Wednesday. Well, what to say? I had a panic attack for a few hours leading up to them arriving. Dinner almost didn't happen, but I am who I am. I pulled myself together enough to say "come anyway" because the food was almost ready. So fuck it.
Steve's girlfriend is a sweetheart, generous. I can't hate her anymore. She's too likable. Her and I have too much in common. She had been told what was going on and wanted to help out in any way she could. She is so innocent, and he really likes that about her. He wants to keep her that way. She's so Christian too. Like, my inner former Catholic kind of wants to give her a reality check because she's a little too Christian. Not saying "God" or "damn" out loud is...I grew up with Irish Catholics. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph" was a common phrase uttered in the household. "Lord have mercy" was another.
I was the super Catholic. In the choir. Went to church on saint and holy days. Saturday church with the choir, and Sunday church with the family. I believed in confession. When I started liking girls, I talked to my priest in open confession about it. The first time I cut, I did the same. "If today you hear his voice, harden not your heart" which is something I learned with the sacrament of first holy communion. We even had a project in Sunday school where we colored in heart shaped rocks to "cleanse our sins." Sin. That an 8 year old had. Haha
That I had. I have done things that I am not proud of since then. But at 8? At 14? Heh, that's when I left. Because I wasn't ashamed of liking women and men. I wasn't ashamed of my sexuality. No, if anyone had a debt to pay, it was a distant God who put me through hell again and again.
No. That system made no sense to me. It hasn't made any sense since. And that is entirely why Steve and I could never be together. Because he believes in it, with everything in him.
And when other Gods start saying "hello" over the years, when they keep watch, even when I'd rather be left alone...It's not even one pantheon either. They all show up when they want to, sounds like Gods.
But, none of them help. They never have. Not with the pain, the depression, the panic attacks, the PTSD, the disassociation. None of it.
The meds aren't helping. Therapy isn't helping. I've been all sorts of wrong since Wednesday. I lashed out at Steve on Friday. I was a total asshole. I did the thing I told him I never would: be vindictive. Be mean and hateful. But I didn't care. I wanted to hurt him because I wanted him to hate me. And I realized it worked.
I hated myself for it. So I wanted some space to regroup. To stop hurting him. But he didn't understand. We left things on a sour note. I was deep into the depression. And yesterday I cut, right along a vein on my wrist. I almost passed out from something I did. I wasn't from bleeding, just something. Maybe because I've never cut near a vein before.
Even though things were terrible, Frank was at work, and all I could think was to call Steve. I didn't expect him to pick up, and he almost didn't. But given things, he knew it must be important. We ended up talking for 2 and 1/2 hours. It helped, more than I could imagine. And we're good again. He was worried, for good reason. But the right people are going to be told about everything.
The depression hasn't been kind to me for the last few months. *sighs*