Diary of a Complicated Mind
“I’m sorry for not being able to control myself. I’m sorry for not being able to express my noises and emotions as words. I didn’t mean to confuse you, or hurt you. I didn’t even really mean to be me.”
I don’t need sympathy; I need to be heard.
I have been diagnosed with six disorders, four of which I have had my whole life. The other two cultivated themselves out of my situation, I’m sure. Writing is the only way I can explain what is happening. It stays on the page, in existence, long enough for me to remember what I was doing, or saying.
Mental disorders have always been stigmatized, and they will continue to be so until someone can explain what is happening. Explain that we are not to be feared. I imagine most people think of someone screaming, strapped to a bed, frothing at the mouth. I do none of these things. In fact, I have two bachelor’s degrees and have been praised for my intelligence many times.
Most everyone I have met has described me as “adorable”… that word exactly. I’m loving, sometimes funny, always sympathetic. On my good days I like being held, hugged, talked to. I enter into debates with my friends and family. We play lots of games together. It’s nice.
I can’t say I have many good days.
Oftentimes, I have dreams where I show up to a stadium, where not only am I the main event, but I was never even told what to say or do. Everyone else has practiced meticulously, and is now waiting patiently. Is it a play? A song? Why are there so many costume changes? This is the mood of the rest of my days.
Like many people with ADHD, I often go into rooms and forget why I went there. This isn’t just an inconvenience for me. If I can even remember where I am, I become paranoid. What was I doing? Was someone following me? Did something important happen? Where is everyone? I’m frozen to the spot, unable to retrace my steps. I make noises for someone to come get me. I hope the someone I’m calling to still exists.
Reality isn’t stable for me. I feel like the world that I’m standing in could disappear at any second, that someone will jump out from behind a corner and tell me I’m actually locked away somewhere, deep in the recesses of the earth where I can’t bother anyone.
I’m fairly locked to my house as it is. I sleep around fourteen hours a day just so I’m not fuzzy. I’m on a strict food regimen because any contamination from certain foods means I get a full dose of unpleasantness. Beyond the violent coughing and spasms, my mental disorders take center stage for at least a few hours, if not days. I’ve had jobs. I actually like having a schedule to my day and activities to keep me busy. But with nearly every job I’ve had I’ve had to quit because my mood disorder became so terrible that I’ve tried to kill myself in order not to go. Nine months is about the extent of my capabilities. And then I get to where I am now.
Right now, any group of people beyond about four is too much for me. I get panicky. I fear they are trying to trap me, or humiliate me. Shopping is fairly terrifying. If I go, someone has to be with me at all times, or I start to swirl into a self made hell of anxiety. I couldn’t even tell you most times what I’m anxious about. My mind is moving too quickly. The thoughts in my brain are often just sounds and emotions. I can’t even talk to myself to discern why I am frozen to the spot, unable to speak or react to the environment around me.
Sounds are a mixed blessing. Songs are amazing for me. Rhythm and cadence are soothing, understandable. Repetitive noises, however, make me physically nauseous. My body seizes up, and I need to do something. I need to get away from the noise. It feels like it’s attacking me. Why does the thing making the noise want to hurt me? What did I do? What am I being punished for?
Sensations have the same issue. I love to snuggle and hug people. But on days that my skin becomes even the tiniest bit sensitive, I can’t be touched. Everyone around me becomes fire, an element ready to destroy my personal bubble. And I can’t quite express that I’m upset about being touched, because when I become upset, over anything, my words become noises. I whimper and growl, or I might just burst into tears. It may seem erratic to the outsider, but to me I have been as patient as possible and have reached my limit. And I am so sorry.
I’m sorry for not being able to control myself. I’m sorry for not being able to express my noises and emotions as words. I’m sorry for laughing at inappropriate times, or hyperventilating at equally inappropriate times. I didn’t mean to grab for those, or break that. I didn’t mean to confuse you, or hurt you. I didn’t even really mean to be me. But I came in on opening night without having practiced at all, or even knowing the event. All I have is my improvisation. So if that doesn’t work, you’ll just have to work around me, and I’ll hope for the best.