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I could scream for help. I suppose someone, somewhere, some paid professional or crisis volunteer would respond, would listen to my screams.. I’ve been depressed before, recognized it, and reachedbout for help. I’m aware of the symptoms and the darkness of that and usually I just call for help. I talk about the stuff, I take medicine to lighten up th heaviness,. I do any number of self-care tasks I know have worked when I’ve had bouts of depression in my life… 

but what difference would that make to the knives sticking in my back or the clenches on my heart that cause my screams? 

They might subside for a moment in the relief of feeling like my screams matter at all.. until that moment passed and then what is, would still be exactly what is. Nothing would change the circumstances which cause these incessant inner screams.

Antidepressants can’t change my circumstances or my future.. or my past. Friends can’t fix it. Well meaning strangers can’t yank the knives out. 

I didn’t want to seek help. I’ve accepted what is, just is. The only times I even bother screaming anymore are those sad pathetic moments when I’m fighting what I know is and I desperately think if I just tell someone what’s happened, what is happening, then somehow they’ll see a solution I’ve not thought of yet or they’ll see a possibility of hope  I just can’t see anymore.

They don’t. The truth is I’ve told 3 people (who know the specific and gory details of my situation) about this and not one of them could give me even one single argument toward hope. 2 didn’t really care anyway, and one might care, but even she still has no genuine solution or suggestion to change my circumstances. 

Even she doesn’t want to hear my screams.. knowing there is no solution.  And I only bother screaming and writhing irrationally anymore when I’m desperate for survival. Those moments come fewer and fewer … and sadly, at this point, when I let my screams out, even those who know there are knives sticking in me still seem to act like maybe I’m just crazy. 

I sound crazy when I let myself scream. I sound disoriented. I sound wild. I think anyone who’s had proverbial knives sticking in them for 5 straight years with no  options of removing the knives, would be sounding pretty crazy when they acknowledge their pain.

I can usually suck it up. I’ve gotten accustomed to the pain, the frustration of impossibility.  The only screams I render now are the last battle cries of my deep wish to find a solution. And my utter lack of understanding how any of this has been possible, much less actual reality. 

My screams now only seem to serve as proof that I probably AM crazy or as awful as my accusations would indicate.. so why scream if it only serves to possibly add credible evidence that the lies are true? Why scream when every cry for help is seen merely as a delusional unwillingness to accept what is? 
I’ve joined parental alienation support groups. I’ve listened to other suffering these same persecutions and outrageous circumstances that most people would struggle to believe are real. I’ve tried to lift people up by offering understanding that I know is difficult to get at best under such unbelievable occurrences. 

I know that many (maybe even most!?) parental alienation targets feel this hopelessness and start to question reality. I know suicide is rather common among successfully targeted parents over time. 

I thought that might give me a purpose. All my life, I’ve thought the things I’ve suffered and overcome were to help others heal from or protect themselves from such things. 

Parental alienation is the one thing I’ve endured that sucks every last bit of hope and worth and  will to live. The pain is so infinite that it’s difficult for those suffering from it to have enough strength to help others through theirs. And the hopelessness is so bleak and valid, there are no beacons of light to dig into their hearts to find and shine for them. 

Narcissistic abuse ruined me, but parental alienation destroyed me.