Exhibits F thru U

I need to put together the exhibits for the case. Texts and screen recordings and whatnot. I just don’t want to. I am freezing every time I sit at the computer and I just can’t do it.

It feels ridiculous because it’s just clicking, scrolling, selecting files—things normal people do without thinking. But my brain turns it into a cliff face. The cursor becomes a threat. The silence of the room becomes a weight pressing down on my spine. It’s like my body refuses to move even though I’m fully aware I should.

Functional freeze, it is called. I can’t do basic tasks sometimes just because I can’t. It’s a nervous system effect that’s caused by trauma. I freeze up. Same thing with getting out of bed. The autonomic shutdown, "reduced initiation of self-care behaviors, and impaired capacity for goal-directed action," just happens even when I'm fully aware I can do things.

I can function, but I can’t.

It’s exhausting living in that contradiction. People assume ability because they see the parts where I perform. They don’t see the aftermath. They don’t see the debris field behind the scenes. They don’t see that functionality is a costume I can’t always zip up.

The whole psychological aspect of trauma like rape is a myriad of different types of responses. This just happens to be mine.

And no one tells you that recovery isn’t a straight line. It zigzags, doubles back, punches you in the throat, and then expects you to smile for a holiday photo. Speaking of which—

It’s also the holiday season. I am going to be alone for Thanksgiving. LawyerBoy has already left for the week to go back home for the holiday. I don’t work for 4 days and I’m going to be alone. This is a recipe for depression.

People say, “treat yourself,” “rest,” “enjoy the peace,” but solitude hits different when your brain is a chaotic swirl memories of truly disturbing shit. The quiet gets loud. The hours stretch. The walls breathe.

I hope I can handle it better than last year. I was in the outpatient hospitalization program last Thanksgiving. They were closed for the 4-day weekend. I almost lost it. It was too long to be alone with no interaction with society for me at that time.

Christmas I was in rehab, then I tried to kill myself. So New Year’s I was in the hospital involuntarily. I believe I was outside smoking a cigarette wrapped in a blanket rocking back and forth saying "bird and stairs" because of a deal I had where birds were pecking at my body. It like the second blog post  

There is something special about being locked up for your own safety while everyone else is clinking champagne glasses and posting cheesy captions about fresh starts. My fresh start was monitored vitals and shoes without laces.

This holiday season has to be better for me. I haven’t discussed Christmas with LawyerBoy yet. Our last Christmas did not end well. But he is all I really have right now. I don’t have anywhere else to go, and I am afraid to ask if we can spend Christmas together because I’m afraid he will have other plans. Even asking the question feels dangerous. Hope is its own kind of vulnerability.

Maybe I’ll find a super codependent relationship between hither and yawn and I’ll never be alone again. Which leads me to another story about my new friend {B}.

We spent the night together. Actually, he wouldn’t leave. I wanted him to go. I didn’t want to spend the night with him. The more we talked the less I liked him, and the more I realized he was probably sociopathic. But—blue eyes, which in my world always means psychopath. 

I tried to figure out exactly why I couldn’t just say leave. Let’s go back to the beginning of the post and look at functional freeze again. We were in my home. I had every right to say, “Get out of my fucking house.” I didn’t though. I wanted to. I wanted to scream. I wanted him out of my bed and my house and life. I’m just avoiding him now. He didn’t do anything per se, I just got the creeps. So who knows, I might end up with a new stalker.

There’s a specific terror in realizing your body still doesn’t believe you’re allowed to enforce boundaries. Trauma rewires politeness into survival. It makes compliance feel safer than honesty. That’s the part people don’t grasp—freeze doesn’t just happen with danger, it happens with discomfort, awkwardness, expectation, and male entitlement.

Okay, I’ve been using this post to again avoid doing the fucking exhibits. I need to get back to them. I need to. I started this, I have to finish it, right?

But maybe the truth is this: the exhibits are not just files. They are proof. Proof means reality. Reality means reliving. Reliving means pain. And my nervous system—traitor, guardian, malfunctioning alarm system—can’t tell the difference between paperwork and the night everything started.

Maybe the freeze isn’t avoidance. Maybe it’s protection from what hurts me.