The Will To Survive

Well, journal, I was in court the other day dealing with more of this bullshit with Antonella. That's a story for another time. She's becoming a part of my past, and soon she'll just be somebody I knew instead of someone I know. It's a good thing she's taught me what to avoid in life, what to shield myself and my friends from. She's the epitome of evil and manipulation. 

This week in court, I heard a real survivor's testimony. A woman shared her story before her husband was sentenced for abusing her. My ex tried to paint me as an abuser, but I know now that I'm not. Yes, I got angry and said some hateful things, but it wasn't repetitive. It happened when I was cheated on, when we were supposed to get married and have children. Should I have yelled and screamed like I did? No. But does that make me an abuser? Not at all.

Ironically, this insight came from a shelter where she claimed to be a victim of domestic violence. Now, I go there to learn about what she's done to me and who the real abuser is. It's a shame that when women make accusations, it's often taken as gospel, but when men stand up and say something, no one gives a shit. No one cares about the pain we go throu

gh or the struggle to keep going each day without ending the misery.

If anyone reads this, I hope they find one person who can truthfully say I've been physically abusive. I couldn't even spank my own children, or engage in horseplay during sex as my ex wanted, because of my past trauma. If I can't pretend to be abusive during sex role-playing, why would anyone think I could do it in real life?

I've lost the will to live, and I'm not sure what to do next. Losing the will to live doesn't mean you're suicidal; it just means you don't feel like doing anything to sustain it.

Just because I've lost the will to live does not mean that I want to kill myself or commit suicide, whatever you want to call it. I'm in a place where life's challenges and pain have drained my energy and motivation, making it hard to find joy or purpose. However, this feeling doesn't translate to a desire to end my life. It's more about struggling to find meaning and direction, feeling overwhelmed by the weight of my experiences. I still have hope that things can improve and that I can find a way to cope and thrive despite the difficulties.

I'm just tired of not having a voice. When I was violated as a child, the court didn't listen to me. They let him get away with probation, and then he victimized three other children after me. They got serious punishments for their cases, but not for me. And when I was in the military and saw that young soldier end his life right in front of me, I tried to cry out for help, to tell them I was struggling, that I was dying inside, but no one listened.

Or when some lady came and said that I was the father of her child. I tried to tell them I was not, didn't even know her, but they didn't believe me. They tried to garnish my wages, made me miss work. It turned out this kid was 99.9% not mine. The only thing we had in common was that we were male and human.

And what about all the time with Antonella? I've tried reaching out to various cities and law enforcement agencies, even immigration and Homeland Security. Even with this crap with the girl upstairs accusing me of being a woman beater, threatening my life, and brandishing a weapon, nothing happened to her either. Why? Why don't I deserve to be listened to? What have I done so heinous in life that my voice is muffled or muted? Why does Curtis not matter?

Yet, people will simply call authorities and tell them when I've gotten suicidal, and they send them in for a welfare check to try to lock me up and save me. Why? Why can't you pick up the phone instead of calling the authorities? Call me and tell me how you're doing, ask how I'm doing. It's funny how you can waste the energy calling law enforcement, but you can't spend a fraction of that energy to shoot me a text or call me just to see how I'm doing, say hi, or that you love me.

There's going to come a day when you'll never get a chance to ask how I'm doing or hear my voice, but I really don't think that'll matter if something were to happen to me. I think it would be just a very short amount of time, and I would be a thing of the past. Someone who just didn't matter, who took up oxygen and wasted space that someone else could have used.

Despite all this, I hold on because I believe healing is possible. It's not easy, and it's often painful, but I keep going. Not because I want to, but because I need to. Because deep down, I know my voice does matter, even if it's only to me. And maybe, just maybe, one day it will matter to someone else too.