I’m doing better. I’ve been practicing what to say out loud instead of just telling myself to spit it out. I started off by writing it a bunch of times. You know how when you hear or read a word over and over and over again, it loses its meaning? That’s what I’m going for. A little exposure therapy.
Write it. Think it. Whisper it. Say it. Yell it. Do vigorous exercise to get rid of all the guilt and shame. Put myself into a less emotional state of mind. I got this.
I’ve survived another year since the Thing. It’s been 10 years now. I didn’t do drugs. I didn’t drink. I’ll admit that I did end up cutting on either Wednesday or Tuesday last week.
I had thoughts of ending it, my sobriety I mean. I wanted to put myself back into the fog. I wanted to deal with this the way I’ve always dealt with it: lots of drugs, drinking, sex, cutting, anything that could be seen as self-destructive I would do. Why sex? Because I can’t think of a single time where I had fun with sex stuff that didn’t involve being clothed. I like clothing. Skin to skin contact bothers me. It’s always bothered me.
I stayed sober. I stayed clean and in recovery. I didn’t try to kill myself. I didn’t engage in disordered eating. I did withdraw and hide myself from the world, but I came out anew, like I’m born again (but not born again Christian, fuck that noise).
I’m not a victim, I’m a survivor. Why do I continually look at myself as something less than everyone else? As my old eating disorder therapist once asked me “What makes you so special that you hold yourself at a higher regard than everyone else”?
When I look at my friends, I see their inner beauty at all times. I love them unconditionally. I laugh with them and cry with them and do not look at them as inferior, but as people deserving of love and respect and compassion.
Yet, when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize those things in myself. I constantly put myself down. “Sarcastic Autist, you fat cunt, get your shit together.” “Oh my gods, why are you such a fucking spaz?” “If you hadn’t done X, Y, or Z, none of this would be happening.” “You’re such a pathetic loser. I hate you. You deserve bad things happening to you.”
It’s not enough that I’ve been victimized by others. Somehow, I’ve seen fit to victimize myself repeatedly. I seldom give myself real praise. I hide behind false hubris by continually stating how awesome I am, how smart I am. How amazing and special and supercalifragilisticexpialidocious I am. (You can actually sit there and marvel at the fact that I totally spelled that right without googling it. Go on, the rest of the post will wait.)
Inside, I’m nothing but a scared child. I often feel like I never truly escaped from all the abuse and that I’ll always end up back in that cycle. And I feel like I deserve it. I feel like I deserve to be someone else’s punching bag because I see myself as something less than. Not even someone, just something.
It’s painful and humbling and empowering to type these words up. I don’t often like to look directly at the suffering I hold deep within myself, grown by secrets and shame.
I keep re-injuring myself emotionally because I have always refused to share with my therapists in the past. I know there’s a huge part of me that’s worried that Charon will call me a liar. An attention seeking liar.
But I know she won’t. She’ll probably look at me with that trademark therapist look and maybe say that she wants to hug me but I don’t like to be touched so she won’t. Maybe give me a gold star. (I love gold star stickers. I have a bunch in my drawers. They make me happy.)
I can’t control her reaction. I can only share my suffering and trust that she will not add to it.
I refuse to keep victimizing myself. I refuse to keep my ‘poor me’ attitude. I want to be a survivor, although that isn’t quite the right word.
I guess a warrior would be the correct term. A warrior fights and continues fighting. They look at life and see adventure. A survivor sees obstacles.
I want to be a Warrior.
-The Sarcastic Autist