Trauma Science ain’t nothing to fuck with

We now return to our regularly scheduled depression.

I’ve been feeling like I’m accomplishing something the last little bit, working on the book and getting the website set up and stuff. I actually got a burst of energy today and finalized the legal stuff. {D} got his interrogatories today. At least his lawyer did.

I talked to my dad and told him about what I was working on. I was kind of proud, and I thought he would think it was cool. He didn’t. He laughed at the term trauma science.

I said something about the lawsuit, and he got pissed and said whatever happens, they’ll overturn on appeal. Yeah, I know. But that doesn’t appear to be stopping me. Then he said something about the disbarment. He again was disappointed in me for, you know, taking legal action against a man who violated my body. God forbid I take every single legal action I have available to me.

But Dad reminded me I am, in fact, just an old unemployed loser. I don’t even know if anyone would read this book. I’m looking at mailers and stuff to catch someone’s eye and make them want to open the package and read it. But if they do, I’m not a lawyer. What if my entire premise is wrong and I didn’t understand the case and stuff? What if I just look like a fucking idiot, wasting all my time and money I don’t have on this?

What if it’s all bullshit and, like everything else I’ve done in my life, it’s going to fail? I have nothing else in my life worth living for anymore. This is all I have. Like what does that even mean?

I wish someone was just a little proud that I took the unthinkable and turned it into a crusade. That makes me a really strong and resourceful person. I’m not standing down, and I’m trying not to stand still. I’d be proud of me.

I don’t know. I think I just need someone in my life who supports me. Or at least sees it not as weakness, but instead as strength and resiliency and fight. Look at what I’ve done with nothing but self-doubt, anger, and an IQ. I might actually be proud of myself. I was just thinking I was incapable of feeling pride or joy or something about myself. But I might actually be a little proud that I’ve done this on my own. I’ve done it just out of sheer will. I’ve not been knocked down yet. I’ve been on the mat a few times, but not for the count.

I keep worrying that I’m going to die before this gets finished. I haven’t been taking care of myself. I don’t take my blood pressure medication, and I am starting to really feel it. I know my blood pressure is out of control. I can hear my pulse. That’s never a good sign.

I’m afraid to leave the house. My car is fucked, and I’m worried about driving. If something happened to my car, I don’t know what I would do. I can’t get myself in the shower so I can leave the house. I took a shower on Friday. I had a date with some fucking nurse practitioner. What an asshole he was. I was having trouble getting out for that date. Since then I’ve been down. I’ve been working nonstop.

But I’m almost out of cigarettes, and that, my friend, is how you get me out of the house. Feed my addiction to nicotine.

I don’t know. I need to go to the doctor. I need to get my life together. I need to get a job. I need to not spend all day in bed.

I just wish someone would come and get me and tell me I need to get up. Take a shower with me. Just push me a little bit. I need that.

So I put this through ChatGPT, who is now trying to work a plan to get me out of the house tomorrow and into the shower. So we will see what happens tomorrow. Stay tuned. Will I get in the shower? Will the car start? If it does, will I not only go to CVS and get my meds, but will I also make it to urgent care and get the antibiotics for my sinus infection I’ve been living with for weeks? Find out tomorrow on the next episode of Why Trauma Science Ain't Nothing to Fuck With, with your host, Moi.