Neuro Divergent Journey

It’s been quite a journey to get to where I am. It’s been a journey to get from yesterday to today now that I think about it.

New medications are not a fun thing even if by new I mean a few months with some of them.
The restlessness is relentless. I am always feeling as though I should be doing something. But, never more than when I lay down to try and sleep.

I think that I want to get up and type out my memories that come flooding back in the night. But then I wonder if that would help me process them or only make me re-live them harder and louder.

And which one would I start with? The closet. It would have to be the closet. The memory of the umbrella falling to hit my just under my eye when I was 3 years old. The same closet that my mother hid me in when my father came to the door with the Military Police to try and take me to safety. I heard her tell them that I was not there. I also heard her tell someone after they left, “I don’t want her but he sure as hell isn’t going to get her.”
I hate closets.

I was supposed to get a new kitten this week, but the woman is in the hospital. I know that I should feel badly for her but instead I feel badly for myself. And I hate that I feel that way. What is wrong with me?
I never even asked what is wrong with her.

Randomness. That is my life. The way my brain and my soul work. I like to think that I am eclectic rather than somehow broken. Broken is okay though, right?

I am so tired of being alone. I don’t know how I would ever find anyone to accept my brokenness though. Unless they are even worse off than I am I suppose.

I don’t know where to go from here. I know I want to make a difference in this life somehow other than just the difference I make in my children’s lives.

It’s time to try and sleep and put closets as far from my thoughts as possible. I attempt to decide what my thoughts will be as I lay down. Who do I think I am kidding?
Closing my eyes I am always in that closet again.

That’s actually a question I probably will never be able to answer. Not in any real sense of completeness anyway. My sense of id changes so frequently that I am often left a bit dizzy if I try to take a full accounting of who exactly I am.

I am more than my diagnosis’. So much more. But yet, I find that I can relate my sense of identity more to them than I can to the typical descriptors that people use when introducing themselves.

But I can’t hardly introduce myself as a mental health diagnosis now can I? That would go over like a lead balloon on a rainy day.

I have even actually tried to be an alcoholic (I absolutely do not suggest this for anyone). It would have been so, so much easier to explain myself, my thoughts, my actions, if I could simply say “Hey, I am Merriana and I am an alcoholic.” Heck, that is completely socially acceptable. They even have members clubs! But, try as I may, it didn’t take.
Try explaining to your psychologist when he asks why you stopped taking your medications that you did it so that you could give being an alcoholic a try. Yeah, I didn’t tell him the truth. I just went for the old standby of “I don’t even remember now.”

All of this makes making and having friends pretty much a no-go.
I did have an absolute ton of friends at one point a few years back. Apparently not good or real friends since the last invitation or even text I received was 7 years ago now.
I thought that I was okay with that for a long time. Then I realized I am not okay with it and I shouldn’t have to be okay with it. It is absolute crap.
These are the same people who post non-stop on FB about suicide awareness, how to make sure your friends are okay, to check up on people, how to tell if someone if going through a dark depression and what to do to help. Boy and are they proud of themselves for posting and re-posting all of that. Which is a really good thing in theory but absolutely no good at all to anyone if all you are doing is posting it and not acting on it.
There has seriously been more than one time when I have went to my FB app to distract myself from those dark and dangerous thoughts only to find a barrage of those posts and yet not one single person even knew what I was going through.
Do they seriously expect us to just jump into their comments or into their messenger and tell them what is going through our minds? It typically doesn’t work that way.
I have found a sort of resolute strength though in deciding to stick around to be a part of a change, a much needed shift in thinking about mental health. And so that in my own way I can tell off all of those people who think that they are saints for reposting a message, any message, and then doing absolutely nothing else to make this world better.

Nap time!