Spent the weekend sleeping on a couch. When I wasn't sleeping, I was drowning out the echo chamber of my mind with online videos and hoping that the tickle in the back of my throat wasn't about to develop into a full-blown cold or flu.
With a week that started with spending $200 to keep my job, continued with mental breakdowns over sex and my lack of self-worth, and ending with my wondering if I still wanted this job after 6-odd hours of work in fierce winds and ice. I wanted no more to do with the outside world.
I used to have a saying, during one of my prior periods of isolation: "The act of waking up in the morning makes me realize how unprepared I am for living."
It was tongue-in-cheek at the time, as I didn't have regular work and was still lamenting my single status and how I couldn't find a girl who would appreciate a nice guy (I still shudder at the thought of how close I may have come to being an MRA; thankfully, I lost the fedora during a Thanksgiving trip). It has a different meaning for me now—standing on a train platform now, waiting to go to the outskirts of the city; I feel more distant than before from the weekend commuters and college kids crowding the concrete. I feel in the back of my mind that there are people on this train, perhaps checking their Bookface in this car, who went through something like the trauma I had.
It's not something you can see on a face. T-shirts aren't really available for the Survivors of Sexual Abuse to wear so we can pick each other out of crowds, like a Big 10 alma mater from hell. There's no tattoo code that I know of; roses for family, daisies for friends, snapdragons for partners and lotus for strangers. And the number of vine twists/thorns on each stem for the age or number of times; a terrible thought, I can already tell just from reading it (and I shudder to know the thoughts of the woman who has been glancing at my phone as I type this out).
The simple act of looking at myself reminds me of how unworthy I feel of emotional affection.