A Definition of Sorts

I’ve heard enough stories told to know two things about people. First, everyone has their own personal version of hell. Second, most of us have lived it.

My hell is being unseen and overlooked. In it, I am invisible and my screams are silent. I am expected to help in any way I see possible, excel without acknowledgment, and stay out of the way. My connections to my peers are hampered by my personal oddities and my disconnection from popular culture. If I want anything beyond the food, roof and clothing the only person I can count on is me. [1]

To me, my hell seems small and minor. Professionals and friends alike have told me that it was real. They’ve even told me that the horrors are still horrors even though I found ways to work within or around some of the obstacles of the hell. Strangely enough, after only eight years of therapy, I’m starting to believe it.

I look at the loneliness of my childhood and see safety rules, little violence, no sexual assaults and a parent that cared and wonder why much of that period feels so painful. Scattered like little points of light thought my youth are moments of knowing I was loved and had a place to belong too. Those bright spots make me feel guilty for complaining about so much gray. The “You were four…” argument still holds little sway. Moreover, if I managed to cope and adapt by developing a sharp tongue and a bitch of a public face what does it matter?

It matters because I don’t want to be known as a sharp tongued bitch. I want to be known for standing up for those things I believe; but, I don’t want to be seen as inflexible [2] or unpleasant. More importantly, I don’t want to be angry/frustrated all of the time. For years, I walked around with an elevated baseline level of anger. When I begin the day with annoyance [3], it takes minor amounts of inconvenience to cause a meltdown.

It matters because I don’t want to spend my life exhausted. I’ve accepted that I’m an introvert. I need time to process. I find large groups [4] or crowds for more than three hours to be energy sucks. More than the interacting with people though, keeping the reigns on the anger drains me.

The psychic wounds of the hell I lived through continue to damage me. They infest the waking moments of my life that I most want to cherish with disconnection and discord.

Tomorrow morning when the alarm sounds for the third time, I’ll pull myself out of bed while promising myself a nap later [5]. I will face the day. I will acknowledge that I hurt. I will know that the day after tomorrow may be better.

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[1] The foundation of this hell was set long before Squid ever came along. I’m grateful for him. He made the whole thing much easier to identify.
[2] Emotionally or mentally that is; I’ve never been physically flexible. I think mooning the world on the way in used all my flexibility.
[3] The day doesn’t begin until after the bathing. Really. If annoyance at the alarm determined my daily mood, I’d be dead by now.
[4] Large groups = more than six people.
[5] I’ve been promising myself a nap since middle school. The nap doesn’t happen much any more; but the ritual continues.

Comments

[E:)]

See, this is exactly why I think we both "grew" into be introverts. We basically had to be. No kids to play with in "da hood," and the units were always working like hell and too tired to pay attention to us. I make it a point to not bring my home work with me as much as possible, because I HATED the dinner experience.

So, I think you feel invisible and not heard because especially after hatching, and medical issues, you were likely pushed aside. But, even after that sorat stabilized, we were still largely on our own, no?