Something about the last two-three weeks has been just... off. Borderline makes me wish I had a Harry Potter style wand and that transfiguration spells (read turn someone into an animal) worked. We'd have an influx of newts and dogs in the world right now. Hence why they don't exist. No ONE has perfect patience.
Between menustral depression, a day of PTSD hell again and a lot of small reminders, it's just been... fucking horrible.
For a long time, I wanted to be a writer and a fighter jet pilot or a soldier. Yeap, me. Female top gun. That was what I was going to do. Then I had my last growth spurt and my vision went to absolute shit. So much for being a pilot. Okay, let's what else I can develope an interest in. Soldier stayed on the list while writer bounced around a bit.
I could go on into specifics but they're boring. We'll summarize.
11-12 years of age - depression hit.
16 years of age - several suicide attempts at this point, mental breakdown a month into attending academy for my junior year. Night of September 10th, 2011. Woke up in time to see the second plane. Truthers can kiss my fucking ass. Two events complicate each other and I start round one of therapy and counseling. Anger my HOME was attacked bolstered my resolve to get to where I could serve. I had to serve. It was the one thing that was a constant that I was meant to serve.
18 -20 - Let myself be convinced that I should do college. First fiance. First rape. First miscarriage. Second round of counseling. Took Tae Kwon Do. Confidence, couldn't bring myself to hit my opponents. Tried college again.
20 - Tried again to enlist. The university threatened to kick me out and flunk me in all my classes. Never went back.
Made the choice to visit friends in Chattanooga , broke things off with second fiance. Stayed in Chattanooga without a single fucking plan or clue.
20-26 : Six years of mistakes, miacarriages, fight, abusive relationships, 3 more rapes.
2011: Tried to enlist again. Believed firmly this would be my year. Weight drops despite all advice and attempts. Trend of weight loss continues even after moving back in with parents in early 2012 and meeting the love of my life. Bottomed out at 99 lbs. PSTD fully hits in late fall of 2011. Almost committed suicide. Two friends spend days of time on the phone with me, Mindycat appears thanks to another sister. Depression finally beaten back to the point, I feel like I can breathe. Can't write though. No purpose. Denied a purpose.
2012- 2013: Healed. A lot. Finally was able to join fiance.
2014: Nothing yet besides gearing up for a fight to get ahead enough to get out of California.
And then there's now. A few days ago someone I greatly respect asked what I wanted to do. How the fuck do you tell someone twice your age and experience, find my damn purpose?
Parts of my life, due to my fiance, are wonderful. I wake up to a man who loves me. He makes me stronger. But I still feel purpose-less. Every time, it's been yanked out from under me. Build one for myself? Don't make me laugh.
"But you have the crocheting and knitting."
And? That keeps people warm yes. I'm able to cope with a lot of the anxiety and flashbacks most of the time with it, but it's not enough. So I'm able to write again. This time, it feels organic to me. Like these are truly my ideas. Including what I hope will be a good triology set in post apocalytic times following a female pagan rape-survivor handywoman. (Hey write what you know right?)
But where's the purpose in that? It lets me get things out of my head. I get to deal with pieces of painful memory. But what happens when it's done and I don't need to deal with it anymore? Back at square motherfucking one. Where do you from there?
Yes, I have a commitment ceremony coming up and a family in the future but focusing entirely on the other people in your life can be bad for your health. Trust me on that. I'm still me, only now me in partenership with another.
But where's my purpose? Modeling? There are thousands of models. Hundreds better than me. Gun bunny? The industry likes the ones with the big ass tits hanging out with an be-doke-donk that makes them drool. Yeah, I ain't got those. I do have a tendency of working on trying to look right with that gun my hands. Like I own it, handle better than you can and can own anyone's ass. Aka believable. And taken seriously.
Only I didn't really feel like I was. I was a damn kid.
I turn 29 this July. All that bullshit, and I'm not even truly 3 decades yet. Honestly the amount of pain it causes me at times that I have no discernable purpose, is crippling. That doesn't make sense probably to you. Be glad.