Sensory Diet

I am not sure why I hit my limit yesterday, I just knew I’d had enough. Most of the people here actually *are* in worse shape than me, which is totally part of the problem as an empath. I am trying to get over feeling everyone else’s pain. My roommate is a fucking cutter on 72 hour suicide watch. Good times. She’s actually one of the sweetest people I have ever met. Her name is Diana, because of course it is. My nurse practitioner looks like Susan, because of course she does (seriously, such a dead ringer I cried and hugged her anyway).

But all that stuff happened when I reached the unit. I got somewhat better when, ironically, billing came by. Turns out the billing lady used to have depression as bad as me and we cried and prayed together in the ER. Because that’s what I do. I’m about to die and I offer to pray over you. Because what can I do for you that I won’t do for myself? Pretty much goddamn everything. I am tired of being so emotionally laden from empathy that I cannot function. It is not that you have problems. You’re allowed. It’s that I can’t see a problem without wanting to fix it, particularly if it is something emotional because I’m already in my element anyway. Diana said, “I’m not sure I can make it. Will you stay with me?” She’s 21. I want to put her in my pocket and take her home. She reminds me of my stepsister Caitlin. I’m 5’4. She is probably 4’8. From Boston- so far from home that no one will visit her. I have taken her under my wing (because of course I have). It’s what I do. I just love people until they can’t stand it anymore. It comes from a very good place, but comes across as “smother mother.” Luckily, Diana is borderline so she won’t even notice.

I met with the mobile assessment team this morning. They thought I was hilarious, intelligent, and didn’t hesitate to speak to me like a colleague. There was nothing I couldn’t handle anyway. I’m fucked up in the head. It is unlikely that anything they give me will be unfamiliar.

I am more concerned about occupational therapy, because that is where I really struggle. The one thing that I learned today is that everything I *thought* was just ADD is also a trauma checklist. It’s hard to hear that I’ve been misdiagnosed in some sense, because I didn’t think of what Diane did to me as trauma. My nurse practitioner was tracking all the way through. “OF COURSE! Coming across like that, how would you even know what questions to ask.?” I told her that was Argo’s first reaction as well.

Unresolved trauma damn near killed me and I want Diane to know it. I don’t care if she responds in the slightest. I just want her to HEAR me. After we met, I could no longer live my life because I was living yours. It is now a pattern that I need to break desperately and don’t have the slightest idea how. That’s what these people are for.

But all the things I was telling you guys about that I thought were ADD? Not so much. I have been living in PTSD every day since my 14th birthday. No wonder I almost died. *I* couldn’t even describe what was wrong. By Saturday I was hyperventilating so much that I couldn’t really inhale. So again, the answer to why “I thought everyone else could fix me” is that I had been gaslit so successfully that I didn’t even want my own life, much less hers. I remember sobbing into her voicemail. Please don’t let me leave Portland without seeing you at all……” But the sociopath was already in place. Just WALL. So I turned on my sociopath. Wall. Trying so hard to keep each other out we couldn’t let others in.

My dad said that being able to turn off my emotions was a good skill to have. I said that it came at an enormous price. All the things, really. There is no limit to the amount of emotion I can deny myself, especially love. I feel love from God because God can’t go away and everyone else can. I am destroyed at my own hand in all cases, really. Argo said, “can’t you see the common denominator is you?”

Yes, I can you burger flippin’ ho.

However, it’s not all me. I do not have the same reactions to ANYTHING anymore. I have hit rock bottom, the place that says I don’t deserve to live and I will actively take steps to finish the job if I don’t ask for help. It gives you something, that place. You get there and you think “it cannot possibly get any worse.” So you start offending people left and right because they aren’t used to you not being abused and you’re not used to being able to stand up for yourself…. not maliciously….. you can’t even see what’s different. But they can.

I understand myself differently now. I understand the ways I manipulate people now, because until I checked in, nothing had scared me enough to be able to say out loud that I thought she loved me so much and I’d ALSO been turned on by a predator. Seeing her behavior afterward, I do not believe she planned to go through with it. If she did, she changed her mind. But what I know is that 25 year olds don’t let 14 year olds read their journals. Period.

Why is that one moment in time so important? Because Diane is so funny. She is a Southerner that also covers up shit with cake and icing. But that moment. The one where she gave me my presents? The mask came down and I saw her for the first time. If you’ve ever met diane (and I pretty much guarantee you haven’t because you wouldn’t know what to look for). Her eyes were dark and intense. Seductive, but not in a loving way. She did not wax rhapsodic. There was no light to make that happen. What did happen was adrenaline at the thought of getting caught. For older couples, it’s the thought of getting caught having sex. For me, it was the thought of my mom walking in on any of our conversations. I lived for it. How long can we keep the game up?

Til Thursday, apparently.

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