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Catching you up (10)

by JustEliza on 9 April 2010

(Selections from January, 2009)

It's natural that as therapy progresses, breakthroughs are slower.


Before I forget again, the key:

I was bullied. Many are bullied. But the connection between Moving, Bullied, and me is the years of not-exactly-depression. Rejection didn't wound me (a marvel that convinced me I was careless and cold-hearted). No. Rather, I wholeheartedly reject(ed) everyone.

Again, common knowledge.

The key is why. Recognising why. Saying why. Believing why. Why one person can be simultaneously so cold and yet so kind. The path from accepting I am different has led me here. My greatest fear: I have always been able to see, feel you. The good and the bad.

I am not empty. I am too, too full.


I am not at home right now. I'm walking, quite literally, in my past. And rather than shutting down at the first threat of emotion, I'm breathing slowing in.

I am the source of my trauma. I made the choice to push everyone out. I only ever wanted to be alone. Not because of anger or fear but because I could not handle the overwhelming reality of being human -- which, in my case, meant being empathically and intuitively gifted. So, I couldn't be angry at anyone. They were only being themselves, with varying levels of ignorance and cruelty and kindness. My trouble is that I find it too remarkably easy to remember how all of that feels.

At some point, growing up, this was a novelty to me. Books became bespoke dreams, filled with vivid emotions. So I started writing my own aching fairy tales at the age most children move out of picture books. Not all emotions were so structured though, and before I could write, I felt it all in song and dance. And then life become its own opera: it's own frightening, endless novel.

I suffered from intense grief at moving. I did not understand what I was feeling. I was not reassured. But I easily mastered how to manipulate others, because I already understood how to know them. So with time, I grew more quiet, and there were fewer opportunities to connect and to care. Rather, I watched and I felt it all.

When I was ridiculed by my peers, any shame was outweighed by a speculative confusion. They did not care how I felt; they were not capable of caring. And my silence, my patience, my disregard for social acceptance -- that, in turn, ridiculed them. I rejected them.

What a different life it would have been, if someone had recognised then what I barely grasp now: my real nature. Someone with power, I mean, someone in charge. For there were people who knew me better than I knew myself, even if I was never capable of being their friend, and I never accepted their judgment of me. You see, they knew my intolerance had a limit. Beyond that, I was reliably, openly, unavoidably... kind.

So, I'm not a monster. I'm not uncaring. I've just never learned how to manage the multitude of emotions and perceptions that rush through me with every breath. There doesn't seem to be a halfway point. When I let people in, I let them in entirely.

I am capable of deep empathy and uncanny intuition. I feel what others feel. I see what others see. It empowers and disables me -- enabling a series of manipulative successes while simultaneously drowning out my own thoughts and desires. No wonder I am so lost.

There are many paths from here. I can continue searching for 'true feelings of achievement' to guide my choices, focusing on my career and education. I can return home and readdress my relationship issues in therapy with this new understanding. Mostly, though, I want to find a way to moderate the empathy and sensitivities. I want to be able to step into my past without such clarity and passion.

Then, perhaps, I can fully forgive live.


Steps back.

I've been taking my vitamins. Better ones, even. So if it's related to diet it must be entirely due to the fact that we have been stuffing sugar and fats down nonstop for several months now (Christmas! New Years!). I concede I need to eat healthier.

But it's been about a year since I last felt like this. So is it coincidence? Was my grandmother's death a trigger? What is happening now that happened then, for me to lay in bed at night and feel like I am dying?

Last time I felt like this, I determined that the best description of it was as a mixed episode: a sweet blend of agitation and depression, a growing wash of fear and loneliness, or just plain: feeling like you are mentally ill. I don't mean crazy; I mean a general flu of the psychological variety.

But I know I am not bipolar. So I must be experiencing bonafide panic attacks. Cue my own false assumptions, as I always thought panic attacks required hyperventilation. But, apparently not. So let's just accept this diagnosis and go with it for a while, as the only real need is not to name these awful experiences but figure out how to stop them.

This level of honesty was inconceivable a year ago.


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