6 - A God, Traumatised

Lin

I know, I'm late.

Yesterday was... eventful to say the least.

That is, if spending half of the day in hospital counts as eventful.

I think I may owe the populous an explanation.

I was travelling to UC yesterday, when my anxiety decided to gradually get worse. 

In all fairness, I shouldn't have ordered that mocha.

Once I got there, I was almost at breaking point. I had to lie on the floor outside to try to cool myself down, but even that didn't help.

For context, I was experiencing symptoms which are similar to what I experience when I have a lack of blood sugar. I'm starting to think that my body initiates panic attacks when I'm deficit now. 

Eventually I couldn't handle it any more and basically asked for help in a very undignified way.

My work coach ended up having an ambulance called for me, and one of the other UC staff got me a Bournville bar per my request.

I have never been so immobilised by shaking in my life.

I kept feeling like I was going to be sick, I was pretty dizzy and the shaking got so bad that people thought I was cold. 

My body was mimicking fever symptoms. It was far from pleasant.

Luckily for me, all of the ambulance and hospital staff were really nice, and they listened to me about my issues. I'm planning on speaking to my GP soon because I can't go on without some kind of therapy.

CBT probably won't cut it, so I'll have to try for something else, if I can possibly get it. And I won't be trying EMDR again. Gaslight fuel, in my opinion.

In the end, this is bin boy's fault. Yes, I hexed him, but only after he did ill to me. And I'm pretty sure he hexed me first anyway, so I was just returning the favour.

You fuck around with me, you find out.

It's ironic. As a child, I always had people trying to get me into trouble for almost anything, whether I'd actually done something wrong or not.

In primary school, it often got chalked up to me being a 'troublemaker', despite them knowing full well that I had a PDD-NOS diagnosis, and that most of those incidents were fabricated. They hated having a SEN kid in their class who was learning English and would swear in Brezhoneg at people who stepped out of line, and they wanted to crush me. Even in spite of that, somehow, I was a fairly happy child.

I suppose the smiles hid the scars I was forced to bear every day.

In secondary, the teachers figured that pattern out very quickly, as I had become teacher's pet, and I was wise beyond my years. I had begun to learn how to reflect on my own behaviour, as well as looking at others, and it showed. People hated that. I was also known for my abusers refusing to let me do anything by myself, so I was seen as uptight and a loser. 

It wasn't my choice, believe me.

In college, I was an outcast, aside from one or two friends. They never tried to get me into trouble for anything, but it was made quite clear that my emotional outbursts due to trauma made me a social pariah, and most people didn't want to deal with such an emotionally volatile classmate. 

Hearing me be honest about my home life at that time and that situation, and feeling powerless to do anything about it probably made them think I was a coward.

Then during my short stints at university, most people seemed to generally avoid me. I had some friends (most of whom I still consider friends now), but again, I was very much a social outcast. 

I don't know if it was because I was so open, or because I had a hard time keeping myself together. Either way, it didn't seem as though people took much of a liking to me.

When I moved in here, I was forced to face that dynamic again. First with fashion rat, now with bin boy. They both have deliberately started arguments with me over some of the most trivial things possible, and every time, they exposed themselves. 

I don't know what they're so jealous of. Is it my royal blood, my godly status? My self worth, my maturity? 

Either way, it stands to reason that they've chosen to fight with me due to issues within themselves, as opposed to me actually being an issue in their lives.

Which means that they need to check themselves.

As I look at my altar again, a sour apple frappuccino of the same kind that I just ordered from Starbucks appears on the granite, along with a devil horn headband. I cackle.

Lucifer, quit trolling me.

No.

Ok, fair. Looks like this inside joke is going on the internet. 

Everyone has this thing about Lucifer being a Roman deity, or one of Christianity's fallen angels in Hell. He's actually neither. He's an Etruscan God, a God I was going to marry, at that. But that fell through, for a few reasons. We still date, though.

The Halloween merch is to do with my own affiliation with Hell, but we won't go into that.

Not here, not now.

Sooner or later, maybe.

I take a sip of the frappuccino. I smile.

Delicious.