I’m hurting again. The days are bleeding into one another and I am bleeding internally. I promised myself maybe four years ago now, that I wouldn’t make myself bleed anymore. Not externally, anyway. But there is so much pain in not letting go. In not cutting myself open and bleeding out the hurt and pain inside me.

I am so angry sometimes it scares me. I feel like punching a wall. But mostly I just want someone to punch me. Someone to hurt me so hard I forget what it’s like to be hurting on my own. People understand broken bones but they do not understand broken parts. They do not know what it’s like to be screaming all the time. They do not know what it is like to be woken up from visceral nightmares of hanging bodies and loose limbs in the forest. They do not know that when I wake up, I remember. I remember every single detail of my dream and they do not know that I was there. I know it isn’t real. It’s probably stupid and incredibly trivial. But when I wake up from a nightmare, it sticks with me. I sleep a lot more than I should because my nightmares make me tired.

I want to dream about something so incredibly mundane like waiting in line at an airport or buying mayonnaise at the grocery store. These dreams are getting too much for me to handle and they are spilling into my reality. I get scared walking through the streets. I think someone will stab me or shoot me. I’m scared of geocaching in the woods because, what if I find a hand? What if I find a body? I’m not ready for that. My dreams are a part of who I am. I don’t expose myself to violent movies or scary movies even though they’re my favorite kind to watch. I like feeling unsettled from a movie but I can no longer enjoy them because I don’t want to exacerbate my dreams.

I feel lost and out of control. I hate uncertainty and life is known to be full of them. I’m at a tumultuous time in my life where I can’t find the balance between my mental health, work, and school. I feel like a failure. A disappointment. Why is my bar set so high?

These days, I’m grateful to just be able to get out of bed. To brush my teeth and go outside. Normal things that normal people do. But they’re easy for them. It’s a battle every single day for me to even get up. I can’t find the motivation to do it. My bed is my kidnapper and I have Stockholm Syndrome. I love my bed but I hate it. It gives me comfort but it won’t let me leave. Why won’t it let me leave?

I’m supposed to be stronger, to be better, but I don’t know if it’s working. All the medication, all the therapy — is it even worth it? Am I stronger than I was before? Just because I was raped, found out that I was sexually abused as a child, had suicide become a part of my life? Am I stronger than I was before? Because that’s all that matters, right?

All my traumas are spilling out all at once and I don’t know what to do. Every single day is a struggle. Every single day is a battle. And most days, I am not winning.