Seriously, I’m all sorts of fucky right now. There is something wrong with me. I purged for the first time in months. There was no attempt at not doing, not really.
I wish I could say I don’t know why I did it. That I could lie and pretend that this is the Number One Huge Thing that’s wrong with me and that this is all I need to fix. But it’s not. What’s wrong with me is that I’m scared. I’m scared all the time.
I want to push everyone away and run and hide. I feel like I’m putting on this facade of bravery and pretending that I’m okay and courageous and capable. But I’m really not. I’m terrified. I have the old mantras of ineptitude and not-enoughness and the voices of my exes calling me a liar and no one will ever believe me. Is this shame? Is this what shame feels like? Because it feels more like fear. It feels like sadness and disparity.
Like not knowing what comes next and not knowing how I’m going to do. Not knowing the scales and spectrum of okayness. It’s a vast unknown chasm into the depths of my being. This is it. This is the cause and effect search, to figure out why I am the way I am and how I can fix it. How to accept myself and be compassionate.
I don’t feel like I deserve compassion. I feel tainted. I feel like that dirty fat little girl that no one liked except as a sex object. A contaminated soul with a contagious touch that ruins everything. An angsty emo teen.
Did I ever mention how neglectful my mum is? Okaasan was never really there. When she was, she was abusive. It wasn’t until I was physical back that she stopped being physical, but the emotional and verbal is there. The constant tries of gaslighting.
I lie and tell myself that I don’t care as much because I like my space. That I prefer loneliness and isolation. That being ignored is great because that gives me more freedom.
I lie to myself and try to convince myself that she’s just forgetful. Maybe my memory is the bad one. Maybe her words are what matter, not her actions.
I lie and tell myself that her face when she was telling me the wonders of Trump’s presidency was because she doesn’t really understand politics. That she doesn’t realize how this is stuff that’s not okay and hateful.
I lie to myself when I say that she loves me. She has to, because she’s my mum. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t show it. She doesn’t say it. She loves me because someone has to. Right?
I know I’m a lovable person. I’m kind and compassionate and super smart and charismatic and authentic and colourful. My friends all say so. People often comment on my smile and the way I make people laugh and smile too. That my loving-kindness that I display makes people happy and feel good.
I know I’m awesome. I just don’t feel it. I feel like a whiner. A liar who is only pretending to be all these amazing things. A shell of a person with no soul and no light. Just a hollow emptiness.
No one can love me because I’m too fat and I’ve gained some weight, I’ll think to myself. If I’m happiest with my body when I’m binding my chest, there’s something wrong with me. I’m an inherently wrong and bad person. There’s nothing worthwhile about me. I don’t know half of the things I should. Nothing in life is permanent so I should withdraw from others to prevent the inevitable crash of pathetic loserdom that is soon to come.
It’s all coming to a head and I no longer know truth from lies. I’m not sure I know reality from actuality. Delusions of dysphoria.
It’s a wave of sadness and grief and shame and fear all rolled into one fucked up package and I just needed to vent. Thank you.
-The Sarcastic Autist