This is the twelth post in a series about my past relationship with the man I mentally refer to as The Beast.

 In previous posts I concentrated mostly on the events. Even so, as I re-read my posts I realised how much I'd left out. A reader suggested I write a memoir. Funnily enough that occurred to me in those first few months. However, after a few weeks of feeling unnaturally optimistic and all "can-do" positivity (you know, the "when life gives you lemons" syndrome), I simply fell apart. Sometimes I wonder if I didn't go a little mad during that time.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I was on anti-depressants for major depression. I discovered recently that I am unusually sensitive to increased levels of serotonin and my psychiatrist feels that was the source of many of my problems with the various drugs I was prescribed. Coping with the physical and mental side-effects was stressful in itself but I still think the medication kept me just sane enough to pass for normal at work.

However, shortly after the unveiling of The Beast at the prison, I decided to go off the medication completely. I discussed this with my psychiatrist who agreed that I probably needed the break and we would reassess after a few months.

At the time I was only on Cymbalta (120mg a day) and I no longer felt it had much benefit for me. I had several niggling side-effects - restlessness, an itchy feeling under my skin, night sweats but most serious of all, a growing sense of emotional detachment. I felt like a visitor in my own mind.

I cut down to 60mg a day for two weeks and then to 30mg a day for another two weeks, before stopping completely.

I have never felt so sick in my life. Withdrawal was pure hell. I felt nauseous every waking moment for weeks. Every few seconds brain zaps would zing through my head. I had dull throbbing headaches every day. I was constantly exhausted, even ten minutes of concentrating at work drained me for the next hour or two. Worst of all were the suicidal thoughts. Though I knew I didn't want to die, there was a part of me urging myself to consider it, that it would be so easy to take an overdose, all my troubles would be over if only I could sleep forever. It was an insidious voice, murmuring seductive thoughts about the one solution that would take away all the pain.

I was often off sick during that time and I am eternally grateful that I have an understanding and compassionate boss who stuck with me throughout my troubles. He knew my situation and he gave me the time and space to recover. Bless him.

 Once I was weaned off the medication I lost my sense of emotional detachment. Then the full impact hit me. My situation was compounded by the emotional fall-out from my relative having reneged on our loan agreement. I was left with a substantial debt to repay the banks and at that point, nearly half my nett salary went to servicing those debts. I was angry and resentful of this additional burden.

Remember, I was very close to this person. He was someone who, for a major portion of my life, I had basically hero-worshipped. I told him several times that I could not afford the loan repayments and that he needed to start repaying me as soon as possible. He promised to do so but after one or two payments, stopped again. This time he didn't respond to my emails. At that point I did not have the strength to speak to him so I stuck to email.

After stewing about it for several weeks I decided it was time to take control of the situation and I engaged an attorney to handle it for me. That was a very tough decision. I struggled with a sense of guilt, that I had somehow betrayed him. But I persevered with the case, even though for the first few months he refused to take it seriously. Via my attorney I discovered that he thought I was being unreasonable and that I should put up or shut up. When I realised that this person I cared about so much didn't give a damn about my welfare...well, that tipped me over the edge. He knew I was struggling to buy food and pay for transport (never mind all the other bills) but he shrugged it off. I borrowed money every month from sympathetic relatives and friends. It was humiliating to go cap-in-hand, every month, to the same people. They always gave gladly and without hesitation but still, the humiliation burned.

To this day I don't know who hurt me more - The Beast or my relative. I think the two betrayals were so closely linked that there was no way I could deal with each separately.

I mentioned in a previous post that I wondered if Fate had it in for me. I became almost completely convinced that was indeed the case. Fate, a deity, cosmic forces, whatever you choose to believe in - had doomed me to a life of calamity and unhappiness. I speculated that in a previous life I was an evil person and I was being punished in this life for my misdeeds. I haven't actually made up my mind about my (dis)belief in reincarnation but at the time it seemed like a plausible theory.

The result of all this was that I felt like the very foundation of my life, of me, had been destroyed. I was adrift, floating away into nothingness, with nothing to anchor me to life and reality. I no longer trusted my instincts or my judgement. I had been duped by two people I trusted more than anyone and they had betrayed me in the worst possible ways. How could I ever trust myself again, let alone anyone else?

Imagine feeling like there is nothing, nothing, you can trust. Everything and everybody is suspect. You can't even trust your own thoughts and feelings. That was what I went through every minute of every day for months.

Simply being awake exhausted me. For a long time my daily routine hardly varied - after work (where I did little actual work) I'd go straight home. I'd eat a hastily prepared meal, take a sleeping tablet, shower and then get into bed, sometimes as early as 6pm. When I woke up a few hours later I'd take another sleeping tablet so I could sleep until it was time to get up for work. I was terrified that my lack of productivity would be picked up by the big bosses and my contract would be terminated but even so, I did not have the resources to remedy the situation.

On weekends I shut myself in. Saturday mornings I'd do the essential errands (if there were any) and then take a sleeping tablet to sleep for the rest of the day. When I woke up I'd spend an hour or two pottering around, trying to concentrate on a book (and failing miserably). Eventually I'd give up and take another sleeping tablet. Sleep was my refuge. I slept away many weekends.

I became afraid, literally afraid, of being close to anyone. I shunned those closest to me. Just being with them caused me to panic and feel like I was suffocating. My limited social interaction at work was draining enough without having to cope with people who knew me well.

It felt like every protective mechanism I'd ever cultivated had been stripped away. I was one big, walking, talking raw wound. I lost touch with reality in a way. There were times I wasn't sure if what I saw and heard was real or only in my imagination. No one knew how I felt. They knew I was struggling but not to what extent.

I even cut off my best friend, my soul mate, the person who knew me best and who had been in my life for 23 years. I no longer felt I knew her. The connection between us was broken. I trusted no one. The only people I could talk to were friends who didn't know me for very long and who I felt reasonably safe couldn't see just how broken I was.

I mentally interrogated every kind word, examining for signs of duplicity. Every compliment or expression of sympathy was suspect. The mere thought of socialising made it hard for me to breath and brought on a panic attack.

No matter what assurances I received, I still expected people to blame me, to question my judgement and my gullibility. When I told anyone what happened I qualified my statements with loads of details, proof that I wasn't the only one fooled by him (and by extension, my relative).

Somehow I struggled on every day, showing an acceptable face at work, rarely showing my nearest and dearest just what a big mess I was. I felt ashamed. Ashamed of being duped. Ashamed of not coping better. Just ashamed.

Then my breaking point came early this year. I couldn't take it any more. Living was too painful. I knew it was time to make a decision. Either I found a way to recover or I ended my life. I thought long and hard about killing myself. It was an entirely viable option. I thoughts about methods, how much pain I could stand, who would find me and in what condition...so many things to consider. Finally I realised that I was very likely going to go through with it.

The tiny part of me that still wanted to live confided in my best friend H. We were repatching our friendship and our connection, though still fragile (as I felt at the time) was re-established. I poured my heart out to her and she encouraged me to contact my psychiatrist again and consider going back on medication. She knew she couldn't force me and she didn't try. What she did was to talk to me often, gently steering me towards help. 

I contacted my psychiatrist and went back on medication, this time Zoloft. I also found a clinical psychologist for therapy sessions. I struck it lucky both times. Zoloft is by far more effective than anything I was on before. The side-effects have so far been minimal and manageable. And there is no sense of emotional detachment. When I'm happy - it's me. When I'm unhappy - it's me. My psychologist is a gem and her approach to therapy is a perfect match for my personality. I've made giant strides since then.

I'm now at a point where I feel more like me than I've felt in a very long time. I have setbacks, times when I feel like it could all fall apart, but I recover from those setbacks. I'm still not ready to date. Being emotionally close to a man still scares me, but the terror has dampened to a more or less manageable fear. I can at least contemplate the possibility of a relationship at some point in the future. I'm re-establishing connections I severed last year and I'm grateful that people seem to understand.

I'm learning that it's ok to trust but that people have to earn my trust and not just get it like they did before. I try to remember that not every man is a budding psychopath. I'm reminded of that by a few men in my life who treated me gently and with compassion. They quietly stood by me and supported me in whatever way they could.

I'm grateful to those men but I have to acknowledge the women in my life. They, family and friends, rallied round me. Even though they usually didn't know how to help me, they didn't judge me (despite my fears). They listened to me when I did talk, they gave me money when I needed it, they tolerated my odd behaviour. They were there, always. They were 100% on my side, assuring me of their love and concern. I am blessed indeed to have these remarkable women in my life, all of whom, in their individual unique ways, contributed to me finding myself again.

(Update: My relative finally saw the light at about the same time we served him with a summons. Apparently he had some kind of epiphany and realised how badly he was treating everyone in his life. He presented me with a payment plan which I discussed with my attorney and we decided to accept. So far, from what I heard, he's made significant life changes and seems to be making sincere efforts to rebuild broken relationships. Good luck to him - sincerely. I really hope he changes his life for the better.)

So here I am now; fragile, tentative, still damaged...but hopeful. Slowly but steadily rebuilding my life and rediscovering joy and beauty. I'm going to be just fine.