I dunno what to call this thing. That isn’t my favorite name up there, but whatever haha, you’ll get the point. It’s about how it all progressed, so I guess the name, although boring, works. I didn’t really title it to begin with, so whatever.
This is the first real WRITING that I showed my therapist, and I think it’s something that gives real insight to my…craziness? (And again, I use the word with love and claim it as my own because I relate to it) Maybe reading this (or listening to me read it) helps people make sense of who I am and how I came to be who I am.
It feels like forever ago that I sat in her office reading this to my therapist, but it was probably like two months ago. Maybe less. I’m revisiting it now because I think it’d be helpful. I was told in this morning’s session that I am actually a functioning human, going about my business in society at a fairly high level of competence. I love when she compliments me and says nice things about me and reassures me, but there’s something to be said in the fact that I still have trouble hearing it. My eyes don’t meet hers when she talks like that. I guess I’m still self-conscious about…something? I mean, I don’t feel successful. She phrased it in a way that made more sense, something about how I’m not doing what makes me fulfilled inside? Something like that, but dammit, I wish I remembered her actual words. Regardless, I have to consider the main idea. That being that I’m high functioning, apparently. I’m “normal” (is how I interpret it, sort of). Which means when I feel comfortable enough to do so, I’ll add some more to my plate and start looking for a JOB that doesn’t make me feel like garbage.
When I’m comfortable, I’m going to move forward. That’s scary in a whole hell of a lot of ways. But what I’m getting at is: before I move on, I need to come to terms with my backstory. Or whatever.
These words are important to me. I chose them carefully.
My story, my journey, whatever you want to call it…is important to me. I find meaning in it carefully.
I guess just read it and see for yourself?
When I was ten, it tugged at me.
At the time, I was merely confused. Maybe a little curious.
It felt weird more than anything else.
A vague and unfamiliar sensation that wouldn’t seem to go away.
I didn’t know what, but it didn’t really matter.
I distracted myself by learning to crochet and going about my regular fifth-grade business.
When I was thirteen, it pulled at me.
At the time, I was already agitated, as every new teenager is. I grew annoyed with it.
It was confusing, but no longer curious to me.
A troubling nuisance, forever in the back of my consciousness, on top of everything else.
Something was wrong.
I didn’t know what, and I didn’t have time to figure it out.
I distracted myself with writing, and all the normal preoccupations of an eighth-grader.
When I was fourteen, it yanked at me.
At the time, I was stressed and upset and annoyed.
No longer confused, just pissed off with it.
A stupid, scary presence…a lingering sense of discomfort, and it was spreading.
Something was wrong. Very, definitely, completely wrong.
I didn’t know what, didn’t care either. Still had no time to figure it out, nor the willpower to try.
I was too distracted to distract myself. Fucking ninth grade.
When I was sixteen, it ripped into me.
I was depressed.
It was empty. Hollow sadness that radiated into every aspect of my being.
Anxiousness that pervaded every thought and action.
A dark cloud looming over me, terrible fears caving in on me.
Everything was wrong. Nothing was okay.
How did it get that way? How could it have gotten that way?!
I wondered how, and why, but had no energy to figure it out.
I distracted myself by starving my body into oblivion and cutting open my own skin.
The darkness was first punctured when I was seventeen.
Light washed over everything.
At the time, it was like moving through a familiar world by means that were infinitely more fun.
Happy that the weight had been lifted (figuratively, at least).
It felt weird, but it was a relief more than anything else.
An oddly satisfying sensation that grew more comfortable every day.
It was finally okay.
I was proud of myself, and it felt good.
I celebrated by smiling at the beauty of the world around me.
I was eighteen when I fell again.
It was like tasting freedom only to realize it was all some sick joke.
Suffocating sadness juxtaposed next to pure happiness…
A throwback to three years wasted, a body wasted.
Something. Wasn’t. Right. AGAIN!
Why, for the love of God, WHY?!
Exhausted, I begged the universe for an answer.
And instead, I went crazy.
A respite came when I was nineteen.
“Are you on cocaine?”
“Then you’re bipolar.”
It was confusing more than anything else.
But when I finally caught my breath, it started to go away.
A short punctuation, a precarious pause…
And then insanity.
Something was wrong, or right, or something, and what was I talking about?
I didn’t know.
I distracted myself with self-mutilation.
I was twenty when it came and went.
A roller coaster of twists and turns.
One flash flood after another.
I was twenty-one, I was twenty-two, I was twenty-three.
I was twenty-four, and you know the story by now.
Clawing my way back up, climbing and scaling and reaching…
The ground ripped from underneath me.
Get back up. Again.
Pushed back down. Again.
Fifteen years in the making.
Perspective and knowledge and maturity behind me.
Up and down.
I know enough to center myself and ignore it.
UP and DOWN.
I’m hanging in there, struggling, but holding on.
Up down up down up down.
It throws me off balance, but my I have muscle memory from years of this, so I remain standing.
I push back.
I am twenty-seven, and I’ve said enough is enough.
I’m stressed, but okay. Tired, but functioning.
Something’s right, something’s wrong…that’s just how it is.
I don’t know why, but I don’t have to.
I’m distracting myself by living my fucking life.