Surviving The Fall, 32

I am transcribing onto Microsoft Word my journals that I wrote in 2002, sixteen years ago. This is part of my declutter project. All my hand-written journals that seem somehow significant, I will transcribe for posterity. Everything else, along with the original copy, gets recycled, except maybe the ones in hard cover books and I might hold onto those for esthetic value, provided they don't take up a lot of room. These apartments are not large and storage space is always at a premium. Right now, I am transcribing my first month here in Candela Place. A lot of it's written in Spanish, a bold effort on my part, given that I had only been learning the language for two and a half years. Despite some of the terrible grammar and word usage, I am quite impressed with how well I was writing after less than three years and it hasn't been at all difficult to translate and transcribe. What particularly interests me is how quickly I was suddenly moving forward. I had already had three or four sessions with my psychiatrist, and living now in stable and affordable housing, I felt like I could finally move forward. I felt ready to transition from social assistance to full employment, regardless of the opinions of the well-meaning professional helpers who wanted to keep me pathetic and dependent. I also was profoundly aware of how much damage there was in my life, primarily from childhood abuse, but also from the many incidents that took the proverbial domino effect over the years. Still, I was moving forward: improving my Spanish and becoming fully fluent; seeking to do well as a self-employed housecleaner as I advertised my services and took on clients; moving forward as a developing and emerging visual artist; exploring and sorting out my spiritual life and ethical foundations. It was a very heady, almost intoxicating time of transition. Housing has been especially important to this trajectory moving forward, as was sourcing adequate and appropriate mental health support. I was never, by the way, mentally ill. I was diagnosed with PTSD, but now I am questioning this. I think I was simply tired and exhausted from a very difficult life and we live in an era that loves to pathologize everything and everyone, so now I reject these medical labels. Also, my way of life even during my most difficult times indicates no mental illness: I was never delusional, I maintained a healthy diet, exercise and walking routines, good hygiene, social connections and even when unemployed remained active producing and marketing my art. None of these actions indicate illness, but health. I was processing trauma from childhood sexual, emotional and physical abuse, and a life of poverty and doors being slammed in my face, and the exhaustion from struggling against insurmountable obstacles. I also maintained a clear and consistent of God's love and presence in my life. Knowing this unfortunately motivated my psychiatrist to diagnose me as having a schizotypal personality, information that was never disclosed to me till just three months ago when involved health professionals released to me some of my records. But I have never been on medications, nor hospitalized. I have found long-term employment as a mental health peer support worker, and as I have written in other places on this blog, there is legitimate concern that I have really had to do battle against stigma in the workplace, given there is a tendency of treating us peer support workers like damaged goods. If I have any regret, it's that it has taken this long, till I'm in my sixties, for so many issues to become finally resolved. I do believe that I am going to live a very long life and that waiting for me are many good and productive years. My life is really just beginning. I feel younger than I did in my forties. All the people who tried to harm and oppress me are gone, many are dead. They are far away. I feel safe where I live, that finally no one can hurt me. I am not exactly dancing on their grave, but living well is the best revenge.