There is a legal precedent for post-traumatic stress syndrome as a defense in court. That's the good news.
The bad news is: when the court is your own fucking brain, there IS no defense. You can't argue your way out of it with cleverly worded psychobabble and complexities of precedent and line-items in the books. You can't play to the tender mercies of the judge, you can't say, well, shit, I was so fucked up cos a, b, and c happened to me, and did I mention that I didn't have a nurturing childhood? Inside yourself, you recognize it for the bullshit that it is.
I know it's bullshit, but I can't stop trying to defend my actions.
To start, okay, it's not a stretch that I was completely fucked in the head when I tried to kill Chris. There's SOME defense in that. The indefensible part is what I'm doing now. And what I'm about to do. This isn't a knee jerk reaction. This is me fucking scraping the bottom of the barrel, man, this is meÖ reaching for something to hang on to.
Didn't let it show, but when Said called me a slut, you could've tipped me over with a finger, holy fuck. He's gotta care a lot about me to actually swear. If it wasn't true, it'd be funny. Or maybe it's funny because it's true. I told the truth too, then; self-loathing is at least an emotion other than grief and pain. I've had my fucking fill of grief and pain, and the dirtier I feel, the less I think about how fucking much I've lost.
I mean, shit, the point I'm at, I'd bend over for Adebisi. I'm half surprised he hasn't asked.
All my life I have found excuses, for myself, for other people. To say, yeah, Iím being such a whore cos Iím depressed, is an excuse. My defense. Donít you think, maybe, that I was a whore to begin with, somewhere inside, in one of those places where angels fear to tread? Donít you think, maybe, Chris was right when he said I was born a bitch? Doesnít just ACKNOWLEDGING that make it a little better?
No, it makes it worse. Turns my refuge into another trial. With no defense.
I can't... I can't explain to anyone properly. I can't tell anyone what it's like. From the very short list of halfway decent reasons I've got left for living, I've lost more than half. My son, my sweet angelic son, who used to cry when he couldn't find his bebby, who used to make sock puppets in preschool, who used to rub off his milk moustaches with the back of a determined hand... Oh god, my son. Gone.
It hits me like this, in waves, thinking about something else and then it's just THERE again, like I just heard for the first time this morning. I walk around wanting to puke until I find someone to fuck. It begins again.
How much real good was there, between Chris and I, how much real love? I want to spread the blame around, I spent so much time blaming him for destroying 'us', now it's my turn. Again with the self-loathing. Oh, fuck the fancy words. I HATE myself. I hate what I'm doing to myself, I hate what I've done to Chris. I hate that we're right back at square one, except this time I'm the one who's praying for forgiveness, reconcilliation, reunion. Make up sex is the best sex (although any sex would be better than what I've been having). I hate myself because... in the end, it's all been my fault. One way or another, it's been something *I* did that was the cause.
And if I choose to, again, take matters into my own hands? What would I say? What would be the defense? I'm sorry, your honor. I've been under stress lately. I wasn't myself.