When I read about PTSD before going through my personal journey, I thought that PTSD were reserved only to war veterans or raped, child abused victims. God bless them all. Now, I can observe, « abuse », in a lifetime, can come in different ways, and shades of grey. It all depends on your level of sensibility. What is hurting me can be easily ignored by others. And, what’s worse, others won’t be able to understand your degreee of suffering, if they are not empath at all. I finally accept this. Since I’ve embraced the real fact that I am an empath and higher sensitive, in the noblest meaning. Also, I completely forgive these others. They miss awareness, and sometimes they simply don’t care. This is their misery. Not mine.

In my early twenties, I developed eating disorders and self harm disease. Depression was my company, since very young, it was more than weeping cos I wasn’t happy, and I couldn’t efford a Levi’s, financially, or couldn’t fit in. At 8 I discovered how to throw up food after eating, and it seemed to me like I got a magical power, eating junk food without putting weight on my belly. That worry didn’t last until I grew up older. I knew I wasn’t a typical cutie girl, and that was fine, that pushed me to look inside and focus on my personality. I really thought that my karmic debt was so heavy that I didn’t deserve to be the goodlooking girl which makes all men turn their head. And had to gain my beautiful body in one of next lives through hard work. Actually, not only I had a negative body image perception, but all my thoughts were tuned on negative vibes. Emotionally, I was a crap. Disfunctional family environement, of course, didn’t help and, at a certain moment, I just wanted to disappear. But slowly. A way to ask for attention and care.

Today I can recognise that I was on a strong love demand, and I can’t blame my peers not to understand how to manage my bipolar behaviour. Joyful, gay and cheerful, outside my armour, and damn upset and hating my self deeply inside. Self love is my last, wonderful achievement at age of 43.

Suicidal thoughts passed by in my twenties, like dark clouds on an empty sky. When anorexic, I have been diagnosed schizophrenic, because food&alchool abuse made me loose balance and clear mind. My mum had to watch me all the time or I could do something very harmful. Until I was hospitalized. Of course, today I see that it wasn’t my body, but my soul, the one who needed to be taken care of. But it took me 20 years to realize it, once for all.

At that time, the only way to overcome my lack of balance, by advice of my neurologist, was doing a psychodrug therapy. Recovering from drugs takes a long time and memory loss. A part of your soul flies away. Your personality, if you could build up some, at twenty, is no longer the same. Simply, you loose a big part of your Self. But in 90s there was not such a knowledge about ED like today. In a way, I feel lucky. First choice was a Center for Mental Health, and I can tell you that two of my neighbours passed by it and today they are still not well. Drugs addicted. Nobody takes care of them.

In my case, after all, time brings justice.

Being suicidal is natural when struggling is too much to bare, it makes sense to me, except that today I am a believer. Life is a game, a challenge. Indian call it « Lila ». Because I believe in karma, and reincarnation, I read once that, when you suicide, your soul is trapped between worlds. I can’t even think of being sticked in a hell of pain. This is enough for me to keep it up. But before I go on with my storytelling, I want you to know that choosing life requires courage and a bunch of energy.

So if you need more, ask for help to professionals. Not your neighbour, not your best friend or family member. We are nothing without others. Choose carefully.