Life is Short

Wow. It looks like it's time to resurrect the old blog.
Seeing as I doubt many people (if any) ever read this anymore, it seems like a good place to vent. That way you (if anybody ever stumbles across this eventually) can choose whether you want to read it or not. This has sort of turned in to a place to vent. To get things off my mind.
So much has happened in the past handful of years, I cant even. So much.
I have a daughter now. She's a year and a half old. I have a fantastic boyfriend. I'm going to college and actually managing to keep up - so far at least. Time really does fly.
But demons keep on being dug up, and it gets really damn hard to cope.
I've been learning so much about myself lately. I've realised that I'm an empath. Not in the "I talk to dead people" way. I just feel what other people feel, in a big way.
I've also learned that I "suffer" from severe anxiety. And I'm still in the process of figuring out why.
My doctor has told me that I could benefit from going to a support group of sorts. But not for anxiety. A support group for people who have been sexually assaulted in their pasts. He thinks that that might very well be the cause of my anxiety. He may be right.
I keep turning it over and over in my head, and the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I never had a safe place, growing up. It doesn't really help that my father left us when I was 7. He was my safe place. And then he was gone.
The problem with all this is, I've learned to cope. But people keep encouraging me to dig up my demons. They say that bringing them back up, working through them, will help me get rid of them for good. I'm not so sure. I'm very, very good at fixing myself. The past 10 years are proof of that. I no longer freeze like a deer in headlights when I'm in a crowd. I can talk to random people. I can perform on stage. But what I can not do, is function like a normal human being. If there even is such a thing as "normal".
I actively work, and hard, on getting myself to the point where I can pick up the clothes on the floor, cook dinner, and take a freaking shower without feeling overwhelmed. And I get there, regularly. But it doesn't last.
Especially when people like my doctor make me say the words that make it all come bursting back up into the open. Into the present.
Like yesterday, for example. When he made me say the words. To go into details. I have now, yet again, regressed. There are things scattered all over the floor that I cannot pick up. There are dishes from last night's dinner that I can not bring myself to clear. There is laundry on the floor that I can not bring myself to fold. There is homework that I can not bring myself to do. And, like every other time, I have no idea how long it's going to take before I'm okay again.
I so desperately want to get "help". If the "help" that so many people are offering will actually do any good. But I don't want to try only to find out that I have already done everything that can be done, only to regress right back to the beginning where I can't even bring myself to look at a new face without running away in terror.
And there's the physical side of it too - the exhaustion, the migraines. When just getting up in the morning feels far too difficult for life, how am I supposed to function as a mother? As a partner? As a student? If this is the price of being well, I have to ask myself: is it worth it? Is it really worth years of being absent from life? Is it worth being only half a girlfriend? Worth rejecting intimacy with my boyfriend because all I want to do is curl up in a corner and hide?
I don't know. I really don't know if it will be worth it.
And that scares the living crap out of me.