Lost Acceptance

Aw, jeez, how long has it been since I last posted?  I told you all about my surgery, right?  I had surgery 2 Mondays ago, on the 12th.  They didn’t find any Endometriosis, but they did find a ruptured cyst that had caused some internal bleeding.  I had blood pooling where my right ovary used to.  And internal bleeding.  The doctor had given me 10 roxicodone (basically percocet without the Tylenol) and I still have 2 left because I just didn’t need them.  I had a bit of a desire to use them to get high out of sheer boredom.  I didn’t.  Because I didn’t really want to.  It was more of an intrusive thought than a real desire, you know?

The day of surgery, they stuck me with some sort of calming drug.  (Ipromine?)  I was still in the pre-op room, getting ready with my not so stylish robe and non-skid socks.  I had my mum in there so I could give her my phone to text Flapjack and Kuma-chan to let them know I hadn’t died.  Anyway.  They stuck me with the medicine and I started feeling the high effects and my mum says “You’ll be feeling good soon” and all I could feel was panic and terror and thinking “I don’t like this”.

I was petrified.  And then I woke up to the beeping and noises and blindness and everything was overwhelming and I had a sensory overload.  I was sobbing that it was too loud and I was having a total meltdown.  I was doing that arm thing where I tap my chest with my fingers by they stopped me so I had to make do with jerking my arm back and forth.  My gods, it was loud.

My mum got me Taco Bell after.  I’m sure it’s because of the way I acted after surgery.  I also fluffing love Taco Bell.  She gets points for that.

More and more frequently, I’ve been hit with the sudden realization that my mother doesn’t love me.  I’m not even sure she likes me.  She does kind things for me.  She no longer treats me horribly.  But she doesn’t love me.  I doubt she even sees me as a real person most of the time.  I know I don’t see myself as a real person a lot.

Every time I think to myself, every time I lay in bed at night and remember that crushing epiphany that occurs over and over, because I feel such an overwhelming despair and disconnectedness that I refuse to deal with it, that knowledge that my own flesh and blood, the one who gave birth to me, doesn’t love me.  I’m not sure she loves anyone other than herself.  She’s quite narcissistic.  It doesn’t make it any less sad or lonely.

I keep reminding her of my gender identity.  “Okaasan, I am nonbinary.  Enby, because that sounds cute and I’m fucking adorable.  I prefer they/them or he/him.  I am offspring.  I am not daughter.  I am not she.  I am me.  Please understand.”  She’ll nod.  She’ll say okay, that I’ll always be her baby girl.  And continues to disrespect me.  To prove that who I am doesn’t matter, only what I can give her.  Only who she wants me to be.

The best thing I can think of when it comes to my dad having disowned me is that I don’t  have to deal with his hatred, his abuse and neglect of who I am, what I am.  I don’t have to wake up to the reminder that I’ll never be good enough, that my gayness is somehow a travesty that warrants derogatory name-calling, the insistence that I’m not possibly anything other than a cis-gendered heterosexual woman whose only purpose in life is to pop out babies and make some man happy.  To be a dutiful wife.  With my mum, I wake up every day to a world that disregards me unless I have something to offer.  And every day, I perform a pathetic song and dance that screams “please love me and please approve of me and please validate me.  Please see me as I am.”

Charon is insistent that I get my own place.  My current home is not a good environment for me.  I know it’s not.  This is me desperately trying to get my mother to open up and love me.  To get her attention and her praise.  To get something from her that she won’t give me.  That she may very well be incapable of giving me.

Years of abuse and neglect have left me always taking the blame.  Being the scapegoat to a whole family does that.  Everything is my fault.  Always and forever.  The first thing when someone says that they need to talk to me, my initial reaction, is “what did I do?  Did I do something?  How can I fix it?  What can I do to make up for my fuckery?  I’m sorry.”

Gods, it hurts even writing this stuff down.  Seeing myself as this frightened, anxious person, always eager to please everyone, wanting to make everyone happy.  Ridiculous standards I try to hold myself to.

This is starting to get a bit overwhelming for me, so I’m going to leave it as is for right now.  I’ll finish up later, I guess?  Maybe.  Probably.

Have a good one.

-The Sarcastic Autist

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