Does any of that make sense?

Posted: November 22, 2010 in hidden admonishment
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My illness is very much…me. It took me a long time to earmark it an illness at all…maybe because there’s been something identified and treated as wrong for nearly as long as I’ve been aware that I’m a person.

When I take medication, my mind changes. The way I think changes. Who I am…doesn’t change, but access to a full sense of awareness dulls significantly. That numbness bothers me a lot more than the negative thoughts that periodically overwhelm me.


I’ve always seen things, heard things, felt things…that I know can’t be real. They can be real, but they don’t follow logic. When little, it was excused as an overactive imagination. I know now not to talk about it with most people…even people I think I can trust. You turned the most intimate of my confessions against me in…fiction for a stranger…and you invited me to watch. You pushed me into a little box where everything had to be my fault.
I couldn’t love you. I didn’t know who you were. I held some fantasy. I was delusional. I needed to stop.

You were wrong.

You were wrong, and what you did was mean. It did not take into account that I am a real person with real feelings, and it is not some innocuous coincidence to me that the harder I pushed to get to know you…the harder you pushed back, pushed me back, kept me out of your real thoughts and your real life and your very frightened and aching heart. You would not let me in…but I still think you wanted to.

It doesn’t matter much now if that’s a delusion or not.

I’m not that sick. I don’t think the things that are wrong with me…are wrong. It’s when I try to deny them and push them back and shut them out; the feelings, the thoughts, even the hallucinations; it’s when I confine myself to the narrow realm everyone else says is normal and safe and healthy…that I take it out on myself.

That’s when I don’t feel well. That’s when I shake and cry and tear apart everything inside. Someone I care about tells me I’m sick, I’m wrong, I’m lost, I have to stop.

I think…I can separate that now. I don’t like the way I respond to that incongruity between the way I understand myself and the way other people define me. To me, that’s the illness. That’s the torment. That’s what I allow to fester and claw away at my sense of self. That’s when I want to drink and seek medication and numb, dumb, and dull who I really am…when I take an outside view a little too personally…because I so desperately want someone else to understand. I want a connection. I want someone to love me; love me back the way that I am, because…I want to be this way; the way I struggle to be every fucking day. I’m not stagnant. I do change. I do think I’m moving in a direction I want to go, but I feel lost in isolation. I feel so apart; so alone. I feel…empty and betrayed when I try to turn inward out. How am I supposed to just close that off for the sake of my wellness? Even the sickest people want a connection with others, don’t they? So…that’s the hard part for me…staying open; letting people hurt me; hoping.

I think I can separate that from myself now…as a process, as something I want to subject myself to without feeling like I have to take it all in to the deepest depths to restructure myself in a desperate attempt to fit.


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