I have an issue with opening up about myself to others, especially things like this. People have big mouths and form their own opinions, so by all means if that is your intentions after reading this, feel free to do what you want. Your opinions are not what I'm here for. What I am here for is to help others.
There were moments when I couldn't find or see the light at the end of the tunnel. I felt no matter how far I walked the path just got longer. I wanted to give up. I wanted out. If it weren't for my amazingly supportive boyfriend giving the swift kick in the patootie and pointing me in the correct direction of finding help, you wouldn't be reading this post.
Though I have only been back on my medication for 24 hours, the amount of clarity and balance I feel is great.
I accept that I have mental health problems and I am seeking help.
If you are reading this and you feel like you need help please feel free to comment and talk to me.
There are numbers to call and text.
If you have already done something that could be potentially life threatening to you or someone else please dial 911
Text 741741
Call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline (US) 1-800-273-8255
Have a story? Feel free to share it in the comments. Someone may not connect with my story, but yours may be the push they need to finally seek the help they deserve.
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You are never alone.
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