I swear I won't let this kill me, (but it's cutting it pretty close.)

Damn, its been three years?

The only place I had to go was to my mothers. A lot of you are probably like, "That's a bad idea, Jes." and I would completely agree with you. But unable to work, constantly plagued by debilitating depression and near constant panic attacks, I had no other option. I needed a roof over my head.

Almost immediately after I arrived, my mothers roommate lost his job. She didn't work, and used him to pay bills. She swiftly fell into one of her manic states. Talking to people who aren't there, running into traffic at night, saying how the CIA was coming for her. She says she's writing a book whenever she goes into that manic delusion, and her talking about her book is the best way to catch it early enough. Whenever one of these spells happen, she does nothing to get help. She likes living in that state, void of responsibility or care for others.

I tried to get her help. I called the police, they'd send an ambulance, she'd get in, and then immediately sober up just enough to refuse treatment once at the hospital. At one point, she left the house, and dragged a bag of clothes and her mother's ashes 11 miles away, leaving them on the steps of the police department. When she got home, she dug through the fridge for food she wanted, and while it was in her hand, charged at me with her fist drawn because, "Your fat ass ate my food!". I had to run away and lock the door to my small little room. (For reference? I didn't eat it. It was literally in her hand.)

After 7 calls, I finally managed to get a re-45 order. Meaning she had to get checked out, she couldn't just walk away. She went absolutely bonkers. Screaming and cursing at the nurses, pacing and trying to run out the doors, telling me she was going to strip down naked so I could watch. The nurses inevitably had to sedate her.

She kept going on and on until the medication kicked in to calm her, saying she saw me and her roommate.. y'know. Not only was that thought disgusting, I had a girlfriend at the time, and had no interest in men. She was giving in to her own delusions, feeding them. Because she enjoyed doing that.

She got placed into the mental hospital for two weeks. They tried to send her home, but she wasn't lucid enough. I had to fight with them because I could tell she was masking, faking things being okay just so she could go home and go back to her previous way of acting. The doctor I fought with had lost her previous state license for malpractice, and at that point I was so sick and tired of them not doing their job, I mentioned the law should they send her home in that state. She was a danger to me, others, and herself, but if there was one thing my birth giver was good at? It was faking it.

The doctor changed her tune immediately, but my mother then told me that her doctor said I was a basket case, and that I'd ruin anything I touch, and to get as far away from me as possible. After one conversation with me. Now, was that the ranting of a malpractice doctor? Or the ramblings of someone refusing to take their meds? I'll never know.

When my mom got back, it was time to start packing. They were losing the house. The roommate had a place to go, and eventually so did my mother. That left.. me. She was pissed that I had forced her to get the help she needed, and she took that out on me whenever she could. I remember doing laundry to pack my things, and she said, with as much malice as possible, "I was the only one who took you in. Your grandmother didn't want you. Your dad didn't want you. His wife didn't want you. Nobody wanted you."

It hurt. It hurt me badly, and at that point, I wouldn't speak to her for a while. She kept trying to get into my room, but I had installed a lock. So she called my father, saying my room was filthy and she wanted me to clean it- to which I FaceTimed him and showed him it was spotless. So she tried barging in saying I had her lamp. I said I'd set the lamp in front of my door but she was not coming in. She then went apeshit, and did something, yet another thing, I will never forgive her for. Keep in mind, she was completely herself. Her mental illness was back in check here.

She called my grandmother. The mother figure I adored but who didn't believe my struggles, who told whoever would listen that I was fat and lazy and worthless. The one I ran from at the start. The one I practically worshipped when I was small, sat by every hospital bed, and yet in the end was told, "You're not my kid."

She sat outside my door and they talked. For over an hour. About me. My sexuality, my religion (or lack of), my laziness, how I would never become anything, how I deserve homelessness.

I refused to speak a word to her for two weeks. I made and ate my own food. I did my own laundry. I kept my door locked.
She couldn't stand it.

The only time I came out was when I had to help her pack- her roommates demand. He's since passed, and I appreciate everything he had done for me, but he had no business trying to force me to mend with my abuser.

But then it was over. Bags packed in the car. Cats with me. A 17 hour car ride to my dad and his wife's trailer. There were no extra bedrooms, so I got a tent. A tent, my TV, and a twin mattress on the floor in the corner of the living room. She constantly harassed me about getting a job, when I could barely answer the phone, could barely find anything to keep me alive.
They were always loud, always kicking the tent, they would lift the flaps and look at me whenever they wanted. Like a circus animal in a cage.

She forced me to go to a temp agency. Of course I qualified for nothing but manual labor. Eventually she sent me to a therapist. She was trying to prove that there was nothing wrong with me, seeing as I had never been actually diagnosed. I came home with three diagnosis. Major Depression Disorder, Severe General Anxiety Disorder, and Panic Disorder. Even then, she didn't believe me.

I got put into intensive outpatient therapy. It helped, but the people in it just weren't as severe as I was. So eventually I stopped talking in the group sessions. And eventually, my time was up. I tried different medications, some worked to help my anxiety. But over a year I lived in that tent. Miserable, alone, tormented.

But there's a happy ending here, guys, gals, and trans pals.

I met someone, and for seven months we spoke. Got to know each other. And when we met, it was magic. His smile lit up my dark world and it left me in awe. Our first two months of dating, I was spending most of my time at his parents place with him, and I realized I'd like to do this forever. So, just laying in his bed, late one night, I muttered. "Would you marry me?" He said yes. Yes. Yes, he did want to marry me. Not even a week later, he drove me back to that trailer, got all my things- took me to the storage unit and grabbed every last item of mine that had been locked away. And he never took me back.

It's been over a year since then. We're even more in love now than before. I have a doctor, and I'm on medication for my anxiety, panic and depression. We have our cats, (who had kittens) that we love to death. I still have my bad days, but somehow they don't seem as dark anymore.

We live in a camper, so it isnt perfect, but it's better than I've ever had.

It can feel like you won't survive what you're going through. That there will never be someone who can love you, platonically or otherwise. It's not true. Your found family is out there. Things will get better, even if it seems like you're just getting beat down. Roll with the punches, survive them. You do not deserve them, know that, but you do deserve a happy life.

I swore a long time ago that I'd never have children, in fear of being like any adult I'd ever known. Lately though I've been thinking.. I'm not them. I am gentle, and kind, and I have so much love in my heart. I know I would make a good parent. Perhaps someday.

If you've stayed with me this long, thank you for listening. My stories not over. This chapter is heavy, I know, and maybe the weight you're carrying is heavy too. You aren't alone though. You're not. I promise, there is a happy life out there for you.

Until next time. Hopefully it won't take three fucking years.
I love you.

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