Thursday, June 15, 2017

Mentally Disabled

For me personally, the best coping method is to be with or talk to friends. It doesn't have to be about my issues, and sometimes it's better if it's not. But having someone with me makes it easier, gives me something to do, and keeps me from doing things I shouldn't.

I have become extremely dependent on my friends. I hate it. Every day is a new crisis for me. There's never a day where I feel okay from morning to night. Maybe it's a panic attack, maybe it's being too depressed to move, maybe it's the urge to hurt myself.

I try not to talk to my friends too much about it. On the one hand, it seems like I should. I should ask for help when I need it, I should try to take care of myself even if it means asking other people to help you do it. Right?

But do I have to ask for help every day? Do I have to constantly be seeking attention?

I'm just an attention whore hiding behind a mental illness.

So I don't talk to friends. Or I don't tell them it's serious. I brush it off when they don't respond or don't have time. They have their own lives and I can't expect them to be at my beck and call and not get sick of me every once in a while. I know I get sick of me. I've had friends with problems and I know I wasn't the best friend to them. I couldn't handle their issues on top of mine. So why should I expect people to do that for me?

But then people tell me they'll always be there for me if I need them. They just didn't expect that to be every day.

I will never be independent. I will never be able to take care of myself.

But is that so surprising? I am diagnosed as mentally disabled, mostly in the context of needing certain accommodations in school, but why wouldn't it affect the rest of my life?

It's not shameful to be disabled. Or rather, to be differently abled. There are plenty of people in the world who fall under the category of "disabled," whether it's mental or physical, and yet they are not lesser people because of it.

As much as I joke about it, I've never really considered myself disabled. I've always thought I could be independent, take care of myself, and at least sort of function in society.

But I can't. And I should come to terms with that. I have different abilities, but in our society I am definitely disabled.

But does that change anything? No, not really. I still feel like a needy annoyance constantly depending on friends and forcing them to talk to me. I let myself be dramatic and sensitive when they don't, regardless of the reason. Then I just hate myself more for being dramatic and stupid. It's an endless cycle and I don't ever see there being an end to it.

This is not supposed to be directed at any of my friends, and certainly not a guilt trip. I'm not calling anyone out and I'm not blaming anyone for my own behavior or problems.

I've just been thinking about it lately. So, as always, I try to give myself some peace through writing. Try to sort it all out as I go. Hoping that by the end of the post, I'll have found some life-changing inspiration in an effort to share a hopeful message.

Every day feels like an impossible challenge, harder than the day before.

You can list off all my good qualities and accomplishments, and it won't make a difference. It'll just make me feel worse. All that talent wasted on someone who simply can't get up to feed herself.

I did go grocery shopping today (which means I bought bread and milk). I read. I'm writing this. I guess I'm still trying.

--Dexter

Thursday, June 8, 2017

Good

I am a foolish idiot.
Writing this makes me feel pathetic and silly and stupid.
But I hate myself anyway.
I have to write to understand.
I do not understand myself at all.

When you're around, I feel good.
You don't make everything better, but you make it a little easier to exist.
I laugh when I don't want to.
My mouth hurts from smiling.
Your goodness makes me cry.

You talk me out of the dark.
You never push my boundaries, though sometimes I wish you would.
I can't get away with lying.
I'm not afraid to tell you my stupid jokes.
I'm only afraid to tell you how I feel.

How your goodness makes me cry.

I don't think you know.
You have no idea how special you are because you're just being you.
You don't realize what you do.
You don't pay me any special attention.
You're just good to everyone.

That goodness makes me cry.

I never see you.
You are surrounded by wonderful people, all in the same world together.
I don't fit in this world.
There isn't even any room for me.
I'm not excluded, just not thought of.

I've never written a poem about someone.
I haven't written poetry at all since I was a young, angst-ridden teen.
I feel awfully pathetic, just like back then.
It's killing me inside.
I feel stupid saying it to friends.

Is this even a poem?
Anything can be a poem these days and anyone can be an artist.
Especially a pitiful girl in love.
It's the thought that counts, right?
But I don't even want you to know my thoughts.

Your goodness makes me cry.
It's not the usual kind, not out of desperation and hopelessness and exhaustion.
I cry because I've never felt this way before.
No one has ever been like you.
I don't think anyone ever will.

I am afraid.
I will leave and meet new people and you will forget me.
You will never know how special you were.
And I will never meet someone as special as you.
I will forever dwell on a one-sided romance that never even happened.

You make me cry.
I wish this poem would give me closure, but I know it will not.
I will keep trying to talk to you.
I will keep trying to see you.
I will keep watching as it never happens.

Your goodness makes me cry.
But at the very least, I knew that goodness.
I am glad to have known you.
I hope to know you for many many more years.
I am afraid to ask for that much.

You know.
I'd go straight for you.