Syd

I know it’s not true. I know it, I know it, I KNOW it.

But it is on loop in my head.

And I can’t message ANYONE about this because it is nonstop on my mind at every. Waking. Moment and to ask someone for reassurance as often as I’m needing it would be unfair and exhausting on them.

But then that feeds into the rumination, and we add on just how much of a burden I am and how miserable every interaction with me must be and clearly everyone MUST hate talking to me.

Currently on a 🍃 tolerance break and for some reason I can’t write any of my stories without it, but it feels like the only thing I’m good for is writing things for my friends. And if I can’t do that what is the purpose of keeping me around?

Bc I’m such a burden and everyone actually h—

Wanna know the crazy thing? I scored a 26 on my OCD eval—a 20 is considered enough for a diagnosis. 26 feels like I barely count, and yet I am this miserable. I can’t fathom what people with more severe OCD must feel like.

I am hard to love.

I know this must be true, because the people that were supposed to love me the most have either hurt me, or they’ve comfortably never been around me. I know this must be true because if I was easy to love, I would not be alone.

I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. Every time I reach out and try to make friends, even if we start off well, they never stay. And I try so hard, I swear I do. I ask about their interests and try not to talk about mine because if I do, I talk too much about them–and I know people get tired of listening to me talk. I see it in their responses, their faces. I try to do boundary checks, I plead with them to tell me if I’m being annoying or talking too much or saying the wrong thing.

I ask my therapist if I’m a bad person, I tell her about every attempt and I wrack my brain trying to figure out what I’m doing wrong. Because it obviously has to be me that’s the problem right?

That’s why no one stays. I am the common factor in each of these failed friendships.

Even as a child, I was never anyone's first choice. My birthday parties, the few that my parents did try to have, were spent with no friends. And now that I'm an adult, I've taken more damage. I am hardened by years of bad experiences, and quick to startle from trauma. If the little girl that was still bright eyed and hopeful wasn't loved, how could I believe anyone would love me now? I am angry, I struggle with basic tasks, I am not bright eyed nor hopeful any longer. I have disabilities that will affect me for the rest of my life, and several of them affect my brain, my behavior, my responses.

I am damaged by a life of love but not kindness or security. My nervous system is in a constant state of survival, and I am so beaten down that my body and mind don’t work right. I’m not a functional member of society; I have little money, no free time, and a lot of problems. But I try not to talk about what I feel or what’s happening in my life because no one stays when I do. My reality is too heavy. The only person I can be honest with is my therapist, because my insurance is paying her to listen.

People didn't like me when I was navigating only the autism. Stack the OCD, Bipolar 2, and PTSD diagnoses on top of it all? The behaviors that have been cultivated by years of trauma can be off-putting. They're ugly, and exhausting. I don't like being in my own head. I know asking anyone to tolerate my brain is unfair. Not even mentioning the physical disabilities and issues I have.

I feel like I don't stand a chance.

Despite all of these check-ins, not talking about what’s going on with me, trying to be fun and show that I want to know them…I am never on anyone’s mind. Nobody ever texts me first, or calls me. I know the phone works both ways but I am so tired of having to remind people that I exist. Of having to plead for any kind of company that isn’t from my dog.

I think about that diary entry from Reddit often (User ComprehensiveSide329):

“If I'm meant to be alone, then please take away my desire to be loved because it hurts to crave something I might never have. It hurts to look at people who have someone and wonder what it feels like to be chosen, to be held, to be loved the way I wish I could be. I get tired of pretending that being alone doesn't bother me. If being alone is truly what's meant for me, then please, take away this ache in my heart. Take away this hope that someone will come. Because it's painful to keep waiting for love that might never arrive.”

And I hate that I understand. I hate that I want to love and be loved so badly–familial, platonically, romantically. I hate that I yearn for something I have only ever fleetingly experienced.

The closest thing I can equate it to is an injury that never heals. It scabs over briefly each time I embark on the journey to form a new relationship, but when that fails the wound is fresh and bleeding just as much as it did the first time. You learn to dress it, you keep it covered so no one worries, learn to move so you don’t give away just how much pain you’re in.

Checking my phone has become a desperate compulsion. Even if I don’t hear anything from anyone all day, I am constantly checking my phone or staring at a screen. If someone messages me, as soon as I see it I have to reply because I am so desperate for connection. Once, I told someone that I’m like a dog hearing their person come home any time I get a text.

I am hard to love.