Something occurred to me in the past week – I present too cheerful a face at all times. It’s not necessarily faking — it’s applying mindfulness and trying to keep a neutral-to-positive spin on things, even at the worst of times. But with the aforementioned thought came a grimmer one — people probably think that I don’t have it as bad as I do. They might not know that the tears are hiding right under the surface. They might not know that I smile to try to keep myself from falling into a pit that I might not be able to get out of. I’m terrified of losing control; I cannot luxuriate in despair, because I go straight from holding on to wanting to die. I hurt so badly that I cannot share it with anyone, else I truly try to throw myself into moving traffic for daring to make anyone else hurt. That when I’m hurting so bad I actually manage to admit to myself that I need a hug and help, I can’t ask for it because then my head tells me that the affection given isn’t genuine; if it were, X person would have magically read my mind at the exact right instance and ‘made it better’. Yes, I know that sounds crazy, but that doesn’t stop my brain from running in that pattern when I’m so freaked out and scared and hurting — there is no logic in that pit, none. There is no light, there is no sense, there is only darkness and pain.
Even writing it out is hard; as I said, I know it all sounds especially batshit. And unlike MacGuyver, I can’t jimmy together a solution under that pressure, ha ha. I’m not sure that anyone can, but as many of us know — people magically expect us to snap out of it on their command and quit ‘acting like a baby’. Oh, the joys of normie privilege — while I am glad they will never know the horrible crap I have to fight in my brain, it will nerve stop making me sick to the pit of my stomach that they will not make a real effort to understand it. That I could take my non-existent spoons and try to explain it to them at the time, but (as past experience has taught me), that will lead to a bemusedly annoyed normie, and a sick and upset me having to pretend that I appreciate their ‘help’.
Still, maybe this make sense to others. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I will feel slightly better for having gotten it off my chest and into the open air, but I suspect my anxiety is going to spike soon once my needs-more-coffee brain processes what I’ve put out there. Or not — the fact I’ve been forcing myself to write more openly about things as they come to my mind has been a good thing. It’s been a letting go, and I don’t have to tell you all how amazing that unappreciated-by-most ability is for my soul and psyche. All I know is that maybe this will give me another tool in trying to dissect such a self-harming pattern. Or not. At least admitting it doesn’t give anyone a tool to beat me with?
Round and round I go, ha ha. It’s just easier to take a deep breath, try to think positive thoughts, and hope it’s enough to keep intrusive darkness at bay (if only for a little bit).