Sanctuary or Prison?

I went off the deep end this last month or so. 

It was long overdue.

I've been processing a very abusive relationship while also coming to terms with and accepting that I will never have a good, healthy long-term relationship as that is just not in the cards for me. Since it's something I've always wanted and prayed for, it's been hard to accept.

So yes, I went off the deep end a little, but I have come to terms with the fact that my longest and best relationship will always be Tess. I have finally accepted it. I don't have to give it a second thought now, and that is both a relief and a curse.

Complex PTSD is a confusing thing. I feel both guilt for lumping my situation in with the horrors others have experienced, especially since I got out without landing in the emergency room, and denial that it was even that bad. There has been an excess of drinking, a lot of sobbing and isolating, and okay, then there was the night I cussed God out and flipped him off a few times.

That scene in "Heat" when Sandra Bullock runs her middle fingers across the glass at all the police officers? That was me.

At the time, I truly didn't believe the abuse I endured was that bad. I mean, he never hit me. But dear God, the manipulation, the silent treatments, the gaslighting, the sexual abuse, the walking on eggshells, and my favorite, the constant name calling - well, I guess that stuff wears on one's emotional wellbeing. Runs down your self-esteem. Makes you feel less than human, like you don't even matter.

Until you truly believe you don't matter.

Who knew?

Add in that this was the third abusive relationship I've had in a row, and well, maybe a complete meltdown was in order. I got out of the other two with a bit less damage, I think maybe because I didn't live with them so they couldn't exert complete control over me. I might be nonconfrontational, but I've always fought for my own freedom. This last time I made the mistake of letting him move in, and that's when the fun began. It ended with a bullet hole in the wall of my guest room, a knife thrown across the living room, and me loading animals into my car early the next morning and running for the Advocacy Center. A few visits from the police and a protection order later, he was gone. I have the pets, he has, I think, a new girlfriend he's living with, and I thought well, that's the end of it.

It is not the end of it.

I go to therapy, and I annoy the hell out of my friends with all the processing, and I have to say, people coming out of an abusive relationship really have no idea how to behave like normal citizens anymore. It's like I'm in a foreign country. Or on another planet. Dealing with people? Not even a clue as to how to begin. I can't have normal conversations anymore. I can't socialize normally anymore. Every social engagement is riddled with extreme anxiety. I can't even deal with my neighbors. When I see them, I pretend they aren't there, or I run into the house to avoid speaking to them. Painting and writing? Forget it. Creativity is blocked. I've started several paintings I never finished, and I trashed them. I keep opening my laptop to write and give up after one paragraph. I have a sketchbook filled with half-finished drawings, and a blanket I never finished knitting.

This is where the animals come in. All seven of them. Two of which I wouldn't even have had he not left them behind. That's how seriously fucked up this relationship was compared to the last ones. This one actually left behind pets and made my codependent menagerie even more codependent (and larger). They hate being away from me. I can't leave them alone for longer than four hours at a time (I mean, I do have to go to work). We all have severe separation anxiety. And I also believe it was a cruel joke on his part to ensure that I will never get into another relationship after him because really, who is going to get involved with a crazy woman with four dogs and three cats? Especially when said woman is so full of anxiety that she constantly assumes one or all of her animals are going to die from a stubbed toe or a minor stomach bug.

My vet bills have been through the roof. I have rushed Puckett to the vet three times for "respiratory issues" that turned out to be nothing. Her lungs are scarred from being alive so long, I was told. I've taken all four dogs' poop to the vet to be analyzed because everyone had the runs for three weeks straight. I thought they were dying of parasites. Turns out the stupid kibble I was feeding them was too rich and causing stomach problems. They are all back on Natural Balance and Fresh Pet. I rushed Murphy to the vet because he was having trouble peeing one afternoon. I immediately thought bladder stones or UTI. Two hundred dollars later, he went home with a clean bill of health and a report that he peed just fine there. This was after he'd been to the vet for holding his ears funny and scratching a lot. Yeah, he's over that too. I think his ear fringe was bothering him and getting in his eyes.

Colleen almost died on my watch when she choked on a piece of mulch, and I rushed her to emergency after-hours vet only to have them tell me the x-ray showed everything was clear and she must have coughed up the offending piece of wood or swallowed it. I had another large vet bill and a chewed-up finger from trying to dislodge the wood from her throat.

Kira has to go in this month for a broken tooth. It needs to be pulled or it will abscess and then I can have another meltdown.

I am a wreck.

And do I hide behind my animals? Of course I do. Do I use them as an excuse to skip social engagements and stay home? Absolutely.

The damage is very real, if invisible. There are no bruises, no broken bones. I never had to wear sunglasses or long-sleeved shirts or anything like that. But I no longer trust my own intuition. I overreact to silly things and avoid situations where even the slightest potential for harm may lie. I let complete strangers on the Internet hurt my feelings. I've been scammed by two e-commerce companies when in the past I always knew better. One I disputed. The second one I didn't even bother. Didn't even care anymore. I feel like I'm going crazy. I don't believe what used to be my own truth anymore. I believe others' opinions about me and don't question motives. The motives are all to hurt and damage. I assume the worst and believe I deserve it. I don't believe I deserve a second chance. I don't believe I'm good enough for anyone or anything. I don't feel safe. The world is a frightening place, and I have no idea how to navigate it. I am both furious with God and also terrified at whatever else he might throw at me. That saying that God only gives you what you can handle is bullshit. And I don't even have it that bad. Other people are in way worse situations. That's the guilt.

And everyone thinks now that I'm out of the relationship, now that he's gone, I'm free to be "me" again. Do the things I used to, go out and socialize, be happy and fun again. Well, that "me" no longer exists. 

So when my friends and family make the comment that I am overworked and perhaps seven animals are too many, they are not wrong. I am drowning in a sea of animal care. But here's the secret. On the one hand I can't rehome any of them because I've grown attached to all of them (and several of them are too old to rehome anyway). On the other hand, they give me the perfect excuse not to move on with my life. It's impossible to do so with so many animals, and it's also impossible to not have them, to not care for them. 

They are at once my sanctuary and my prison. 

Murphy has the right idea. Hide.