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suspiciouscatastrophe · 3 years

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Slur of affirmation...?

Hello there! I know I’m a self-proclaimed reblogger and my personal ramblings aren’t probably what you follow me for, so I apologize in advance. I just feel I need a blank space to shout my feelings in, so here we go.

TW: the r-slur, casual ableism, a whole lot of imposter syndrome

I am an autistic girl. At least, I like to think I am.

The label is extremely important to me. I was diagnosed late, aged 16, so I spent most of my teenage years and my whole childhood in the dark about what even am I.

I’ve always had issues. Picking up basic skills and being self-sufficient, making friends, expressing myself, controlling my emotions, adapting to social norms, you name it. I’ve experienced both meltdowns and shutdowns and sensory difficulties. I was switching constantly between doubting my capability to feel feelings and dealing with sudden outbursts of rage, gloom and hate towards myself that usually ended up with me yelling at someone or breaking stuff.

I had my special interests that I used to talk about almost constantly (...some things never change) and an atypical speech pattern that has also stayed with me to this day. Coupled with my rather poor social skills and... uh... “fiery” reactions, I was bullied relentlessly all through the kindergarten (2 years) and elementary school (which in our country lasts 9 years). In high school, I was on peaceful terms with everybody but still generally disliked.

Anyway, why am I typing all of this? It sounds like a sob story absolutely irrelevant to the topic.

I just wanted to provide context for my mindset.

When growing up, I didn’t know I was autistic. I didn’t know that there are people just like me, or at least very similar to me, or that some things that I’m being chastised for aren’t actually bad (e.g. stimming), and those that are could get better if only I knew how to protect myself (e.g. meltdowns).

I simply thought I was evil.

And today, a friend of mine called me a r*tard. We have this sort of a slightly questionable relationship where he acts in a very abrasive and demeaning manner to me in public as a running joke but is sweet to me in private. I know, that sounds messed up but since I know he doesn’t mean it and he’s saying it only to be an edgelord, I don’t register it as harmful. But I digress!

Today he said I was “his favorite r*tard” in a public chat after I said hello.

I don’t reclaim the slur in any way, shape or form. I actually find it very uncomfortable and in my friend circle it’s known that I don’t enjoy being called that. The friend in question doesn’t reclaim it either, he’s neurotypical (as far as I know).

But!

It made me feel... good this time?

(that sounds awful, I’m sorry)

I spend a lot of time just casually doubting my diagnosis.

My diagnosis helped me a lot to understand myself, to find resources and people to relate to, to find the vocabulary for my experiences. It helped me hate myself a bit less.

But something in my brain yells that I don’t deserve any of that. I must be a faker, right? Because I always am. I’m a vile pretentious person that only emulates emotions of others and everything about her is fake, made up to garner social points and to sift away resources.

I’m not self-dxed. My stance on self-diagnosis is that it’s valid anyway (at least in case of autism and similar). Professional diagnosis is a privilege that not everyone has.

But even having that coveted paper from my psychiatrist doesn’t help persuade my brain in the slightest.

Because she didn’t diagnose me properly, right?

Basically my therapist did an evaluation and then forwarded me to her saying she suspects I probably am autistic. And the doctor was like, “Whatever,” and she gave my mother a piece of paper.

So when I get called the r-slur that is used to dehumanize and attack neurodiverse people, I feel... affirmed.

They recognize me as an autistic enough to demean me for it!

Today was the first time I felt that. Usually I feel only discomfort around the slur but today... today it was the slur of affirmation and I feel guilty for even saying that.

#actuallyautistic #autism #r-slur #ableism

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thegeminisage · 5 years

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don’t r*blog this but an interesting thing about the self-diagnosis discourse* on like the liberal communities on the internet vs the wildly anti any-mental-illness-whatsoever attitude in the “““real world””” is that one can, for instance, get a very real official real diagnosis and still feel like a total faker

by which i mean: i got kicked out of school at AGE 6 in like in FIRST GRADE and they wouldn’t let me come back until i had seen a doctor to Get Help so i went to the doctor and got told i had ADD and my mom was like “ok but you don’t really have ADD you’re totally fine we just did that so you could go to school” and i spent YEARS, even before i got my depression & anxiety diagnosed, taking meds and struggling with behavioral issues at school and dealing with sensory issues and enduring the constant bullying that usually gets directed at neurodivergent kids and knowing mental illnesses are often comorbid with other mental illnesses seeing ALL OF IT GET WORSE when i ditched the pills in my rebellious tween years and STILL FULLY BELIEVED i “didn’t really have it”

to the point where like only in the last 1-2 years, after reading a lot of random shit that crossed my various social media platforms, have i gone “wow those posts where people talk about their experiences with ADHD are like actually alarmingly relatable” and on a kneejerk reaction then immediately go “lol but i can’t self-diagnose and claim to have that when no doctor said i did”

BUT A DOCTOR DID SAY THAT THEY SAID THAT ~20 YEARS AGO AND I SPENT THE ENTIRE TWO DECADES NOT BELIEVING THEM

and like i just think that’s NUTS that not even a PROFESSIONAL DIAGNOSIS is enough evidence for me because of The Stigma Around And Internal Biases Against Mental Illness (which i was thoroughly convinced i got over like halfway through teenhood) combined with The Stigma Around And Biases Against The Mentally Ill Who Self Diagnose and anyway healthcare around mental illness in this country is a disgrace just like the rest of its healthcare, thank you and goodnight

*please don’t try to debate me about self-diagnosis discourse

#personal #all of this is to excuse the post im about to make in which i was aplnning to crack an adhd joke #and then decided against it because i felt like a Faker™#hold please for reltable content

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autistickitten · 6 years

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How does one deal with not feeling "autistic enough"? I always feel like a big faker because I feel like I don't stim enough or have bad enough sensory issues etc. I am holding a job. I feel like people always focus on what autistic people can't do so much that when I do do something I feel wrong. I dont ever feel autistic enough even though I could get job accomodations to make things even easier. Idk, I feel like I have to torture myself into looking NT b/c Ive done it for so long.

You say you don’t feel “autistic enough”, but you end your message with “I have to torture myself into looking NT”. Let me assure you, while non-autistic people sometimes exhibit autistic traits, they will never feel that way.

When camouflaging your autistic traits so that other people will not notice them is torture, you are MOST CERTAINLY “autistic enough”. In fact, any autistic person is “autistic enough”. There is no spectrum from “not autistic” to “fully autistic”, that’s not how it works !

As for people focusing on the “deficits” of autism, I feel it can come from two places: non-autistic people not valuing autistic skills, but also autistic people going “oh my god there is a REASON why I’m struggling so much, it all makes sense now”

If that is what you are talking about, then I think I can safely say that autistic people who focus on the negative aspects of their autism won’t resent you for being able to do more. All autistic people have a mix of strengths and weaknesses :)

Whew, that was really disorganized, but I hope it helped !

- Sister Cat

#long post #Anonymous #ask

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zoilathemom-blog · 6 years

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stuff i wish i knew

Dakota was not planned. In fact, Zach and me were very much mending ourselves back together when we found out I was pregnant. We intended to have a baby at some point, but Winter 2018 was not penciled into our agenda. When we got the news there was no question. We were doing this, we’d made it 10 years at that point and had survived a 6 month separation, we could handle anything. And let me tell you, we really can handle anything.

Thank goodness we trusted our path because we are so in love with our little human. Dakota is a blessing, the perfect combination of us both and I am so excited for our life as Dakota’s parents. BUT I’d be a lying fool and a faker if I pretended my pregnancy wasn’t riddled with what ifs, doubts and confusion. Even more so, being a mother is terrifying - I’m constantly wondering if I’m fucking up. And the truth is, I probably am. But also, that’s OK.

My time as a pregnant woman was quite isolating. You see, we moved to LA in November of 2015 and hadn’t quite solidified a community here. I always imagined this time in my life would be filled with family and my best girl friends. It wasn’t. So I did what women do best, I adapted. With constant check-ins on my “Mothers.” chat - a group chat of 3 amazing girlfriends who are moms, advice from my mother and a lot of reading, I made it to motherhood. But that was just the beginning, there is still so much for me to learn. Motherhood is like getting to the top of a 5 mile high mountain only to find that the peak is still 15 miles up. Or like that scene in Titanic when they discover the iceberg has a side that juts out and the sailor screams “it’s got a head!” That’s motherhood. Always another step on a constant learning curve. BUT, the reward, the reward is so damn good. The first time Koda smiled a non gas triggered smile? I DIED!!!! Dying just thinking about him. Hold up, now I need to run into his nursery and check that he’s breathing....

OK, back now :)

So, in the spirit of sisterhood and the belief that real talk is the only talk that should exist, I’ve asked for advice. I asked for advice from some of the most amazing moms I know (please take or leave what you’d like - none of this is fact!). I asked them to share what they wish they had known or anything they feel is relevant for first time moms. This will be an ongoing document that I hope mothers will use and share, far and wide. Being a mom is hard. It is scary. It is also incredibly exciting & fulfilling. It is all the damn things and you don’t have to go through it alone. But if you are feeling alone (been there!!), I am here and so is this mama tribe.

On Support:

“Find plenty of moms who have been through it already and cry on their shoulders.” - Marti Cuevas; Mama to Martin Carle, 39 and me :)

“My advice is to reach out to other moms, either friends w kids or try to make some. Talking out weird questions or just being able to relate is so key.” -Kristina; Mama to Isabel, 8 Months

“Ask for what you need. Your partner or anyone around you for that matter cannot read your mind. Be vocal and direct.” - Zoila; Mama to Dakota, 3 Months

On Post Partum Bodies:

“I wanted to lose the baby weight right away, in my head, but it wasn’t until my son was 18 months that I felt my post-C-section body was ready and able. Everyone said breast feeding will make the weight drop on it’s own; well not for my P.C.O.S.-ridden reproductive system. My advice to first-time moms is to not succumb to the pressure of obsessing over baby weight loss. Follow your heart, mind and body on your post-partum journey back to your pre-pregnancy jeans.” - Rachel Muniz-Strauss; Mama to Donovan, 3 + one on the way.

On Self-Care:

“Don’t put undue pressure on yourself! We do that so much and it serves no one. You are a fabulous mama.” - Sadye; Mama to Rafi, 2

“New moms should do ONE thing a day. Like if it’s going to the store or a doctors appointment or whatever. One thing! Healing after labor and delivery or a cesarean birth takes time emotionally, physically, and spiritually! Over exertion is no bueno when dealing with a baby and a partner who is also struggling to find his or her place in the new family unit as well as probably recovering from the birth!” - Scotlan; Mama to Clementine, 11 Months

“BREATHE: things are going to get super hectic and really noisy. You will get hit with a poop explosion, loud crying and screaming, dinner burning on the stove, phone ringing, your partner asking "hey did you do the laundry yet?", while you have been holding your pee in for the last 3 hours cause you've been running around the house like a chicken without a head trying to do it all...You start to panic...but DON'T! JUST BREATHE and don't cram it all in at once...this is a recipe for ANXIETY. Yes you are a super hero and a bionic woman but you can't do everything at once. So stop for a minute and breathe, even if you have to lock yourself in the bathroom for 10 minutes...let the baby cry, let hubby figure it out and BREATHE...in through your nose and out through your mouth and tell yourself "I GOT THIS"..then go out there and conquer each thing one by one with a huge smile on your face... I know it's so simple but trust me it will save you a world of anxiety” - Byata; Mama to Luca, 6, London, 5 & Lucky, 11 Months

ACCEPT HELP. While being a new mom is certainly a sensory awakener, and a super cool and interesting experience that you wanna soak up all to yourself, you MUST accept help, especially from those with some wisdom and experience, and if someone whom you trust offers to watch the baby while you shower or nap, ACCEPT! - Cashley; Mama to Jacob 14, Nicky 11, Sophia 2

“SLEEP: every mom I have ever received advice from tried to sell me this little bit of information and guess what...I did not buy it! A sleep deprived mama is an unhappy, unhealthy, and uncomfortable mama. When that baby is sleeping, lay your ass down and close your eyes. Being rested allows you to be productive and allows you to be happy and healthy. When you are sleep deprived you make poor food choices (typically lots of sugar to keep you awake) which lead to a poor mood...and when mama is in a bad mood, everyone suffers! So try and sleep...the laundry will wait, the dishes will wait, the dinner will wait, your partner will wait, the whole world will wait for you to wake up!” - Byata; Mama to Luca, 6, London, 5 & Lucky, 11 Months

On “The Way Things Are Done:”

“I would advise not to share with others the name choice for your child. I feel that it should be between you and your partner (if there is one) as you are the parents, and deserve 100% creative control, if I may, in naming your child. I’ve found that when sharing my top name choices, the opinions of others really Jaded me (since when?!) BUT, while I love the names I gave my kids, I wish I had been more private on that aspect.” - Cashley; Mama to Jacob 14, Nicky 11, Sophia 2

“Breastfeeding is INCREDIBLY hard. If it does not come naturally to you, rest easy knowing you are not a mutant who can’t provide for their child. Almost every woman struggles with some aspect of breastfeeding. It doesn’t really start to feel normal until after the 3rd month. Don’t beat yourself up. Also, if you don’t want to breastfeed, that is your choice too and NO ONE has the right to shame you for it.” - Zoila; Mama to Dakota, 3 Months

“Your choice for Feeding source.. I 100% think should be kept as personal as possible. We all go into this mom thing with an idea of what we want to do, or not, but often times as I now know, things don’t go according to plan with regards to really anything, but especially nursing... lactation issues, latching or lack thereof, allergies, your schedule…. , or formula feeding may just be your personal preference... so regarding nursing vs formula, I found it best to keep mum. Everyone has an opinion, but do what your maternal instinct tells you.” - Cashley; Mama to Jacob 14, Nicky 11, Sophia 2

“Be patient with trial and error. Things that might work for your best friend might not work with your family. Flexibility and letting go of the idea that parenting should “look” a certain way” - Scotlan; Mama to Clementine, 11 Months

“SOMETIME'S LET THE BABY CRY: babies are designed to cry! It actually helps strengthen their vocal chords. I remember with baby # 1 I would be on the toilet while he was napping and I would hear him wake up and cry his little heart out and I would get up without finishing my business; run, trip, fall just to get to him as quickly as possible and help stop him from crying! No need for all that...take care of your shit mama! (NO PUN INTENDED) That baby won't brake. That baby will be fine! A few extra bouts of crying won't change anything. Yes it sounds painful and you want nothing more than to nurture your baby and protect it...but a little crying is OK...I promise.” - Byata; Mama to Luca, 6, London, 5 & Lucky, 11 Months

Tricks & Products That Save Lives:

“BABY WEARING: is a game changer! I can't begin to tell you how much this practice works. Especially for my super busy super moms who like to multi task...when you wear that baby in an Ergo or a MOBY Wrap (two of my faves), you can do anything you need to around the house, at the store, or outside...that baby is happy to be snuggled up against you, and you're happy that you can knock out a few birds with one stone. Your hands are free to type, clean dishes, make dinner, talk on the phone, fold laundry, speed walk, etc...(all in standing posItion - which is great for your back anyways!) I literally pull a 4 hour work shift out of the house just by wearing my baby. He's happy and I am getting shit done!!! - Byata; Mama to Luca, 6, London, 5 & Lucky, 11 Months

#motherhood #advice #momlife #moms #newmoms #newborn #mothers #mom life

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kootenaygoon · 4 years

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So,

I was watching music videos again.

Dragon smoke unfurled before me, my living room throbbing with purple Targaryen magic, while Tove Lo sang from my glowing laptop. I gotta stay high all the time to keep you off my mind. I was shirtless in my Shambhala tights, allowing YouTube to send my mind careening through what some algorithm had decided should be my mental breakdown playlist. Repeatedly it returned to a haunting electronica track from Disclosure: You help me lose my mind, and you believe something I can't define. Help me lose my mind. Mika was at class at Selkirk College while I raved, trampling her rabbit’s shit pebbles into the carpet with my slippers.

All around me were canvases, procured with my final cheque from the Star, at various states of completion. I’d finished a couple more flamboyant self-portraits, but now I’d moved on to psychedelic dinosaurs, shape-shifting jelly-fish, and paintings of both Mika and my barber Jesse Lockhart. Right now I was working on my first nude, a beach scene set on the fictional island of Quatsino, with my UBC manuscript’s protagonist knee-deep in the surf. Paisley’s dreadlocks hung blonde around her shoulders, and on her forearm I had painstakingly recreated the rose tattoo her real-life counterpart got back when we lived together in Victoria. I could’ve easily been painting Kessa. A joint hanging from my lips, I felt tears slide down my cheeks like fat slugs, my mind flashing back and forth between fiction and non-fiction. Sometimes it seemed like there was no difference — these were all just characters in my mind, and real or not they spoke to me.

Stacked on the kitchen counter was three or four copies of my last issue of the Star, the one featuring the #MeToo story with Mharianne and Laela. I’d asked Ed about the story while collecting my things from the office, and he’d hinted that it may be on the chopping block due to my departure. I insisted it was done, everybody was interviewed and signed off, it was all ready to go — “you would literally be silencing sexual assault survivors,” I made sure to say. Then I called the president of Selkirk College, begging him to talk sense into Aaron Layton and letting him know I was planning to publish it online myself. They couldn’t kill it, not now. They could take my job away, but they couldn’t take that story. They ultimately ran it without my byline—a masterpiece without a proper signature.

Meanwhile, I had other things on my mind.

“You didn’t wear a condom?” Mika asked, when I told her about Natalya’s potential pregnancy. She was looking increasingly more concerned when she returned to the house to find me manic and monologuing.

“I hate condoms.”

“So what were you using for birth control? Wasn’t this chick married?”

I dragged my knuckles against my temple, my skin trembly and sweat-slicked. “I thought she was too old. She’s like 42 or something. And she’s already got kids, right? I thought she was on top of this shit.”

Mika rolled her eyes. “You have nobody to blame here but yourself. Seriously, you don’t get my sympathy.”

I had initially intervened in Mika’s life because she was in the midst of a break-up, and I empathized with the struggle of going through something so publicly embarrassing in such a small town. It wasn’t until we moved in together that I encountered her real personality — she was a hyper-nerd, into science and learning and the weekly Bingo night. She was one of the bud tenders at the local dispensary, which was a convenient way for me to meet the owners. Amidst my chaotic and prolific dating life, I was trying to keep her on a platonic level.

My Nelson sister, something like that.

“This is toxic masculinity, right here. I’m such a fucking asshole,” I said. “This is what Me Too is all about.”

“Not everything is about Me Too. You’re just obsessed with that lately.”

I shook my head. “Kessa’s dead, Mika. That’s a real thing. Fucking pedophile rings and rape everywhere. This is what the woman are raging about. They’re dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Like those girls on roller skates, in the Chet Faker video. You know the one?”

By this point she knew me pretty well, and as her eyes narrowed I realized this was more than a normal high. I was operating from an extra elevated plane, like I’d lost sensory hold over my body. It was an intoxicating place to be, far from the shame and darkness of the banal. I’d tried one of the pills Natalya gave me, and it was making the room vibrate.

“You’re on something,” she said.

“Natalya gave me this shit to micro-dose. Like mushrooms and speed or something. I just had one like an hour ago.”

She sighed. “You need to be careful, Will. You’re acting strange.”

However I was acting, things finally made sense. I felt like I’d peeled back a layer of existence and discovered the writhing snake-belly of reality. Trump was grabbing everybody by the pussy, waging Twitter war with Kim Jong-Un, while here in Nelson there was some sort of conspiracy to ruin my fucking life. Was it really the Kessa situation that did it? How did they convince Ed to betray me? I thought of that cop who punched a woman, how he sat on the pay roll for years while they figured out his outcome. Was I worse than him? Did I deserve to have my life up-ended for going to a fucking funeral? What were they afraid of? I rattled through my theories on this as I drove Mika to school, and she mostly looked out the window. I wondered if she regretted moving in with me. I’d become that mentally ill freak people talk about, posting my shit all over social media. I just didn’t care anymore.

“So is she going to get an abortion?” Mika asked. “Did she say?”

I shook my head. “She hadn’t even taken a test yet. She said she was just feeling funny, and when she was leaning over she felt something weird.”

“Something weird like what?”

“She said it felt like a tear, like a muscle tear maybe? I don’t know, I was fucking panicking. I told her to call my sisters.”

“Your sisters?”

I didn’t feel like explaining this to Mika. She wasn’t tuned into the greater conversation that was going on, the one coming at me through social media. Men were failing to acknowledge their complicity in rape culture while women bled in public. Nobody was willing to admit they were wrong, because everyone was worried they lived in a glass house. Lately, though, I was wondering if I could break my own glass house. That way I could throw some stones.

“What do you mean throw stones?” she asked.

“These men need to be held accountable.”

“What men?”

“These rapists and abusers and pedophiles who took away my job.”

“I thought you got fired because of Kessa.”

I grunted in annoyance. “I wasn’t fired. I was let go without cause.”

Back in my bedroom, Lt. Aldo Raine marched before his carefully assembled killing team in Inglorious Basterds. I’d watched this clip multiple times, and had the words memorized. Brad Pitt sneered, his throat sporting a nasty scar. I sure as hell didn’t come down from the goddamn Smoky Mountains, cross five thousand miles of water, fight my way through half of Sicily and jump out of fucking aero plane to teach the Nazis lessons in humanity. Nazis ain’t got no humanity. They’re the foot soldiers of a Jew-hating, mass-murdering maniac and they need to be destroyed.

That’s what was happening here in Nelson, but with rapists instead of Germans. Andrew Stevenson was sitting on the edge of my bed, wiping down the barrel of his shotgun, as I lit up another joint. Now I was watching that scene from The Sopranos, the one where Tony wants to kill the local soccer coach for molesting one of the teenage players. This shit was real life, right here. Like my Trent situation. I thought of the local soccer team, and all the abusive shit-heads that were coaching there. I wondered if one of them had crossed the line, if I’d have to add him to my kill list.

I want my scalps.

Somewhere around that time, I realized I was expected soon at Tony’s Taphouse for my Friday night shift. That was how I was battling rape culture now, working the front lines on the bar scene. My favourite moment of each night was when frightened women approached me at the end of the shift to ask me to stand guard until some creep moved on. I took this role very seriously. This week I’d purchased a new accessory to my vested get-up: a bright red bow tie. I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror, trimmed my moustache, and thought of how Tony stumbled home drunk after choosing to spare that soccer coach of his mobster justice.

“I didn’t hurt nobody,” he said to Carmela. “I didn’t hurt nobody.”

As I grabbed my things and headed out the door, I noticed the Ziploc of pills. There were four left now. The first one had gotten me into this productive headspace, so maybe another would help me tap-dance through this rest of this night. Why the fuck not, right? I’d been receiving upsetting emails, crazy messages, death threats. I couldn’t comprehend it all. Unzipping the bag, I cradled one pill in my palm then threw it back, washing it down with tap water. I was tired of feeling morally exhausted, defeated, exiled. I deserved a little pick-me-up. The clientele at Tony’s Taphouse would have no idea their doorman was rip-roaring high. I would be like Bodie from The Wire, standing on his corner while the hitmen descended.

This is my corner! I ain’t going nowhere!

Before leaving, I decided to re-listen to Eminem’s duet with Rihanna, “Love the Way You Lie.” I watched my favourite rapper rock rhythmically back and forth amidst hip-high grass, his voice filled with regret and grief. Here was the ultimate embodiment of rape culture right here, the meta-Chris Brown taking swings at Megan Fox while Rihanna curls her lip. Thing was, Meghan Fox looked exactly like Paisley. The real one. And as Slim Shady rapped in front of a burning trailer, I couldn’t help but think of Ryan Tapp. I can’t tell you how it is really is, I can only tell you what it feels like. And right now it’s a steel knife in my wind pipe.

Andrew Stevenson was waiting at the door, in a black balaclava, with the shotgun sticking out of his backpack. He cracked his knuckles together as I reached the top of the stairs.

“I need your help. You can never ask me about it later, and we’re going to hurt some people,” he said.

I blinked in surprise. “You’re quoting from The Town. That Ben Affleck bank robbery movie. Right? That scene with Jeremy Renner?”

He opened the front door.

“We’re going to hold court in the streets.”

The Kootenay Goon

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probsautistic · 4 years

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Meltdown

NOTE: this was initially written on one of my private blogs 2-1-2020. I felt it would be appropriate to include here, since this is an autism-focused blog.

TW/CW around: self-inflicted harm mentions, abuse/bullying/trauma mentions

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So two days ago was really hard. I had a shit day at work, running around the entire day. I sat at my desk for maybe an hour that day. I was embarrassed because at one point I wasn't reading the cue that I needed to leave so I was awkwardly dismissed. I had lunch later than usual. I didnt get anything done.

I get home, take all my stuff off. Bun (my partner) is watching speedruns on youtube, and this guy is going so fast through this game that theres this constant “ping”. I’m working on a book idea, so I’m writing in my phone. But I cant get comfortable. The small lights in the room feel bright. Even though I’m wearing half my clothes, I'm starting to overheat and sweat. Everything feels so, so loud and suddenly its like I’m not.. there anymore? I want to tell her I’m hungry, because she mentioned it earlier but I couldn't get it out. I want to tell her everything feels so bright and so much, but I can't. The games pinging just keeps going. I start fighting the urge to hit myself in the face and cover my eyes. It feels like I’m watching this from inside of myself.

And it's like I cant stop.

She tries to ask me whats wrong but I can only whine and curl up. I shove my face into the pillow to block my eyes. I'm frustrated that i cant talk, I dont know what's going on. The urge to hit myself gets stronger. I dont know whats wrong. It panics me, terrifies me.

I don't even know how but she gets me to calm down. I think food and water. I remember I snapped at her when she asked me something about a type of food I could eat. I feel bad about that later. But she makes me soft seasoned french fries and she reminds me that I’m safe. She gets me in some cozier pjs. I get something on my shirt and start crying. She tells me she won't let anything bad happen to me and turns on True (really cute animated kids show on netflix), and that calms me down some. I'm still crying on and off for the rest of the evening.

At some point she asks me what happened, and I cant talk but I text it out to her. I tell her how everything felt so much all at once and that suddenly I couldn't talk, and it was like watching myself from the inside, like taking a backseat. I feel ashamed that she had to take care of me. I feel terrified that this happened and I didn’t understand how or why or what to do. Just that I had to sit through it until it was over. My whole body was exhausted. I was exhausted and sad. I apologized over and over, and she told me to thank her instead. So I thanked her over and over.

I never want to be a burden. I can be childish sometimes, and sure I have other issues, but this literally terrified me. I haven't had such a strong reaction in so long. I remember times where in the dorms she had to stop me from hitting my legs when things became too much, and how exhausted my breakdowns (at least that's what I called them) would leave me. How much i'd cry. How draining it is.

I try to connect back to my childhood, see if I can understand. But I dont. I cant. It's all so blurry now. Yesterday before I went to bed I had this visceral memory of being in middle school and having the most visceral urge to beat my head repeatedly into doors or walls when things got rough. But I just thought that was because I was miserable with my ex-stepdad and his abuse. and thinking about all the times I was gullible enough to listen to a “friend” at school, only to be fucked over, manipulated, and made fun of. How I didn't understand why people didn't want to be friends with me, why I was so “weird”. How I get so much more overwhelmed than others so much faster. I wish I remembered more about my childhood, about how I behaved. I try to ask my family but they're always so vague. It just makes me wonder how much of this stuff showed up in my childhood. (And this isn't even including food/texture weirdness or my inability to know how loud/soft I'm talking!)

I thought maybe it was my interests, or my visible health conditions, but maybe it was just… Me. After looking at some stuff my younger sister (she's 10) does, I was like “oh maybe shes autistic”. But that opened up this whole different can of worms- maybe I’m autistic. I went to google after what happened and everything I was finding was in relation to sensory overload meltdowns in autistic people.

And then the other part of me is like… Am I faking it? Am I only doing these things because I’ve seen them irl or know what they are now to better fit that criteria?

Bun says I'm not faking it, and I dont.. I dont think I am. Not after the other day. That was genuinely one of the most terrifying experiences of my life simply because I couldn't stop myself. And then I was left with all of this guilt and shame around it happening and being a burden and not being able to control myself. Fakers don't feel like that. Fakers search for validation as it's happening, and I seeked no validation. I just wanted everything to stop being so much… I could say afterwards, in the midst of my crying, was just how scary and how much everything felt.

Im not.. Im not sure what this means for me. Or for my life. I just.. I guess I just wanted to share this. Not only for the sake of vulnerability, but also I'm just... I'm trying to figure out whats going on. but its also really scary. I'm not sure what sort of answers I'll get, but.. I just.. I dont know. I have a lot of mixed emotions around this, it only felt right to write it down.

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