He got stuck at the laundromat washing his cape” ~Waiting for Superman, Daughtry
I have been reading my old posts and I am taken aback by how helpless, weak, and, well, whiny I was. Don't get me wrong, I had plenty of reasons, I just never wanted to end up that way. Thankfully, I didn't. Throughout all of those posts was a recurring theme, "Someone please save me!" I was waiting for Superman, he never came, but I am on my way to a "helluva life" anyway.
Confession time, and this is very difficult. I will always have a reminder of how I had felt about myself throughout my whole life just by looking down. After clawing and fighting, scraped knuckles and bruised knees (metaphorically) I was tired, sick, and honestly just DONE! After a particularly rough patch in life I went down that same old familiar path of self-hatred and loathing. I went into the bathroom, which has always been my "safe" place and slammed my head into the floor over and over. When that didn't make me feel better I punched myself several times then slammed my hand in the bathroom door. Nope, that storm inside of me was still raging!! I took my tweezers with the sharp pointy ends and carved the words "weak bitch" into my leg. Big, for all the world to see. Now that is a scarlet letter, so to speak, marking me forever. Afterwards, I took a large amount of pills and passed out on the bathroom floor. I believe during those hours on the floor a war was raging inside of me. It was do or die time. (literally). I got the help I needed. I had a brief "break" with 42 other women, very much like me, in a hospital. My diagnosis is PTSD. I realized Superman wasn't coming. He doesn't exist. I had to save myself. I left the facility motivated and eager to begin the work to rebuild, no that's wrong, restructure, my life. I say this because my past will always be there like a long shadow in the late afternoon sun. Forgetting and ignoring it had brought me to that place after all, so after 47 years I decided to find out who Roberta is.
As I walked out of that building I thought, "I'll have my shit together by Christmas." WRONG! This will never leave me. I can look back at my life and see shackles and barbed wire or I can see a blurry picture of the girl I used to be. What happened to me did not break me and will not define me. You see, I am not a "weak bitch." I am one of the brave ones. The scrappers, the fighters, the survivors. I have learned a few things since July 11. No one will lay a hand on me ever again. If they do I will fight back!! I will never stuff down and ignore my feelings, for they come back, always lurking and haunting, and eventually must be dealt with. Even 20, 30 or 40 years later. I can, and do set my boundaries. It's ok to say it's not ok!! I have also discovered I am a bitch to be reckoned with. There is a storm inside me alright, but I am no longer afraid of storms. Bring it on. Winds can rage, rain can come down in torrents, thunder and lightening can shake and scream. I will stand, exhausted from fighting the winds, hair crazy curly and frizzy from the rain, but standing.
So many people are out there Waiting for Superman. Not moving forward, not moving back, just stuck, waiting. I want to scream "MOVE YOUR LEGS" but they can't hear. Their storm is too loud in their heads. My hope is they find their way. For those of us with mental disorders life is a never ending prize fight. One bell to the next, fighting and dodging, refusing to get knocked out. I can be trained. I can be in fighting shape and have my game face on but the bell will always ring. That's ok. I don't need Superman to help me fight. I saved myself.
So, when I look down and see my forever scar on my leg, I will see it as a war wound. A visible scar representing all of the invisible ones inside of me. I considered covering it with a tattoo, but I won't, it will remain there to remind me who saved me in the end. I am not a Superhero, but yet I still fight, day in and day out. I have a lot more self-saving to do, and I'm looking forward to the challenge!
“Superheroes were born in the minds of people desperate to be rescued.
Jodi Picoult, The Tenth Circle