wackjob

I’m tired of being treated like a child. I have a mental illness, not a mental deficiency. I am still an intelligent adult with a responsible job; I don’t need to be babied, I just need some help.

I use a website run by a charity, Facebook for nutcases if you like. It can be a great help. I struggle with how much to tell my friends. Sometimes I tell them nothing and sometimes I’ve gone too far and said too much so now I have very little contact with anyone who would consider me a friend. So the website is useful when I need to express the worst of my actions, the most self-indulgent and ugliest of my thoughts. When I want to say HELP, when I want to say I WISH I WERE DEAD, when I want to say I’M DONE, I’M READY TO DIE NOW. I’M A WASTE OF SPACE. NO ONE CARES, it’s a godsend. Except I can’t say everything I want to say. Swearing is banned. When I want to say I hate my fucking life, that I am a fucking piece of shit and that I deserve this mess of a life I’ve ended up with, that I’m a fucked up bitch who shouldn’t be surprised that her friends have run away, I can’t. I’ll be deleted. When I want to vent about slicing into my veins, about yet another failed pathetic attempt at escape, I can’t, I’m censored. The adults tut at such childish behaviour. I get sent to the naughty step unless I use respectable language, the code of the room in whispered terms – S and SH and TW.

And sometimes the content on there reminds me of what society thinks of me. Incapable, incompetent, mushy in the head: pictures of cutesy kittens, rainbows and people pretending to hand out cups of tea they’ve made and cakes they’ve cooked. I’m just after the pain, the confirmation that someone else is feeling this too. I don’t care about inspirational quotes (especially not the ones that make me feel like somehow this is a choice I’ve made and that if I just changed my atrocious attitude, it would all be OK) or animals looking like they’re reaching out for a hug. I don’t colour in. If it works for you, great – I’m happy for you, I really am. But it doesn’t work for me. It belittles me. It frustrates me. It makes me feel tiny and useless and confused.

And therapists are no better. They smile patronisingly and say things like be gentle with yourself, be kind to yourself, think positively. As if I would choose not to do that. As if this is a choice.

And I’m thankful that my friends were never like this. They never resorted to platitudes or baby-talk. They offered advice and kind ears and I miss them so much and hate myself for driving them away.

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