my careless contagion

The photo above is heartbreaking. But that's how I feel. I am that dog. I look terrible and who would want me, but yet I have a purpose here on earth to fulfill. I have a job for a while and then I'll be gone.  I'm broken and beaten and scarred. Will someone take a chance on me?  People who experienced much trauma and abuse seem to heal best when they can help others. It's no wonder I've continually sought out opportunities like that, though I often proceed in a guarded manner. One of the biggest realizations I came to through writing this blog is how much PTSD has held me back from making decisions that lead to growth and healing. As with all major (and many minor) decisions, I've decided to give all my decisions to God, as I cannot be trusted to make the right decisions. I simply don't know what is best for me. That, unfortunately, is how I am programmed. There is a joke out there that says the biggest withdrawal symptom for recovering alcoholics and drug ...

This would be accurate if I had friends. Or a friend. I've begun to see myself as a rescue dog. Bear with me. This actually makes sense. No, I'm not an actual dog, but I do bear a lot of the same scars and history as an abused dog that finds a new home (which I haven't yet, but I'm trying). Add to that some of my behaviors and vulnerabilities, and it's really the same challenges a rescue dog has. Apparently, trauma translates well across species. Normally, I wouldn't joke about suicide, so I won't. I'm not joking. It's been something I've wanted to do most of my life, say, 35 years. People always gang up on those who take their own lives, saying they're not thinking of those they leave behind. You're absolutely right; they're not thinking of anyone but themselves. Imagine pain so intense, pervasive, and constant the only plausible solution is taking one's life. You cannot see beyond that kind of pain to anyone else's po...