25th of August 2019
I’m feeling like giving up on getting this letter written this week. Not because I don’t have so much to say, it has just been a bad week. With the exception of a visit from a friend. We watched movies, ate pizza and she got to see my new home. I needed that.
But today I had a migraine and had to sleep for a few hours, and before that I was just feeling bad and got nothing done.
My brain lies to me sometimes. Last weekend it shouted at me that “no one cares, no one cares, no one cares” over and over and over. I know it’s not true. But I couldn’t get it to shut up. And in part it felt like no one cares. And I am not sure how to work on that feeling. I know, in my thoughts, in my mind that I have amazing people who cares about me and who I care about. But somehow that knowledge doesn’t reach my feelings.
I care a lot. About the people around me. About my impact on the world. About my responsibility to make the world a better place. I take great care not to hurt people and I feel it in my bones when I fail to live up to that. I’ve even (after decades of fighting for it) found a way to care about living. I am not sure where or how I found the commitment to staying alive. But I did. And I want to stick to that.
But there is too much pain. The world hurts and it hurts to live in. I feel out of place and unwelcome and not at home in the world. Sometimes it feels like something inside of me is broken and will never be able to heal in this world. I’m okay with dying and I always have been.
What I am not okay with is living like this. I refuse to live with this pain. I refuse to live with this feeling of being wrong. So I started asking for help 16 years ago. Help me. Help me fix this. Help me heal. And all I’ve discovered is that help isn’t coming.
Society promises help. Over and over. My parents promised me help. Over and over. But help isn’t coming. Everyone asks me to patient, to hang on, to give the therapists another chance, and this next psychologist is probably much better than all the precious ones. But it’s all a lie. I don’t think anyone realises they are lying to me. But I do. And it hurts. And it hurts so much that they refuse to hear me when I call out the lie.
The last week has been bad. Very bad. As in thinking about going to the psychiatric emergency room at the local hospital bad. But last time I talked to them was a very bad experience and I don’t want to do that to myself again. The nurse there knew nothing about autism, and I hadn’t been diagnosed yet so she was very condescending about that, she didn’t understand simple things I told her about the sexual abuse I went through, and she refused to respect that I was uncomfortable with physical contact even after I specifically told her that I was not okay with her touching me.
The last psychiatrist I talked to there shouted at me because I told him about my anxiety about therapy and took it personally and demanded to know what he had done to give me anxiety. He also refused to listen when I told him it wasn’t about him but a lifetime of bad experiences with therapy. That just made him keep shouting.
My doctor is very nice about my problems, but for the past year she has told me she is put of options. There is nothing let she can to. I feel given up on, I feel lost, I feel worthless. I feel like on one cares about my long term health and that it doesn’t matter if it kills me to live this way.
I’ve been telling people for a long time that whatever it is inside of me that hurts, that feels broken it is killing me. And I spend most of my life wanting to let it. But fighting to stay alive.
In part because something inside me refuses to break. Something inside me is unbreakable and strong and powerful. And I want to honour that and fight for it. There is a part of me that is pure “Fight me” and pure power and pure I am better than this and how dare this world not help me reach my full potential. Because I am impressed by my own potential. I am in awe of the power I have inside. And I am angry at the world for not allowing me to flourish and grow and live and give to the world, instead of trying to chop me to pieces and make me tiny and fit in to little boxes that never made sense to me.
And it is killing me to live like this. To live with the wounds the world inflicted on me. Unable to heal. Unable to reach that power because somehow a wall was made between me and it and no matter how hard I try I cannot reach it.
I am hurting. All the time. All the time. I cannot live like this. This is not life. It’s barely surviving. And I want life too much to accept just surviving. It’s not enough for me. And death becomes an beautiful peaceful alternative. Better than surviving. Because I feel I am denied life.
I can’t write more today.
I don’t have time or energy enough to edit. I should have. But hopefully next week will be better and I can write again.
I am thinking of you A. I care about you. I am fighting. Just like I know you are.
I am here if you need anything.
Looking forward to hear from you