Ariadne Gets Wise

My disabilities don't take a holiday. I have two weeks of holidays plus working from home flex time, but: My mental illness doesn't have time off. My sensory and auditory processing problems don't have holidays. My auto-immune-disorder troubled and chronically pained body doesn't get a break. I had all these plans for this time. And I got to do some of them, and it was good. Now, though, I'm lying on a heating pad, with compression gloves on my hands, buzzing with extra tension and painful sensory overload that is worsened by not having mental health medication (a situation that could be remedied sooner if I called my psychiatrist, but that's hard any time due to executive functioning problems and severe avoidance issues, and now through the heightened anxiety, paranoia, and depression I struggle with without meds), dealing with a cold virus that makes everything just that mentally and physically more difficult, and so distressed by the reappearance and intensity of one of my least favorite pre-medication mental illness symptoms that I can barely move because moving much makes the symptom worse. Oh, and societal dictates and the court of public opinion mean I might cause myself future social, emotional, and economic harm by writing publicly about the crap I deal with, so I'm sick and having a horrible mental health day and I can't use my identifying social media profiles to say something about all this, even something pithy. I can't tell my friends and family and online acquaintances I'm hurting and it sucks and please sympathize and say things that help. I can't let them see this, all of it. I can barely even verbalize the worst bits, and damn, am I good at looking OK on the outside, because if I go out in public or make it to work or use Twitter or Facebook you better fucking believe I am doing performance art and deserve triple the pay and appreciation for delivering a socially acceptable appearance and tone. Because I do NOT get a holiday.

*Wanting my life back. The hours pass in rushes and I don’t care about much or can’t be bothered to do most things I should. :(

Got my first "but you're pretty high-functioning" today, from a friend. I gestured vaguely around her living room and said, "it's really hard." --I was too tired to explain why that term didn't make sense. I meant: Going places and managing to both look and act social is hard My hair looks nice because I got it done Friday and have been careful not to touch or wet it since, except to smooth frizz from my curls, and today it needed to be washed, but I couldn't manage tasks enough to wash it last night or this morning, so I used dry shampoo and was super careful to only finger comb the obvious tangles This is the first makeup I've worn since Friday I was almost two hours late to work today because I couldn't get out of my bath because it's my safe place and hot water soothes me so I just kept adding more when it ran out or slowly drained I cry almost every day because sitting at my desk is overwhelming I bought you expensive wine because I was too anxious to try and pick the "right" thing to dip into cheese at your fondue party and it's too hard to message everyone else and ask what they're bringing, so I asked a wine store employee what to bring that pairs with fondue because I have a script for getting help choosing alcohols I hear and watch myself do scripts and sometimes I'm amazed at how I can turn them on if I must and sometimes I'm bewildered that they're so predictable, that I do the same thing each time It took me hours to understand when your husband said he was celebrating the anniversary of aborting his suicide attempt he meant he took the day off and you did, too, not to celebrate but because he is afraid on those days and the bad feelings come back -- how could I understand easily when you both kept not saying what you meant I haven't eaten anything but dry food for days except when someone makes a dinner, and even then it's hard to eat much, food seems wrong this week I am a mess at home, very often I had a quiet meltdown at work this morning on chat with my girlfriend, and thought about killing myself, and she had to wait for me to do a puzzle to calm down enough to even answer her questions You mostly only see what I let you see -- why do you think I only come around once every few months?

neurotypical: but have you tried… doing it anyways?

One of the things I love to read about are androids and AIs; especially when a story is told from the AI's perspective. This week's most recent read is Ann Leckie's Ancillary Justice. I love it, but it troubles me that, even as artificial intelligence characters help me accept myself, I feel more like an artificial intelligence than a normal human. I can't lie to myself well about my choices: Partners are chosen not just on liking them, but in terms of very conscious cost-benefit analyses. I make bald statements outside my careful workplace persona because it's the least uncomfortable way to speak, face to face: "[Dad], I'm spending Christmas with you because I choose to, but also because I am not comfortable with my mother. However, that is not the driving reason -- you didn't see me for Christmas last year at all, so I think I should be here. Please don't mistake Mom as the driving reason." I surprise the people who aren't closest to me when I have a sense of humor, at all (even if they're pleased to learn I possess one): "You should watch at least the first episode of Black Books -- it actually made me mirthful." "Full of mirth? You? I must drink from this fountain." I have to constantly ask people how they process things and if a feeling I'm having is normal -- or ask for help understanding why I'm feeling it. Knowing I'm not neurotypical is comforting in that I don't feel so alone -- I have a group to belong to, and some explanation for my behavior and feelings and preferences. It doesn't make me feel any less strange, though -- if anything, I feel more alien, even knowing I have company.