As a kid, I used to love the 4th of July. It was the time when families got together during the day, cooked out, swam, and had a barbecue. Everywhere you turned, you could smell the grills going. Some of us kids would run around during the day, lighting smoke bombs and those little snakes. You know, the ones that look like big black cheese puffs when they burn. Not to mention putting firecrackers in just about everything we thought we could blow up without actually doing harm—ant hills, eggs, pieces of fruit, anything non-destructive.
Then night came, and it was time for the good fireworks. Kids ran around with sparklers while dads manned the punks that lit the fireworks. If those weren’t available, our dads would use a cigarette to keep the fireworks going. It was a good time. At least, it used to be.
Now, in today's society, it seems like families have fallen apart. Families have lost the value of being a family. I’ve had girlfriends exchange nudes with one of my boys. Another girlfriend tried to get with one of my nephews, someone who portrayed herself as the love of my life. And if that wasn’t enough to ruin the holiday, my time in the Army definitely was.
You see, I don’t mind the fireworks that come in repetition. It’s the one-offs that get me. Since I started all the therapy and treatment—DBT, CPT, CBT, you name it—they’ve brought back the nightmares and flashbacks with a vengeance. I tried to sleep most of the day off, but I couldn’t. This evening, a neighbor was popping off some big ones one at a time, and I woke up smelling blood in the air to the point where I could even taste it.
Despite all this, I’m working on healing. Therapy has brought back the nightmares and flashbacks, but it’s also helping me face them. It’s tough, but each session peels back another layer of pain, helping me process it. I’m learning to cope, finding new ways to handle the triggers. The 4th of July will never be the same, but I’m determined to reclaim some of that joy. It’s a long road, but I’m on it, one step at a time.
That was all going well until I realized that one of the most destructive people I’ve ever met was not who she played out to be. She was a wolf in sheep's clothing—a beautiful sheep, I’ll give her that, but the devil in disguise to say the least. Now I’m being faced with 10 to 20 years in prison, of which I will not do—that part I’m sure of.
I still utilize everything I’ve learned in DBT to try to maintain, but no amount of therapy or distress tolerance or interpersonal effectiveness can prepare you for the hell I’ve been through. Her lies got me arrested, and then the malicious rumors spread around my apartment complex got a neighbor to the point of trying to eliminate me. She pulled a gun on me and threatened my life on several occasions. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I would not look away or run away from her if it was her choice to do so.
All of this has done greater harm than most people can imagine. I’ve now lost the will to live. There’s nothing left for me, and on the SUD scale, I might be at a two or three—and that’s only because of the loud bangs, not because of the end of my story. Because I knew it was going to eventually happen.
I’m not sure who reads these. Maybe they don’t even read them now, but they will after the 10th. I just hope somebody learns from this. I mean, I don’t think my legacy is going to be far-reaching, but maybe it’ll help someone understand that just because we have a flaw or some mental illness doesn’t mean that we have to be caged up like an animal. But it’s okay.
Good night DFW!
Happy 4th!
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