yapsterautomatic - Tumblr blog

yapsterautomatic · 18 days ago

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overstimulated and sad

i need silence!!!! silence!!!!!!

every sound i hear is like daggers in my ears, like pressure building inside my head working its way out until i finally pop, my brains spilling everywhere.

i can't think. i can't hear my own thoughts in my head. i can try to get away from this but i never seem to be able to.

it's like a constant fight with my brain, one i can't win. i can't just *have* noise or bright lights around me, i have to be tormented by them. i don't even have the papers to back my experience, papers that would say "it's okay, at least there's a reason you feel like this!" no, i don't have those. all i have is the stories my mother told me as a kid about what the doctors said i would turn out to be like. she told me from a young age that they said i was going to come out "deformed." that i would be partially deaf, that i may not even live past my first birthday. i have that and her denial that i'm any different from those around me, her denial of my experience, and her denial of treatment for my experience.

i may not look any different, but i believe i think completely differently than those around me, and i've always felt like some separate entity from them. not just in the literal sense that i don't share a body with my peers, of course, but in my mentality and thought processes; i've always just kind of felt like an alien, like i don't fit in. and maybe that's because i'm gay or because i'm quiet or because i'm fat, but *also* maybe it's because i'm neurodivergent.

but we can't go around self-diagnosing ourselves, not in a world in which mental health terms get muddied more and more by over-usage from people who neither have the disorders they say nor did the proper research on such disorders to know they don't. "i like my room clean, i'm so ocd" "that lecture was so boring, it really brought out my adhd" these terms meant something at one point but the overgeneralization has led to them being devoid of such meaning, now having the same effect as any other adjective in the language: just a mere descriptor. but they're more than that, they're real experiences people go through, real, terrifying struggles they go through daily. and self diagnosing can add to such stigma that is already so potent regarding mental illnesses.

i know that, but that doesn't mean i can afford such tools. i don't have the means to just make an appointment and go to it, figure out what's going on in my head. i don't have the money for that. i work every day i'm not in school, and i don't have the money to do that. so yeah, maybe it's ignorant to self diagnose myself, but who else is going to? my only resource is myself and the research i am able to do.

i used to have a therapist, not for long but i used to. her name was lizzi and my dad paid for half of the appointment, my mom set it up. i went for a few weeks and my mom got tired of taking me. i didn't get anywhere with it. so around a year later, i begged her to let me go back. she probably wouldn't have let me, either, if it wasn't for me telling concerning things to the school counselor. i went back to therapy and i opened up to her, spoke to her more in depth now that i felt like i could. we still didn't get anywhere. she wasn't qualified to give me any kind of diagnosis, she was still in school. she realized my mother causes a lot of my grief, and basically said that she could not help me. "what are you expecting to get out of this?" we came to the conclusion that she couldn't really help me until i'm able to move out of my mom's house. so i stopped going once again, and now it's been around 2 years. i haven't seen anyone else about my problems.

i was going to see a school counselor now that i'm in university. they have video calls u can do with online counselors. i didn't pick up the phone. i feared i wouldn't know how to talk, and it would be a waste of time. and i'm hopeless anyways. i was going to schedule an in-person appointment with the counselors on campus, but there's no option online to schedule it. i can't call them. i just can't.

the knowledge of my predicted early death has always been a facilitator for my depression. i was nine the first time i thought to myself "i wish the doctors were right." i still think that sometimes.

i was 13 when i started cutting myself, and i thought i started too late. i thought me waiting until i was 13 to start meant that i was faking it, that if i'd really been so depressed all this time i would've begun hurting myself sooner. so i started doing it even more, cutting even deeper, the area of my skin tarnished by the blade ever-growing. first it was just my arms, then it was my shoulders, my thighs, my ankles, my legs. i fantasized about living alone, how i'd be able to do it all the time and not have to hide it.

today i was a photo of myself from 3 years ago that made me think about this. it was from when i had went to build-a-bear with my long-time crush (and gf at the time, not anymore though), and we dyed my hair purple afterwards. i had my shirt off the avoid dye on it. looking back now, i probably should have kept it on. i can't believe she didn't say anything. my arms were covered, i mean covered.

i relapsed a while ago. once in november and once kind of recently. i mostly stopped since 2022, so it was disappointing that i did it again. disappointing to myself. my girlfriend saw, and she was worried. i felt bad. it felt bad that i did that. and i don't think i've ever really had that. even when my mom was begging me to stop, i felt nothing. and i never had a gf that said "please stop" so i never really knew what that was like. what it's like to be truly cared for in that regard, for someone to want you to actually. be okay. and that's so weird for me now.

i don't even know what i'm saying anymore. logging off.

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