u/Excellent_Answer6185

One more warning: no detail but I’m mentioning sexual assault.

When I was 15, I was taking a bus to visit family. I was lured into a private, dark place and raped.

In an instant I lost any chance of being happy, healthy, and whole. I was already depressed, but this started a spiraling didn’t recover from. I didn’t tell anyone, just got back on the bus and cried. When I got to my destination I didn’t tell my family either. I wouldn’t mention it again for about two years, and then only when I was drunk.

I never dealt with the pain and trauma and shame I felt afterwards. (A bit more context, I’m a male.) I drank and did drugs about it, and became suicidal. Suicidal ideations never really went away, though they ebb and flow.

Even 15 years of therapy hasn’t really gotten me to open up about it. This was over 25 years ago, and this is likely the most I’ve said on the subject. I’m still deeply ashamed. The incident has informed all my myriad paraphilias. It left me withdrawn and always alone, even when I’m around people who love me. I’m bitter, angry, hollow, and miserable. And still dealing with suicidal ideation, particularly the past couple years. No one knows the real me because I’ve fought tooth and nail to forget that it ever happened and act like a well adjusted human, and keep this part of me deep in the shadows.

I am seeing a doctor about increasing my meds because I’m beginning to worry that I’ll fold and I can’t do that. There are people that depend on me, so I have to keep going, somehow.

So a little PSA: Don’t keep your trauma to yourself. Tell someone, ask for help. It’s ok to do that. It’s so much harder or impossible to carry such heavy weights on your own. Give yourself a break and seek help and treatment. It’s ok.

I was walking through the desert with a gunshot wound.
I had been shot in the belly.
My memory before sustaining the wound had been vivid,
but I didn't remember being shot.
I wandered vast stretches of monotone sand
without seeing any other people.
Sometimes I would find a medpack
full of gauze, water, pain reliever, and food.
I would pack the wound with gauze, take a few sips of water,
and move on.
Many times they were set out, deliberately and with care.
Other times they appeared to be dropped, the previous owner unaware their mistake
had saved my life.
With enough medicine I would feel good enough to jog or even run for a while.
But eventually the food would run out,
the canteen would be dry,
and the gauze would soak through.
Still I walked.
On and on and on.
I don't know how far I went, or how many medpacks I went through.
But the distances between them became greater the further I went.
Supplies more scarce when I looked inside.
As I continued, I would sometimes come across one of these lifesavers,
and just look at it.
Sometimes I would look for a long time, days and nights, debating whether or not
it was worth picking up.
I'm not sure it ever was,
not from the first to the final one,
but still I took it,
and I packed my wound,
and I quenched my thirst as best I could,
and I walked.
Where will I go?

Without going into specifics I’ve been going through a mental health crisis. I moved to a new city recently and had a single friend in person and one online, and my irl friend ghosts me now. The person online couldn’t view me the same way, things between us had changed irrevocably and the only thing I could do is cut ties.

I’ve never had an easy time making friends or meeting new people. Anything beyond surface level connections are out of reach because of how bleak and depressing I am. I can cover it up for a while but eventually I have an episode and the truth about who I am and how I see the world comes out.

It may be time to quit trying. I’m 41. My illness is not going away. I’m tired of heartache.