Things will look up, right?

I'm sitting here with Fred Hammond's "No Weapon" on repeat trying to think of all of the reasons why I should not harm myself. I'm not in danger. Ultimately, I know that I won't do anything. I can take the bark out of my own bite. However, it doesn't take the longing of wanting to impose hurt upon myself anyway. The root of today's anxiety attacks, hyperventilation, and anxiety-induced vomiting? My professor.

I guess it isn't slanderous when everything I say can be backed up with a clinical diagnosis. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is what my therapist--yes, the one that I no longer go to--called it. Some days are better than others. There are times when I can see him and his countenance doesn't bother me. Then there are times like today. I guess it doesn't help that I have to retake a major exam tomorrow. An examination that he told me I would fail on a number of occasions. Was it a surprise when I failed said exam? Not to me and obviously not to him.

Mental and verbal abuse are just as deadly and harmful when those words and calculations come from a non-family member or someone with whom you are not romantically linked. It's painful. It's petty. And, it prevents me from functioning. I am operating at baseline right now. I am only doing the bare minimum. I can't talk to people except for my mother. I don't want to talk to anybody other than my mother. I just want to crawl into a hole and die. This is the nature of PTSD I guess. It doesn't take much. I had to sit in a meeting with him for two hours today. Everytime he gestured in my direction or the two time he said my name, I could barely function. My stomach dropped. My head began to throb. My heart rate accelerated. I was unable to speak. The second time he uttered my name, it scared me and prompted a quick jaunt to the bathroom to throw up food I hadn't eaten this morning and fluid I didn't drink. I cried as I dry heaved over the toilet. My tears flowed because, one, I'm disappointed in my inability to move past such a debilitating time in my life, that it still affects me. The other problem I have is that he even bothers me anymore; he has no idea of his effect on me and my inability to function. Why can't I move past it? Why does it hurt me still? Why do I hear all of the negative things he's said about me echo in my head when I see him? Why do I give into these damn anxiety attacks? Why do I give into my tears? I feel weak. I feel as though if I were to tell anyone, they would unfairly label me as emotional and mentally unstable. This is the nature of abuse. We hold the victim responsible for her inability to "deal with it" while the perpetrator is free to function, live, and prosper unscathed without fear, without compunction.

So, here I sit. CD's on. Exam's tomorrow. That hasn't changed. After seeing him a second time in the hallway, I can't stop hyperventilating and I can't stop crying. What's more, I can't stop wanting to inflict pain upon myself. Ain't life grand?