DBT again

I’m going to be starting a DBT group again next month.  Seeing as I was suicidal last week and, while I’m not suicidal anymore, I’m still not done being depressed.  I would describe what I’m feeling as the same as the months after my rape, the shame and feeling of unworthiness and knowing that somehow, someway, I deserved it.  I deserve to be punished and this is the punishment.  That I don’t deserve good things because I’m not a good person.

I don’t think I’m a good person.  I try to be kind and compassionate and caring.  I try to show loving-kindness to everyone I meet.  I’ll do random acts of kindness.  Nothing I do or say can really be interpreted as me being a bad person.  Yet, I believe I’m not worthy of love.  I’m not worthy to be happy.  I’m not even sure why.

I feel like I failed.  I’m not even sure what I failed at, just that I failed.

I don’t really think I want to be seen as awesome or amazing or adorable or anything.  Sometimes, I just want to be good enough, to be seen as good enough and for someone to look at me and say “hey, I see you and I believe you.”

I overheard my mum talking about a woman she used to go to school with.  This woman apparently married a child molester, not only a child molester, but the guy who molested her daughter.  My mum said that she would never marry someone like that and that at least my da wasn’t like that.  She’s also adamant that there was never any abuse and that the house we grew up in was shitty because of me.  Because everything is my fault.

I don’t know.  I’m afraid of everything and my anxiety has skyrocketed and I’m finding myself trying to stave off panic attacks again.  I’m so sick and tired of all of this shit.  I’m at the end of my rope here.  I need a hug and someone to cry on without expecting me to talk.

I’m just sad, I guess.

-The Sarcastic Autist

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The Cat and the Flashbacks

So I have a cat.  She’s currently staring at me.  She stares at me a lot.  She wakes me up when I’m having nightmares (or when her food dish is empty).  When I’m depressed or anxious or overwhelmed and I’m hiding under my blankets, she comes and meows at me until I snuggle with her (at which time she promptly turns around so I snuggle her butt instead of her head).  She warns me when I’m going to have a seizure or a really bad twitch.  Which, my seizures aren’t real seizures, they’re psychogenic, although they give my head that same weird electric feeling I get when I’m having twitches/spasms or when I prevent myself from spazzing/stimming.  She has special meows for when she poops, when it’s med time, when I haven’t eaten in a while… She even whines when I’ve been gone all day.  Or when I’ve left for five seconds to get mail.

All in all, she’s a pretty awesome cat.  I can’t remember where I was going with that, but there you are.

She also helps calm me when I get stuck in flashbacks, be they the full blown ones or the ones that involve just a single sense or the ones that are fleeting.  Which I’ve been getting more of again recently.  Is it possible to have flashbacks of flashbacks?  Because I am afraid that I’m going to get stuck in this awful cycle like I was a few years, more than a few years, back where everything I did ended up with me dissociating a bit (or a lot a bit) because everything was triggering me.  It was about the time I was beginning to really grow into my sexual identity and wonder about my gender identity.  ANd by that sort of thing, I mean the gay thing and the “what the fuck am I even” thing.

I’m not sure what I should be doing about that and I don’t want to bother anyone until I get the thoughts fully formed…

-The Sarcastic Autist (and 99% not written by the cat, probably)

Reality and Lies of Depression

I’ve been depressed.  I’ve been more depressed than I have been in years.  By that, I mean I’ve been suicidally depressed.  I have no plans to actually kill myself and I don’t want to kill myself.  I enjoy being alive for the most part.  I just hate myself and wish I was dead so I wouldn’t have to deal with the shit stain that is my life.

I started going to that gender therapist a few weeks back.  The first thing I noticed was the vulva pillow.  More on that later.  I’ve been trying to be more accepting of myself as I am, Enby and all.  It’s not been working.  I hate it.  I hate being gay and I hate not being a cisgendered person.  I have no problem with other gay or trans people, just me.  Internalized homophobia and trans-phobia, probably.  Honestly, I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time.

Charon wanted me to call about getting a case worker/social worker last week so I did.  Something you guys should know about the county I live in is that it sucks hardcore, especially for adults with special needs.  This is the same  county that, when I finally opened up about my mum being abusive, told me that there’s nothing they could do for me.  Nothing to help me.  Zip.  Zilch.  Nada.  Such fucking bullshit.  Anyway, they told me what I expected.  There was nothing they could help me with except maybe pawning me off on someone else.  Assholes.

It’s just… I’m at the end of my rope here.  My mum  used to wake up an hour later and so I would plan my day around having time to myself in the mornings and now her alarm goes off at 7:20ish instead of 8:30 and it’s frustrating for me because she’s always home and I hate that I don’t get alone time.  Ever.  Because she’s always here.

I don’t like that I feel like I’m fat all the time.  I look in the mirror and I see this fucked up fat chick when I don’t even want to be a chick.  Nothing about me is right.  I hate myself.  I don’t even have the smallest iota of self-respect half the time.

Kuma-chan told me the other day that when I told her that it’s okay if she doesn’t get my pronouns right because no one does, she got really sad.  And her telling me that made me realize that if I don’t respect myself, no one will respect me.  And you don’t have to like someone to respect them.  (I think that will be a huge help as I struggle to do so).  So I’m trying to be more assertive and firm about it when talking to people, especially my mum because she is the worst offender.

I have a lot of “If I wasn’t so…” statements running through my head.  “If I wasn’t so fat…”  “If I wasn’t so autistic…”  “If I wasn’t so fucked up in the gender department…”  “If I wasn’t so stupid…” And so on and so forth.  The endings are variable.  “People would love me.”  “I’d be more attractive.”  “My parents would be more accepting of me.”  “I would be able to live a normal, happy life that was worth living.”

Mind, I’m perfectly aware that these are all Drop Bear Statements, completely false thoughts fueled by my depression and lack of self-worth.  And I just don’t think I care.

I do want to say that I don’t want to kill myself and I don’t want to die.  I had known I’d been depressed for a few weeks, it was just the other day when I was staring at one of my medicine bottles and had the sudden urge to overdose that I went “oh, well that’s not good.”  I’m at a loss of what to do.  I see my psychiatrist in a couple weeks so I don’t want to bump up my appointment because that seems silly to me.  I don’t want to bother Charon since I see her on Monday anyway and I’m not at an actual risk of trying anything.

I guess the biggest thing for me right now isn’t the suicidal thoughts and feelings, it’s the urge and need to cut or purge or do something harmful/painful to myself because I need physical feedback that I’m alive and my pain is real.  I don’t know if it’s autism that makes me need that or if I’m just fucking crazy.  Whenever my emotions get too big, be it happiness or sadness or anxiety or inspiration, I have a need to do something physical to/with my body.  Happiness I tend to jump up and down and do that happy clapping or arm movement.  Sadness I want to cut or hit my head against things.  Anxiety I tap on my collar bone.  Inspiration I write and rub my wrists on things.  I rub my wrists on things or bang them on things when I have negative emotions too, just more rubbing when I’m inspired.

I guess it’s also the feeling of being completely alone that bothers me.  The feeling that this is how it is and this is how it will always be and no one can help me.  No one wants to help me.

Telling myself that depression lies only gets me so far.  Depression lies.  Depression lies.  Depression lies.  Except, I also know that most lies have some kernel of truth.  What is the lie and what is the truth?  Where is the reality?

True Reality is based on facts and can be affirmed by other people.

My reality right now is that depression lies, but it whispers small truths within them.

I need help and I don’t know how to ask for it.

I don’t even know if I’m worth it anymore.

-The Sarcastic Autist

Gay Pagan Enby

One of my goals is to write more posts here.  Writing really helps me process and it makes me feel better.  It helps even more knowing that so many of you care and follow my progress and regress and all that.  You are all lovely little sparkles.  Keep shining.

I had my first appointment yesterday with the Gender Therapist and we discussed what I want.  I said ‘I don’t know’ a lot.  Which is, unsurprisingly, what I always end up saying when it comes to goal setting.  My verbal emotional communication is… Well, it barely exists.  Mostly, I rely on small anecdotes and similes and metaphors to try and convey.  It’s more about how things taste, since I experience emotions as flavours most of the time.  Or as music.  It’s sort of odd.

She helped me set up an appointment with their in-house clinician to discuss hormone options.  I’m not wanting a whole lot, mostly just to make sure my fucking ovaries stop ovulating and making cysts and my fucking uterus to stop bleeding.  I have an IUD.  None of that is supposed to happen.  She also set me up with an online survey/quiz thing to help me figure out what I need or what sort of thing I’m looking for.  I learned the difference between a scrotum and testes taking that.  At least it was a learning experience.

And she had a stuffed vulva/vagina.

I stared at it most of the session.

I also haven’t eaten more than 1,000 calories since Monday.  I finally reached out and emailed Charon yesterday.  I tried calling her at the new place and I got disconnected and was too chicken shit to try again.  So I emailed her because I’m too ashamed to talk to Kuma-chan or Flapjack about it.

At the same time, the shame of not controlling this like I could with drugs or anything makes me feel like cutting, which I haven’t done in forever and a half.  I haven’t cut, I don’t want to and I have no plans to.  I just feel bad.  Because I don’t want to stop calorie counting and keeping track of my weight.

And I really hate the eating disorder clinic I went to.  It was too fucking loud for the Autism.

In other news, I’ve been really sad and depressed and abandoned because I wish I could be loved by everyone as I am, a gay pagan enby.  I just know I’ll lose friends if I came out more openly, just like I did when I first came out as gay.  And that makes me feel sad and like crying.

I’m going to go play WoW.

-The Sarcastic Autist

Fear of Fat

It is Fuck o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep.  My brain won’t turn off and I feel sick to my stomach.    I had my first meeting with my therapist in the new place and, even though I don’t like change, I like this new place better.  I feel more comfortable and at ease .  I don’t want to tell her that yet because I’m going to milk the groaning about change for a bit yet.  ^_^  All in good fun, of course.

The real reason I’m on is that I’ve decided I needed to lose weight.  I gained some in the last few months from not being able to move and also probably inflammation and water retention.  So I decided to download My Fitness Pal again and work on losing weight and keeping track of my calories.  I figured that if I can manage to not do drugs, I can get my sorry ass in gear about disordered eating bullshit.

I was wrong.  I already started obsessing yesterday, the first day of keeping track.  Today, I felt bad for eating more than 1,000 calories.  I realized that I would rather die than be fat.  And that is one of the most fucked up things I’ve ever thought.  And it’s true.

The thought of being fat again makes me want to cut.  I haven’t done that in forever.  I do not want to do that.  On the other hand, I do not want to be fat.  I don’t want to cut, so I can’t be fat.  I can’t think that way or I get stuck listening to the Eating Disorder Drop Bear.  The one that says I’m not good enough if I’m overweight, that no one will ever love me.  That I will die old and alone and fat and useless.  That I’m ugly and a worthless piece of shit.

When I was with Exacerbating Ex, I weighed nearly 300 lbs.  That’s a lot.  I weigh about half that now.  Some of her last words to me was about how I would die old and alone and fat just like my mum.  Which was what Bitch Face had told me before.  And several other people.

Exacerbating Ex wouldn’t allow me to eat less.  She hated when I ate food, yet she got mad when I tried to cut back.  If I mentioned wanting to lose weight, she would get mad and tell me that I was trying to trigger her eating disorder and that I was copying her and all this other bullshit.  She would hit me a lot.

Anyway.  The point of this post was that I thought I could overcome this Eating Disorder thing just like I did drugs and smoking and losing weight and when I decided I was going to learn Japanese.  I woke up one day and decided I was going to do so.  I hoped I could do it with this.

I cannot.  I feel stuck because I can figure out what to do now.  And that frustrates me and makes me sad and makes me feel worthless and hopeless and like I don’t deserve nice things.  It makes me feel like I deserve to be treated like shit.

And that worries me.

Yet, I don’t want to stop for fear of fat.

-The Sarcastic Autist

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

Updates Updates Updates

Hissashiburi!  I know it’s been a while.  A long while.  Not as long as other whiles, though.  Lots of tiny little updates and a few huge ones.

Tiny updates: It’s been over a year now that Flapjack and I have been together.  Yay!  We just had our first D&D with a group of friends online.  Well,  friends of hers and friends of mine.  We are all friends now.  It was a lot of fun.

I went to the birthday party of one of my other friends a few weeks back.  The one whose party I went to last year?  That friend.  He gave me his old PS3, which was very nice of him.  I was and am very grateful for it.

And my computer died.  My little piece of shit netbook/notebook thingy that was pretty purple.  It got stuck in a boot loop, just like my old phone.  I’m starting to think I have bad luck with electronics.  My super smart, yet still assholish because he doesn’t agree with my ‘lifestyle and choices’, because I’m nonbinary trans and gay, he helped me build a low-end gaming desktop.  By helped me I mean that I watched and I helped him build it after I bought most of the parts.  He did also pay for a few parts himself as a gift.  Which was very generous.  I’m quite excited now because I’ve been trying to play World of Warcraft with my girlfriend.  We can also play a few other games together.  I’ve died minimally.

Those were the tiny updates.

Big updates:

Surgery is next week.  On Monday.  I have my pre-operative exam tomorrow.  The current plan is to just open me up and see what is or is not there and try to remove any of the endometriosis or adhesions.  But yeah.  Surgery.   I’m fucking terrified and also, surgery hurts.  It hurts a lot.  An insane amount a lot.  And I am getting minimal pain medications.  Like, literally a handful.  Around 5?  I think that’s what we agreed on.  We’ll be discussing it more tomorrow because I am a worry wart and like to plan obsessively.

The other Big Update is that Charon, my therapist, is leaving.  She’s  moving from Mental Health Management Place 1 to Unknown Mental Health Management Place ?????.  She said that I have 3 choices.  In reality, I have 4 choices.  Choice 1 is that I can stop therapy.  No one thinks this is a good idea.  Literally, everyone I’ve talked to has said that me stopping therapy is a Terrible Idea and I should NOT do that.  Choice 2 is that she gives me an “in-house” referral, meaning that she refers me to another therapist and Mental Health Management Place 1.  Choice 3 is that I can seek therapy elsewhere from Mental Health Management Place 1.  There are no shortages of places I can seek treatment from.  The 4th Choice, and the one I’d rather do, is I can see if my insurance will allow me to follow her to her new place.

The issue with Choice 4 is that I don’t know where she’s moving to.  She can’t tell me because non-competes.  You know?  So she did say I can Google her, which makes me really uncomfortable.  Because Googling is kinda creepy.  I am also insanely good at it.  I can find just about anything and anyone with my Google-fu.  Also, I have tried and I can’t find her.  Which is a bit frustrating and also makes me uncomfortable because I’ve learned a lot of things about her that I would rather not know.  Like her age.

My mum asked me why I didn’t just ask my therapist and when I said she had the non-compete, my mum said “she could tell you anyway”.  No.  If Charon told me, she would have broken her word and I wouldn’t want to follow her to the new place.  My mum doesn’t understand this.  My mum is also a bit of an asshole herself.

Anyway… That’s where it’s all at right now.  I’m going to go shower and go to bed so I’m ready for my appointment tomorrow.  I will try to be better now that I have a decent computer.

-The Sarcastic Autist

Who am I?

Hello again!  I saw my gynecologist yesterday.  She is indeed a surgeon.  I thought she wasn’t.  We discussed surgery and pain management.  I thought surgery wouldn’t be until March and I was like ‘no way in hell I’m going to be able to last another month like this’.  She said about 2 weeks.  She said I would be able to get it done next week, except she’s going on holiday next week.  So I told her nevermind on pain management right now.  I can last 2 weeks.  I cannot last a month.  The surgery will not be a DaVinci surgery, where they use this super awesome machine to cut you open and stuff.  Recovery time for that is fast as fuck.  It’s going to be a normal laparoscopic. She’s also going to have a general surgeon in there in case there’s scar tissue or other non-gynecological issues so that they can be fixed in one go.  She also said I won’t need a D&C.

Remember a couple years ago when I went to that party for a friend?  He invited me again this year and it’s this Saturday.  I’m super excited about it.

My own birthday was this last Saturday.  I am now 27.  I feel like 27 is a good age for me.  I feel 27.  If that makes sense.  I got my cat gifts for my birthday.

Onto Therapy Related Stuff.

Charon asked me to think about this question this week: Who am I?

Well, fuck you Charon!  I keep asking myself that question!  That is MY question!  The one question I keep asking myself over and over and over again!  The whole point of therapy is so I can figure it out. Okay, so there are obviously other points of therapy.  It’s just that… I believe everyone has one question they keep coming back to through-out their lives.  Mine is “who am I?”.

I am rocking this homework this week.  I started by writing down a bunch of questions to ask myself.

  • Who am I?
  • What am I scared of?
  • What makes me hold myself back?
  • What can I tell about myself from the books I read?
  • What do I want?
  • What are my goals in life?
  • Why does my skin suit fit me poorly? (why do I think my skin suit fits me poorly)
  • What makes me happy?  Sad?  Grossed out?  Ashamed?  Angry?  Confused?
  • What do I consider my best characteristics?
  • What do I consider my worst characteristics?
  • How would I describe myself?
  • How wouldn’t I describe myself?

I’m sure there’s other questions that I haven’t gotten written down yet.  There’s also a lot of thoughts and ponderings and hesitations that I have with it.  I think a huge part of my issue with figuring out who I am is that I keep myself mired in the past.  I’m too busy trying to figure out who I was to figure out who I am.  I’m also too busy figuring who I’m not.

But most of all, I’m busy trying to be who others want me to be and I’m busy being afraid that I won’t like who I truly am.  That no one else will either.  Not that I really like myself all that much right now.

Something that my girlfriend, Flapjack, told me the other day has been really helpful.  Now, please keep in mind that she was joking when she said it.  I told her “I’m anxious”.  And she responded “well, have you tried not being anxious?”.  Cue lots of sarcastic responses and jokes between us.  It really helped me get over my anxiety because of the ridiculousness of it.  (Really, she was joking.  She deals with anxiety too.)

I’m not anxious.  Anxiety doesn’t define who I am.  I get anxious.  I have anxiety.  I am not anxious in the core of myself.  This doesn’t translate well into all the aspects of my life.  Anxiety is not a 24/7 constant.  Being Autistic and Gay and Nonbinary are.  Therefore, I am Autistic and I am Gay and I am Nonbinary.  These things don’t change.  They are part of who I am in my core self.  Emotions such as anxiety and depression and happiness and anger and shame are not part of who I am in my Core Self.  (Ah, see, capitalizing shit.  Means it’s important.)

I don’t know who all I am in my Core Self.  Who am I all the time?  In the deep, dark recesses of my very being, who am I?

I can tell you who I’m not.  I’m not a defenseless little girl anymore.  I’m stronger.  My Sacred No is not the firmest yet and I’m working on making my Sacred No my Solid Sacred No.  I am not a victim.  I feel worthless still.  I want to say that that’s not who I am, but I don’t believe that yet.  I still feel unworthy and dirty and like I’m a tainted person.  That can’t be who I am.

Still…  It’s a start, right?

-The Sarcastic Autist

Blame Game

I should be studying my Japanese but I just really need to get this out there real quick.

I keep thinking about when my mum told me that my Patriarchal blessing would have come true if I had stayed in the church.  If I didn’t “stray from the path”.

I cannot begin to tell you how much that is fucking with me.  Shit like that is why I tend to blame myself for everything.  Who says that?  Who says that it’s the fault of the victim like that?  I’m sorry I can’t have kids because of this horrible disease I have.  If only I had stayed in the church that wanted me to pray the gay away and kept telling me I was bad because I question everything, none of this would ever have happened.  (sarcasm)

It really messes with me.  She’s blaming me for shit that isn’t my fault and I’m believing her.  It’s the opposite of helpful and productive and effective.

I would move out, but there are several reasons I don’t want to.  One being that I don’t pay rent.  Another being that I don’t trust myself living alone.  Mostly because I’m afraid my mum wouldn’t be able to live by herself.  She’s already bad enough with me living with her.

Ah well.  I feel better having ranted.  I’m going to go finish my studying and then read a bit, maybe head back to bed for a nap.

-The Sarcastic Autist

Drop Bear of Doubts

I slept most of yesterday.  I was in pain and just tired.  I kept thinking about how I gave my therapist those blog posts and thinking that she won’t believe me and that she will be mad.

I have a lot of doubts.  I doubt anyone will believe.  I doubt I’m worth anything.  I doubt my life will get better.  I doubt anyone could truly like me, let alone love me.  I doubt.  I doubt.  I doubt.

I looked at my cat at one point and just saw her staring at me.  I thought about how she always comes for cuddles and pets, even though she knows I’ll force her to cuddle with me.  I give her baths and she hates them.  And she always comes back for more love.  I realized she loved me unconditionally.  She is probably the only one who has.

That may or may not be true.  However, it really hit me that that was what love is.  True love is unconditional.  Loving someone despite their flaws, because of their quirks, simply because you do.

All my life I’ve been told “If you love me, you’ll do this” or “I’ll love you if you do that”.  My value as a person, how much love I could give or get, has depended on my actions.  Even in church as a child I was taught that doing good things is how I got God to love me, that Good Deeds was the way into heaven.  My worth was dependent on actions, not who I was as a person.

I firmly believe that everyone has one question that they always come back to in their life.  One question that they ask themselves over and over again, trying to seek the truth of themselves in the answer.  My question has always been “who am I?”

Doing all those things to seek approval from others, trying to buy love, that hid who I am, who I was, who I will be.  My true self couldn’t come out for fear of losing the validation and conditional terms of acceptance I had thought to be normal.  I couldn’t be who I was, who I am, because I had to be who everyone else wanted to be.  Or I wouldn’t be loved.

I’ve lost myself along the way.  The doubts that plague me make me want to hide and so I do.  I hide.  I keep my secrets close and I bullshit and I make jokes and I do my best to shy away from the tough shit.  I want to be loved.  I crave it.  I crave the love and the acceptance and the validation that I never got.

I want to believe that my friends love me.  Oftentimes, I doubt it.  How could anyone love me?  Who am I to be so special as to be deserving of such a gift?  I keep quiet about the things that truly plague me, all the doubts and traumas and difficulties that make it so hard for me to function.  I don’t want them, or anyone really, to think any less of me than they already do.

Total Drop Bear Bullshit.

I am trying to remember that I’m worthy of the love and acceptance that my friends give me.  It’s a gift and a blessing.  I’m truly grateful for them everyday.  Even when I’m in the darkest depths of my doubts, I feel my love towards them and they send me love, despite my unwillingness to accept it.

I guess my point is that I am scared.  I’m scared of losing what few good things I have.  I’m scared that I will be called a liar and that everyone will get mad at me and I’ll be friendless and alone, stuck with only my inner darkness to keep me company.

That’s not something I want.  And I don’t know what to do about it.

-The Sarcastic Autist