#(<- he wanted me to tag it and make this unrebloggable. baby steps. it's ok buddy i gotchu)

[vulturevanity]

There is a warm presence living in my chest. It is a stranger.

I genuinely don't remember a time I've connected with my inner self. Though not officially diagnosed yet, I'm autistic, I'm pretty sure; and we sometimes tend to not notice our emotions until they burst out in uncontrollable storms, if at all. Mine don't do that, though, they're more like being plugged into an outlet with the wrong voltage that's constantly sending just a little too much power through the fuse until it blows and everything goes dark. It's the only outlet around, and I need the power, so all I can do is leave it there and use as little of the machinery as possible. But the cost of changing the fuses is starting to pile up.

I don't remember a lot of my teen years. The (not many) memories I have are descriptive -- I know they happened, I can recall them as faded photos in an album and warped voices in an old cassette tape. I wasn't there, though, I'm just experiencing them as if someone's showing them to me, reminiscing about embarrassing teen moments and music they used to listen to. Revisiting those songs, I find I don't much like the stuff.

There is a warm presence living in my chest. It is an angel or a monster, I'm not sure yet -- I don't know if there's a difference.

My deeply religious family wholeheartedly believes in the spiritual world. I'm not exactly a sceptic either; we've experienced some truly unexplainable phenomena that someone with a more solid understanding of the human mind would probably have words for, but I'm only a guy who likes to draw sometimes. My point is, I'm not sure if I can tell them about the warm presence. They might think I'm being called by the Holy Spirit, or compelled by an angel, or posessed.

I don't like going to church anymore. I was raised a fundamentalist protestant, which, if you're queer and were there with me, you know exactly how well that goes. Sundays feel unsettling and suffocating. The pastor's voice makes me squirm. The thought of going to them for help is a little terrifying and, I am aware, probably a bad idea anyway.

There is a warm presence living in my chest. It made itself known when I asked if anyone's there.

Last year I had a few sessions with a therapist my cousin managed to score for free. Honestly it was too brief to start unraveling the i-don't-know that's landed me where I am in terms of mental health nowadays, but it did open my eyes to a couple things. Most importantly, my inability to prioritize myself and my need to be out of the way of other people. Everyone is going through so much already, they don't need to deal with my problems on top of it. My family has an extremely turbulent history, it only makes sense that I wouldn't want to be a burden. I made myself walk alone when everyone else was busy trying to build a home out of shattered glass.

One of the memory albums in my mind is, strangely, of my childhood friends who didn't exist. I had imaginary friends until I was 12. Or I think that's what they were; maybe I was just playing make-believe with myself. Regardless, I was a lonely child, and my imagination kept me company, and since I was old enough to understand how weird that would look from an outside perspective, I'd only speak to them through thoughts. It was one of my most well-kept secrets. But eventually they had to go, I think so that I could "grow up". The strange part is, rather than just fade out of my mind, they formally said goodbye to me before they left. I don't really think that's supposed to happen. Maybe I really was roleplaying?

There is a warm presence living in my chest. It doesn't have a voice.

Last year, while I was seeing the therapist my cousin had arranged for me, we briefly talked about this sense of heavy derealization I feel toward my teenage years. That logically, I knew it happened, and I had the (not many, strangely fragmented) memories to prove, but emotionally I feel entirely detached from them. Nothing in particular can be pinpointed as the cause for it, as far as I can tell. Regardless, I became curious about different types, causes and symptoms of dissociation. In the end, I didn't really think much more of it, as I didn't believe my experiences overlapped enough with what I'd read about it to be worth looking further into.

Two months ago, I went to sleep on a Thursday. When I woke up again, it was Sunday; the weekend had happened, mundane and uneventful (as far as I recall), and I hadn't been there for it. It was a startling moment -- though the machine hadn't been running much lately, maybe another fuse had been blown. But this was different from a shutdown. I can recognize a shutdown. This -- being out for a whole weekend -- was scarier. Scary enough that I had to reconsider the possibility of dissociation. I'm no good at introspection, and I still don't think I fit any criteria for a diagnosis, but regardless, I was a little desperate, so I finally -- after 30 years -- tried to reach into my psyche. Awkward, embarrassed, like a newbie actor talking to a plastic prop, I asked in thought: "Hey, uh. Anyone there?"

There is a warm presence living in my chest. It doesn't have a voice.

It pressed itself against my ribcage with a strength that nearly startled me out of it. Now I have a vivid imagination; like I said, I had imaginary friends until I was 12. So I was terrified that I'd just manifested a new symptom out of nothing. Symptom of what? No idea; like I said, I'm not diagnosed. It's very likely that I'm autistic, and I have a lot of baggage to work through, but never had a chance to do it. All that aside, I decided to ignore the fear and investigate this new... thing that was happening. The feeling was a strange mixture of elation and desperate loneliness. As if it had been waiting to be addressed. As if the thing it wanted most was to say hello.

It didn't say hello, though. Or rather, the feeling was its way of saying hello. (Is that how you want me to put it? Okay.) It doesn't seem to use words. I realized it on that first time. I told him (oh? Him? Thank you!), tentatively, "hello. Is this real? Are you here?" And he pressed against my sternum again -- yes. He felt really happy, almost overwhelmingly so. But I asked him if he wanted to come outside, and he vanished. No. The sensation in my chest now tells me he feels anxious about it. That's alright, he shouldn't force himself. This is new for both of us. We'll learn together.

There is a warm presence living in my chest. This feeling might be me.