I've hit a wall

Lately, I've dealt with a lot of unfortunate trauma triggers. I don't have a proper measurement of time in my head for all of it, DPDR makes things fuzzy when I'm dissociating because of what my body is going through, but I think it started sometime last month. I can't recall all of the triggers, but a few of my worst were related to housing inspections and maintenance requiring access to my home.

I've written before about inspections while living in section 8 housing, and just how upsetting they can be to someone with certain traumas. Those always cause a period of hyperarousal, and I need at least a week to fully come down from it. The second time maintenance had to come by last month, it resulted in one of the worst PTSD episode I've had since the end of 2020. I ended up a silently catatonic, paranoid mess.

Maintenance required access to my home to attach a hose to my kitchen sink, since we have no outside water access here. I was given a time block, from around nine in the morning to after noon. I woke up at eight in the morning and jumped in the shower, since it was shower day. I have to stick to a regular showering schedule in order to shower enough, and if I break that pattern, I get disorganized and messed up, and I may not shower for a few more days.

The workers arrived earlier than was noted. The maintenance truck had been sitting in my driveway for a half hour or longer before the scheduled time. They began to knock on my door before nine.

I froze and panicked. I figured they'd wait, so I tried to hurry through. They proceeded to knock louder and longer, and the noise got so bad that I started shaking and having an anxiety attack. I felt vulnerable and scared, even though I still knew it was irrational. And then they pounded on my windows.

For minutes at a time without letting up, men were pounding on my windows hard, not stopping and then continuing on another window. Repeatedly. For several minutes. Then they moved back to my door, and then back to my windows.

I spaced out and tensed up, and in my mind, I was preparing to defend myself against danger. I hyperventilated, shivered, and mumbled a mantra trying to block out the sound, but it boomed in my ears. I placed my hands over my head, and I shouted, begging for it to stop. To be left alone.

I don't remember much in between. My phone had been ringing off the hook while people pounded on my windows and door, and at some point, I managed to answer the phone. It was my landlord, out sick but still trying to reach me. I felt guilty because of how sick she sounded, but I can't remember what I told her. I ended up in my bedroom, dressed, sitting on the bed. I have no memory of how I got that way. At some point, I'd self-harmed deeper than I usually do.

I hallucinated my father's voice. The words weren't clear, but it was an echo of the verbal abuse he'd shout at me when I lived at home. And then I hallucinated him standing in my bedroom doorway.

I'd grabbed my sketchbook and markers, but again, have no memory of when. I drew the picture in my last poem, and the words are similar to what I wrote in my sketchbook. A phrase repeated in my head; 'feet thumping, pounding on the door, I can feel something within internal gore.'

I put signs up in every single window in my house that said, 'Do not pound on the windows. PTSD/autism.' I taped black construction paper over the little square windows on my front door and back door. I closed all of my blinds. I don't remember the rest of the day. I don't have any clear memories of the days following.

Now, when I see the maintenance truck, my body associates it with danger. And it's come back multiple times over the last month and this one. I've been terrified that I'm in trouble. That the maintenance man is angry with me. This was made worse when I went outside to greet the person checking our meters yesterday, and when maintenance stepped out of his truck to help the man find the meter, I was ignored. I wasn't greeted like usual.

"I'm in trouble." "He's angry at me." "I messed up."

I finally removed all but one of the signs from my windows yesterday. My depression has been at its worst, and I think about suicide regularly, but I've had chronic suicidal thoughts since I was ten, so usually, that's just a part of my life. Lately, however, they've come with urges. Yesterday, I woke up out of a deep sleep already thinking about suicide, what I'd do, and what the aftermath would look like.

At some point in the last few weeks, I froze while taking my nightly medication and had an urge to down all of it. At least once, I was afraid I might actually do it. It was like something else tried to control me, to move my arm to dump the bottle into my mouth. Thankfully, my alters and spirit guides were able to bring my attention back to the present, and I didn't give in to the urge.

I'm still recovering. But the depression is holding on. It's not getting better, no matter what I try. I went out with a friend last weekend, and I spent the next day with her. I went out the day after that, myself, and walked to the library. Every time I came back home, I fell right back into the pit of depression that never truly went away. The injuries on my arm still haven't faded, and at least one was so deep it may not fade. Being summer, it's difficult to wear long sleeves, but it's better than people staring or asking what happened. Because people always have.

I'm not sure what to do. I'd had a few other stressful things happen leading up to that, and I haven't been able to come out of it this time. I think I'm just tired. Since last November, I've struggled with severe depressive episodes and a continuous barrage of bad news and stress. Things kept breaking, my debts got bigger, rent ate up my entire cost of living increase, my food stamps were lowered, and I can't afford enough food for a month anymore.

There were a few times when I thought, 'dying would be a mercy,' but I'm as frightened of death as I am fascinated with it. I can't go to the hospital because I don't have anyone to take care of my cats every day. And hospitals only keep me from hurting myself, they don't do anything else but show me the cruelty that still exists in the mental health field. I'd rather take my chances at home and just reach out to friends if I get into the danger zone.

I just had to talk about it all. I rarely have the spoons to do much these days, even blogging. Dysautonomia zaps me quickly when I get stressed, and I've been nauseated or queasy every day for almost a month now. Eating brings on a sour stomach, but at least I can keep it down, so I binge eat all day and ignore the sickness because at least highly processed junk and sugar makes me feel good.

I'm not okay. I've exhausted all of my resources and have reached out to find help from every avenue available to me. Long waiting lists. Not old enough. Not disabled enough. If I had SSDI I'd qualify, but because I could only get SSI, I don't. Can't afford the peer support service I need. Can't afford to hire someone to help me clean. The only food bank that doesn't push Christianity on you around here just gave me bread, more bread, cupcakes, cake, and rotten fruit when I tried. It just made me sick.

I want the healthy foods I can't afford. I need help cleaning my home. I need a way to get out of my house more often, because agoraphobia has become severe enough to where I get blurred vision and have a panic attack when I leave the house, which I rarely do anymore. I am within these four white, soulless walls 24/7. And I'm broke and unable to afford anything extra to make myself happy. Bills. Just... bills and hunger fears and isolation.

This is no quality of life. I have advocated for myself until I ran out of options. There are no answers for me. There is no reliable help for me. I am just stuck here, rotting away in my house.

©2024 Shane Blackheart