mebeinganemobitch

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

Sometimes I wish something awful would happen to me, not because I want to feel worse, but because it would give me an excuse to feel the way I already do.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

Because ive been scared for eleven years. Ive been scared and alone and i *had* to be, because i had to get used to the idea that i would be; that this tight knit group thay would protect each other against anyone and anything wouldnt include me. I had to teach myself that it would be alright if they never talked to me after i moved out and fell in love, and how do you do that? How can it ever be alright that the people you love wont do the same for you?

It cant be, but it can be easier, you can be ready, you can isolate yourself, cut off pieces that need their approval, their warmth, their love. You can find that in other people sometimes, and sometimes you just learn to live a little less whole. And you have to live; scared, alone, a broken mess of unmatching pieces that slowly knit themselves together with anger and bitterness because you had to cut the other feelings out.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

If I was to kill myself, and leave a note for my family to read, I'd say that I didn't want them to blame themselves. I'd say it wasn't their fault. They didn't do anything wrong, in fact they tried their best. I'd ask them not to mourn me, but to remember the good times we had. I'd ask them to move on with their lives and when they think of me to smile. That they remember how hard I worked to help others, and do it themselves. To always be kind, no matter how hard it may be or how heavy your own heart.

I'd ask that they not blame me either. I'd say that this isn't about them, that I never meant to cause them pain or suffering or heartache. I was just being selfish for once. I was thinking about me, putting myself first. I'd say I was doing what I needed to take care of me, to end the pain that never seemed to disappear despite my best efforts.

It's not your fault, I'd say, over and over in hopes they understood, they believed. It's me. I'm broken. Sometimes I cry and there's no reason, my brain hurts and I'm tired and there is nothing you could have done, so don't hurt. Don't let me ending my own pain cause you to suffer. That was never my intent. I never wanted to make anyone else cry.

I'm just tired.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

I was talking to my therapist and I realized that I've always written about trauma and the trauma response. When I was younger I would take my characters and break them down, piece by piece, taking away everything they had, that they could rely on, until they were broken shells that wanted to scream and cry and begged for an end and then I'd leave them there. Maybe it's why I could never finish anything, I couldn't even imagine a resolution, I didn't know how someone was supposed to climb out of that deep a hole.

My stories still center on trauma. My characters still break and cry and think they won't ever make it, that nothing can ever get better. But when I write stories now, it does. Now I can finally write about healing.

And I think that says a lot.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

People who say children want to be different, have never been truly different.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

Getting to that point were I feel like my writing is shit despite the people who read my literal unedited garbage of a first draft telling me they love it.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

There's smoke in the air tonight

We closed all the windows

For the first time ever.

There were fires last year

And the year before that

And they stopped calling it

Unusual.

There's smoke in the air tonight

There's nothing I can do.

I've watched people march

And argue

And lobby

And campaign

And still

There's smoke in the air tonight.

And there's nothing I can do

When the rich have chosen

To end the world we know thinking

Money will mean anything

When everyone starves

There's smoke in the air tonight

We closed all our windows.

And next year

We won't even be surprised

When

There's smoke in the air.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

I’m not sure what exactly the mood for today is, but it has to do with how both autistic people and gay people have to hide who they are for so long and so deep that they dont even know what parts are them or not.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

I just wish sometimes that people would accommodate ME instead of me always accommodating everyone else. Let’s be honest, it’s easier for Neurotypical people to NOT touch you than it is for me, an overly sensitive to awkward situations mess, to turn down someone who’s already coming for me with open arms.

“I raised you so you could handle it,” no! You raised me with learned helplessness and a fucking anxiety problem! You raised me to want to drink every night to unwind from how fucking difficult it is to just exist. Maybe the reason I wish I’d been diagnosed as a child is so I wouldn’t have to put up with you trying to fucking force me into doing all this useless fucking garbage. Yeah, I don’t want to stay at your fucking party that long. I don’t want to be in loud places and I’m Not staying up late and I prefer to be in the dark like a “fucking goblin”.

Die mad about it.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

I come home and so I want to be drunk. I’m tired and there’s nothing to do and so I want to be drunk. There’s people over or I’m out and so, I want to be drunk.

But I can’t break my word to myself, and how can I justify being too tired to NOT do something? How can I be too tired to NOT get up and grab a bottle and hide it from everyone and get drunk?

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

Full offense and I get that there’s a problem with overdiagnosing problems in children and overmedicating children in this country - great US of A - but you should not not diagnose your child just because you’re afraid they will be labelled or some stupid shit like that. You’re not going to turn them more autistic or ADD or gay if they’re already that way.

And take it from an adult autistic person who was not diagnosed, it fucking sucks. I wish I’d been properly diagnosed as a child. I wish I hadn’t grown up feeling different and broken and alone. I wish I hadn’t gone through so many mental disorders as I tried to figure out what was wrong with my brain before I finally figured out that the answer was nothing. And I wish someone had been there helping me through all of it.

I know my mom tried, she really did, and I’m more functional than I could have been, tbh, but I should have been able to learn from adult autistic people how to cope with neurotypicals and how to unmask when I’m alone, and what my boundaries should be and how to cope in a world that is in no way built for someone like me. I could have used the help as a child, and now I feel like there’s no resources for someone who can pass as neurotypical and is slowly falling apart.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

When I was talking to my therapist about coming out to my mom, she asked me what the worst case scenario was.

I told her, obviously, it would be her hating me.

Then she asked me what the best case scenario was. What did I want to get out of telling her. And I didn’t know. I didn’t have an answer.

But I thought about it. It stayed in my life, simmering, and I realized finally, what exactly I wanted to hear in a perfect universe.

I just wanted to hear her say “I’m sorry.” Sorry for how alone I felt, sorry for how scared she’d made me, sorry for the anxiety that I felt anytime I thought about the future and who I was and how everyone in the family would respond. Sorry because I’ve had to live my entire teenage years in a box that I didn’t fit in, that I couldn’t leave, that I couldn’t share the experience of. Just... sorry.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

I talked to my mom the other day and we talked about a lot of things, but one of the things she said that stuck with me was “you know we’ve always been behind you, I don’t know why you’re stressing so much.”

And I didn’t say anything, but I just wanted to scream. I haven’t known that. I didn’t grow up that way. Ever since I was fourteen and I liked my first girl, I haven’t felt like my family has been in any way behind me. Not after the way they’ve acted. I have been coming to terms with the fact that I will probably be left alone after I move out and find a girl and start living my true life for the past ten years of my life. I was ready to be kicked out of my house or have to leave because of how I would be treated. I was ready to have to pay for my college completely on my own and find a place to live.

You didn’t raise me to feel like my family was behind me. You raised me to feel alone. You raised me to not trust anyone. That’s how I’ve grown up.

The childhood you’re referring to is the one you gave my straight siblings.

Not me.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

imagine, for a moment, that you’re standing in a river. The water runs over your feet, but it doesn’t truly affect you. It doesn’t change anything, it just is. And overall, it doesn’t really matter.

But then people start telling you things like, we have to be here when 6 gallons have flowed past, or you can only eat when amother two gallons have gone. And you look down at the river and you have no idea how many gallons are passing past your feet. You can’t really envision a gallon to start with. How many handfuls of water can you pull out of a gallon? how many times can you drink it until you’re full? How high would it sit if you were to put it in a tub?

You don’t know. You can’t conceptualize it, not really, and the river isn’t helping. Sometimes the water is up to your knees, surging and angry, and sometimes it falls to a trickle barely lapping your toes as it meanders through rocks.

Six gallons, two, nineteen, twenty seven. There’s no way for you to tell how much water is passing, though you know it is, and every unit for it seems arbitrary. Sometimes you want to just turn away from it, never pay attention to the river again, just let life pass as it’s meant to, but you can’t.

You have somewhere to be in seven gallons, and you can’t be late.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

It didn't take me long, actually, to realize I had a problem with alcohol. It took me two weeks and two stolen bottles of wine that I don't like the taste of, and I knew.

It took me one day to stop. Sometimes I wish it hadn't. I wish I'd drunk myself out of my mind every night for weeks until I'd broken down where everyone could see me, so they would know I was struggling because I don't know how to tell them. Until I had to accept someone's help because I couldn't make it on my own. But, of course, that's why I didn't. Because I always make it on my own. And I can't accept anyone's help.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

When people ask me why I am sad, I’ve learned to say “I’m tired” or “I’m not sad, just neutral”, because all too often the answer is “I don’t know. I want to weep and I don’t know why” and that is an answer that no one wants to hear, because they can offer no band aid, no advice, no quick fix to make you stop.

[mebeinganemobitch-blog]

Perhaps one of the defining memories of mine, such that could be recorded as a single instance, would be when I was assaulted. The memory was one I forgot for years, bundled away after dealing with laws and school officials, tucked deep into the recesses of my mind where it could cause no harm, until years later when I pulled it out to examine it in the lack of fear that concerned me at my most introspective. 

I no longer remember when it happened, nor the weather, nor the time of year, nor even the year itself. I don’t see it from the point of view I must have had, lying on the ground on my back, with the trees above me, silent and unmoving, the sky a color I no longer remember. 

My memory of that moment is that of a nightmare where you are in danger you cannot escape from, one closing tightly around you with fingers like death itself, and you try so hard to scream but no sound escapes, and you push yourself harder and harder until you break the paralysis and jolt awake in bed, yelling bloody murder, and your parents come to your room and assure you it was just a dream, nothing to ever concern you, something that fades from the mind when the light is on.

But it wasn’t a dream, and I never woke up, and I never managed to scream.