I am not like this by active choice. I work so hard, every fucking day, to see things correctly and process new things in the best estimation of a normal way I can muster. But the truth is, I do not process things normally, my perspective is skewed, and the world I see is not the same world that exists around me.
The work I do isn’t enough for people. I am still called crazy. I am still looked upon with disdain and distaste. I am still judged by standards that are not fair to me. I can’t get there right now. But I try. I try every day. I spend a lot of time accepting what I am told, meeting expectations that are grade levels above my head. I am a good student.
I am a person in here. I have terrors inside of me that you wouldn’t believe. And those are just the remaining ones. Others have been put down, forever lost but leaving behind still-healing scar tissue. I do the best with the bits and pieces that fragment my neurotransmitters. I think my synapses have floaters, like the ones my eyes have. Whichever way I look, they move and lurk and hover ominously until I can readjust my vision and see them as drifty, happy amoebas with smiley faces and floppy antennae. But if I blink, if I avert my eyes for even a second, they bare teeth and horrifying glares. It is exhausting trying to see and synapse happy amoebas for a length of time.
And I always feel like I am to apologize for my view of life. I am to apologize for seeing and perceiving differently. Why can’t the other people put forth even one-eighth the effort I do to try to be kinder, gentler. Why can’t someone say, hey, I see you. I see you struggle and I understand this is difficult for you. You try so hard, every day. But I love you even when you are screwed up, even when you have bizarre suspicions and whacked out intuitive impulses. I may not understand why or how you see and why and how you are, but I believe in you and I know you will get through this. Why can’t people just make it easier, just for one minute?
Sometimes, I wonder if these people would try as hard as I do. I don’t feel like they try as hard as I do now, and they are the ones with the ability to be normal, to see normal, to act normal. I guess they can’t be or see or act abnormal. Sometimes, I feel their pity. I definitely feel that disdain and distaste.
I have stretched my inner resources so thin. I have moved as far as I can for now. I am where I am. I am who I am. And if my pain and inability to blindly trust are too much, I guess I am better off back in my alone hole. I am used to it there. It’s home. My senses have been in a hotel for months. With itchy blankets and bleachy pillows. They can’t relax. They feel urges to lurch forward and take on situations and new people as if they were perfectly able. But they aren’t. They will get there, for sure. But they aren’t there. They need some naps and pats on the heads and love.
If I work this hard to be in your world, you could work hard, too, trying to understand my world. I am doing remarkably well, but you can’t see that. You see my as deficient. And crazy. And suspicious. And, probably, like I am an asshole. But if you knew what it is like to know my head is wrong, to feel like if I just slammed my head into a wall or something, maybe the wiring would somehow fix itself in all of the places necessary. I know my head is wrong. I can very truly feel it. Every moment that I do things you think are loony, I can feel it. I can feel my wrongness. But my wrongness feels so correct.
My brain is a constant battleground. An uncivil war wages on, always. The new parts fight the old, faulty parts for supremacy. The faulty parts have been here forever, they know the terrain, they are crafty. And the faulty parts have that unending belief they are right. They developed here. They will do anything for their motherland.
I am tired. I am tired of trying to be normal and have the thoughts of a normal girl. I am tired of fighting my own brain chemistry. I am tired of the things I know, the things my brain thinks I know, the things I think I know but are not true in reality. I am tired.
I am so tired. I am just so very tired. And so very alone. All alone.