I... I like parts of me?
Oct. 13th, 2013 07:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brightrosefoxI randomly swam through my bedroom closet and found some house slippers and coats. I wish I had waited until my neck and skull muscles had relaxed and loosened enough, but oh well. Winter coats! I almost curled up in the closet for a nap. The thing about OCD (true and evil, not the icky "fake tee hee OCD") is that I know I am insane and that I need to help myself, but the compulsions just keep slamming me down. Which means I need to do this bit by bit. Minute by minute literally. Coat. Purse. Shoe. Matching shoe. Large black trash bag for charity. You know how it is. Even the panic moments. And then the ADD SHINY. I think the biggest bone of contention between me and my spouse is my extreme messiness. I admit it. But oh, that closet is comfy, and I essentially know where things are. After I flop like a child in a ball pit. Stimming! Oh my gods. It's stimming! What. I. Didn't even. Huh.
Should... should I... can I call myself autistic? Officially? Or should I keep calling myself borderline autistic? I don't knoooow. I don't care what people think, that's not the point. The word "hypochondriac" just makes me laugh and wave my hand in a Feh Motion.
Oh, the coats. The sweet comfortable winter coats. And hangers! I found hangers! I shall obsessively put the two things together all over the house, because I spaz ridiculously in winter and the Raynaud's Disease is sheer torture.
I am flapping and hopping from one foot to the other and making "Whee" sounds because I am organizing in a Joanna fashion. Oh my gods, I really am on the spectrum. How did I not know? This changes absolutely nothing on the outside. Inside my mind, though... Wonderland has opened a whole new portal.
So, an autistic friend asked me, "Does the word Autistic feel right? Cuz I sure as shit am not going to tell someone they 'aren't autistic enough' to ID as Autistic. And it's a culture, not just a dx. And I could have written this. Especially the compulsive going through the closet god I have no business doing this my body is saying HA HA FUCK YOU thing."
And I replied, cautiously, "...yeah, the word Autistic feels right. Yeah. And the culture thing also feels right. I think the only reason I've been hesitating is because everyone who knows me knows I already have so many medical issues that this is just one more issue to put on my doctor list - and some people might accuse me of "collecting medical conditions like stamps" to which I take annoyed offense. Not my fault my brain is screwy. I have Things in my brain. It is important to know what All The Things are. I've given up on the closet so far. Like, truly, NOPE. But it is still there, waiting to love me. So yeah."
Yeah, I'm happy. I've had some friends from CP groups, epilepsy groups, autism groups, and fibromyalgia groups inform me that my consistent posting about what I go through is helping them learn more and more about themselves. It turns out that I am becoming a role model. People are thrilled to see that I am so open, honest, willing to reach out and connect and share what I know.
-"You make me feel better when I worry about what is happening to me."
-"I love talking with you because you don't care about all the horrible stuff, you just want to know who I am."
-"Thank you for accepting me and talking to me. You're one of the few online people I feel like I can chat with and not feel rejected."
-"I'm so amazed and impressed by you. You are devastatingly intelligent and beautiful, you never let your disabilities completely overwhelm you, and you are able to reach out and ask for help when things get rough. You inspire me to be a better person."
-"You are so genuine and open. You really want to help people. You don't want to play a character on the internet. You're so refreshing and generous."
-"You have this strength that I've never seen. You can be in insane amounts of pain that would bring any man to his knees and you smile and raise your head and you keep going. You never lie - you say how you feel but you also temper all that pain and hell with beautiful, positive things."
-"You're one of my favorite disability advocates. You're like an idol. You don't hold back. You have almost two dozen medical conditions, and you are happy to talk about them, and you also know when to tone it down. You don't give a fuck when someone is angry at you. I want to do the same thing. Keep being you."
-"I love your power. I love your voice. I love your entire mind. I love how you approach every new medical issue with grace and understanding. I love that you can joke and laugh even when you are sobbing and struggling through the worst of depression and panic. I love that you refuse to project false positivity that you don't let true negativity destroy you. You shine like a beacon in the night. You, as a spiritual being, are extraordinary. You, as a disabled human, are beyond extraordinary."
And here is the funny thing: I do not believe in myself. I do not feel beautiful or inspirational or intelligent or confident. I KNOW all of this. I am very rational. I know, intellectually, that all these things are true. But emotionally, I am shy and scared and worried and upset and not at all confident, and I don't like myself enough to believe. I don't fish for compliments, because on an emotional level I don't want to cry, "Tell me I'm pretty! Tell me I'm awesome!" I know I'm pretty, and I know I'm awesome. But feeling it and believing it is another level of comprehension. You know? You know.
Should... should I... can I call myself autistic? Officially? Or should I keep calling myself borderline autistic? I don't knoooow. I don't care what people think, that's not the point. The word "hypochondriac" just makes me laugh and wave my hand in a Feh Motion.
Oh, the coats. The sweet comfortable winter coats. And hangers! I found hangers! I shall obsessively put the two things together all over the house, because I spaz ridiculously in winter and the Raynaud's Disease is sheer torture.
I am flapping and hopping from one foot to the other and making "Whee" sounds because I am organizing in a Joanna fashion. Oh my gods, I really am on the spectrum. How did I not know? This changes absolutely nothing on the outside. Inside my mind, though... Wonderland has opened a whole new portal.
So, an autistic friend asked me, "Does the word Autistic feel right? Cuz I sure as shit am not going to tell someone they 'aren't autistic enough' to ID as Autistic. And it's a culture, not just a dx. And I could have written this. Especially the compulsive going through the closet god I have no business doing this my body is saying HA HA FUCK YOU thing."
And I replied, cautiously, "...yeah, the word Autistic feels right. Yeah. And the culture thing also feels right. I think the only reason I've been hesitating is because everyone who knows me knows I already have so many medical issues that this is just one more issue to put on my doctor list - and some people might accuse me of "collecting medical conditions like stamps" to which I take annoyed offense. Not my fault my brain is screwy. I have Things in my brain. It is important to know what All The Things are. I've given up on the closet so far. Like, truly, NOPE. But it is still there, waiting to love me. So yeah."
Yeah, I'm happy. I've had some friends from CP groups, epilepsy groups, autism groups, and fibromyalgia groups inform me that my consistent posting about what I go through is helping them learn more and more about themselves. It turns out that I am becoming a role model. People are thrilled to see that I am so open, honest, willing to reach out and connect and share what I know.
-"You make me feel better when I worry about what is happening to me."
-"I love talking with you because you don't care about all the horrible stuff, you just want to know who I am."
-"Thank you for accepting me and talking to me. You're one of the few online people I feel like I can chat with and not feel rejected."
-"I'm so amazed and impressed by you. You are devastatingly intelligent and beautiful, you never let your disabilities completely overwhelm you, and you are able to reach out and ask for help when things get rough. You inspire me to be a better person."
-"You are so genuine and open. You really want to help people. You don't want to play a character on the internet. You're so refreshing and generous."
-"You have this strength that I've never seen. You can be in insane amounts of pain that would bring any man to his knees and you smile and raise your head and you keep going. You never lie - you say how you feel but you also temper all that pain and hell with beautiful, positive things."
-"You're one of my favorite disability advocates. You're like an idol. You don't hold back. You have almost two dozen medical conditions, and you are happy to talk about them, and you also know when to tone it down. You don't give a fuck when someone is angry at you. I want to do the same thing. Keep being you."
-"I love your power. I love your voice. I love your entire mind. I love how you approach every new medical issue with grace and understanding. I love that you can joke and laugh even when you are sobbing and struggling through the worst of depression and panic. I love that you refuse to project false positivity that you don't let true negativity destroy you. You shine like a beacon in the night. You, as a spiritual being, are extraordinary. You, as a disabled human, are beyond extraordinary."
And here is the funny thing: I do not believe in myself. I do not feel beautiful or inspirational or intelligent or confident. I KNOW all of this. I am very rational. I know, intellectually, that all these things are true. But emotionally, I am shy and scared and worried and upset and not at all confident, and I don't like myself enough to believe. I don't fish for compliments, because on an emotional level I don't want to cry, "Tell me I'm pretty! Tell me I'm awesome!" I know I'm pretty, and I know I'm awesome. But feeling it and believing it is another level of comprehension. You know? You know.
