I know I had something clever to say here, but I can't remember what. I got distracted—surprise!—by reviewing some of my old posts. And then, just now—mind you, it's literally four in the morning as I type this—I wanted to use an M-dash by my Chromebook can't, so I went through an older post (Denial is not just a river in Egypt) to find one.
It was horrifying to read. I remember writing it, vaguely. I remember how hurt I was by everything that had been going on. Worse than that, though, is how God led me to reading that post now of all times. Why? Why.
My grandfather is dying. He is in hospice, and I don't know what to say to him. My uncle's kidney is failing because of his chemo—he can keep up the chemo and die from the kidney, or he can stop the chemo and die from the cancer. There is no third option. My mother was upset and went out somewhere at night and didn't answer her phone no matter how many times I called; like that time with my dad, I thought she was dead. There was screaming and sobbing, and I'm pretty sure I scared my dad with the way I reacted and the things I said. My—
My—
My parents are splitting up.
I can't handle the things going on in my life right now. A few days ago I came the closest I ever have to killing myself. It wasn't particularly close, but it was still scary. I'm trying sometimes to work on exhuming the things that haunt me, but it's hard to remember to when things seem so okay until I let myself sit down and think. When that happens, it's hard not to scream and claw my own skin off, my eyes out, I—
My psychiatrist said I'm not a violent person, and I laughed in her face. "My violence," I told her, "is self-destructive. It's self-directed. I'm a very violent person."
I would destroy my body if given half the chance, the time or tools. It's not masochism, it's self flagellation. Not in the truest sense of the word, of course. I'm not that religious. Maybe, just maybe, I'm not that crazy either. I hope.
Bottom line is: I'm alive. I'm trying to stay that way. It's hard. It's been a hard few years, and the fact that the days keep passing it becoming more and more frightening as I realize how little I've accomplished, changed, or accepted. I'm trying to remember that I've made "progress". I'm trying to remember that I "have grown so much." I'm trying to remember how to face my problems. I'm trying to remember how to be part of the world I've spent the last two years just watching, and I'm trying to remember why I should even bother.
I want to talk to my kids. The four, the siblings, the ones who I love so much and haven't seen in more than a year. I'm scared to because they might not like or remember me anymore. They're children, and children are hurt so easily. Their parents are—were?—my friends. I should be able to call them and say, "Hey! Sorry I fell out of touch, but do you think..." and ask to meet somewhere, or if maybe I could visit. I should be able to, but I'm scared and busy and sad.
The monsters in my life are swallowing me and I can't remember how I used to fight them.
But I remember how I was going to begin this. I was going to say: "I know I used to have a specific format for these posts, but I can't recall quite what it was." I could go look, but that requires more checking, double-checking, and cross-referencing than I want to do at 4:23am.
I have another blog post to write. But hey, I want to apologize. I'm sorry this isn't about ADHD anymore. I'm sorry I lost the plot and purpose of this. I'm sorry I stopped posting and writing. I'm sorry my life has taken the direction is can. I'm sorry a cry for help like this is the best I can manage right now. I'm sorry I only come here for the bad stuff. I'm sorry I don't have better news. I'm sorry I stopped going to group.
I'm sorry I try to take on so much responsibility for what other people feel. That's one of the things that scared Dad the other night, I think. He realized how much I try to be nice by protecting others' feelings. I'm sorry, in the sense of deep regret, that I was so genuinely confused when he said it was more than I should try to bear. And I'm sorry, in the sense of deep shame, that I wish I hadn't shown him that part of me, because now he is frightened and worried about me, and he has enough to deal with already.
I will try to post again soon.
Ja na.
Showing posts with label -thing-. Show all posts
Showing posts with label -thing-. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Friday, October 18, 2013
Denial is not just a river in Egypt.
Hi guys.
Here's something I've been stewing over lately. When you've been in therapy for as long as I have, and especially when you've studied Psych./Soc. like I did in school, you develop certain... talents. Skills if you will. Such developments are very helpful, both in therapy and in life. When something goes wrong, or you catch yourself behaving in a way that is resultant of whatever you're receiving treatment for, you can apply the mechanisms you've learned. They can be incredibly helpful, but like everything else in this world there are pros and cons. Once you've mastered (so to speak) the art of self-examination, you start looking at other people the same way. You start applying what you've learned to them. And that doesn't always turn out well.
The ability I'm referring to today is that of psychoanalysis.
Dictionary.reference.com defines psychoanalysis as follows:
noun
1) a systematic structure of theories concerning the relations of conscious and unconscious psychological processes
2) a technical procedure for investigating unconscious mental processes and for treating psychoneuroses
Today, let's talk about the latter definition.
Having psychoanalysis in your supply closet of coping methods is invaluable (unless you are one of those individuals who take it too far *cough* BBC Sherlock Holmes *cough*). It allows you to ponder things out for yourself, to pick apart your motives, desires, and actions. Once you've done that, it's easier to focus on each aspect. That's where the professional help comes in. Understanding not why you do something but what drives you--or stops you as the case may be. What blocks you from getting what you want?
In theory it's a fairly straightforward process. Ask questions; get answers. The questions my therapists usually ask me, and I have now begun to ask myself, are paraphrased below.
What do you want?
What actions can you take to achieve that goal?
What steps have you taken?
What stopped you from taking those steps?
What are the excuses your subconscious provides?
What are you afraid of?/What about this makes you anxious?
Well, essentially those questions. I think I got the spirit of it, anyway. Fact of the matter is that these aren't just questions; these are The Hard Questions. At the source of every decision or non-decision you make or don't make (choosing not to decide is still choosing, by the way) is a reason. A fear, anxiety, a traumatic incident, whatever. It is one of your vulnerabilities.You may not be able to recognize it.
More importantly, chances are you don't want to.
Your mind and heart and sometimes body will fight and fight and fight to keep that Reason hidden. Safe and untouched at the back of your mind or deep in yourself where it won't hurt as bad, and you can live without acknowledging it. You will rebel against the invasive, cruel, rude and unnecessary interrogation you or your therapist is putting you through.
You will get angry.
You will be afraid.
And it will hurt.
There are as many reasons, many of which are instinctive emotional reactions, to bury your vulnerability. Sometimes you hide these parts of you because you're ashamed. Sometimes it is because you have been hurt before. Sometimes it is even because you have examined it before and know it's irrational--but you feel it is truth regardless.
(Shit like this is why we need therapy.)
I can't very well expect you to examine yourself so uncomfortably closely without doing so myself. In the spirit of fairness and the immortal words of everyone everywhere:
I'll show you mine if you show me yours.
I genuinely believe I am replaceable. To expand on that a little: I believe myself to be a burden, and feel very deeply that "I am not the child my parents would have wanted". Why do I think that? Simple: I was conditioned to, through many unhealthy friendships, believe absolutely in my lack of self-worth. I am worth nothing without them by my side, I am unwanted, I am substandard, I am a bad person. Those thoughts wormed their way into my mind around the same time I started to really grasp the concept of "money" and understanding that my medications and therapy sessions were draining my family's funds. I was causing trouble, I was making life difficult for them. I still am: I am unemployed, I do not drive, I drain the family coffers with my wants and wishes and medicines. To this day I have problems--big problems--with feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness. I wrestle everyday with the concept that I am loved [And here I am stumped. I don't know how to phrase the next part of the sentence. ...because of who I am? ...despite who I am? ...regardless of who I am? They all have drastically different meanings. I'm not in my family's heads; I can't figure out which words to use and be accurate.] Because of this:
I am afraid of being left behind and/or forgotten. That is it. That is the bottom line. This one is simple. I submit myself to abuse, I am desperate to leave an impression, I dress in an unusual fashion, I spend time memorizing jokes. I am grateful for every single instance in which someone I have not seen for some time recalls who I am, and yet due to the above, remain incapable of speaking to such people for fear of interfering in their life and causing them trouble. In school I was so desperate to be acknowledged I maintained abusive relationships, openly mocked not only myself but others in a frantic bid to impress my so-called friends. I devoted myself to them, some more than others. I loved them and gave them everything I could--nearly all of me. It wasn't enough. For almost three years I spent money, my family's money, to talk about my friends and get advice on how to help them (she wondered why my years of therapy didn't seem to make a difference). Even now, even this second, I am fighting the urge to give in, throw what little self-respect I've built up since graduating out the metaphorical window, and contact them. Just one of them. Just her. Just her.
I hold myself responsible for things out of my control/I give myself too much credit. In contrast to the above I tend to feel that I (potentially) have a large impact on those around me. You saw some of this in my last post, but let me give you an example: If my father and grandmother get into a fight, and he leaves angry to go on a drive, I consider it my duty to catch him before he leaves, give him a hug, and try and calm him as much as I can. So far he's always come back. No car crashes, no arrests, no anything awful that doesn't bear thinking about. But if I were to move out, and my father and grandmother get into a fight, and he leaves angry to go on a drive, and crashes and dies because he wasn't thinking clearly--that would be my fault. I would carry my father's death on by shoulders for the rest of my life, not simply because I would mourn and miss him, but because I was responsible for not being there. I selfishly left home and foolishly expected my family of adults to actually be rational, responsible people. I also consider myself responsible for losing friends. You see, I have been friends with and lost so many people who are so very different. The only common denominator in every one of those relationships--was me. Logically, I am at fault. Which leads quite nicely into my next admittance.
Something is wrong with me. No ifs, ands, or buts. Something is wrong with me. As a person, a friend, a daughter, a sister, niece, cousin, goddaughter, human being, something is wrong with me. And whatever it is, is irreparable.
(I go to therapy to deal with shit like this.)
So. Psychoanalysis, yes? For me that means prying myself apart, combing through the separated strands of my memories, feelings, impulses, and thoughts, and looking at them very, very hard until I start seeing how maybe this way on the left there has something to do with that down in the right corner.
It is an invaluable ability. It tides me over between sessions. It empowers me to take the lead in my own therapy appointments instead of following the guidance of the person giving counsel (thought sometimes that is most certainly needed). I can direct us to where I want to go, what I want to work on, what I think needs to be examined.
(Therapy means unweaving the messy tapestry of my life, one section at at a time, and painstakingly investigating the source of the errors and mistakes before putting it back together, better. More like I wanted it to be when I started. Thankfully, despite my metaphor, I still get to jump around. I don't have to do it in any particular order. As things come up, as I have my revelations and epiphanies and go through various life experiences, I tackle them. One step at a time.
It's sewing and realizing you fucked up a stitch a while back but not so far it's worth tying off the thread where you are. It's going back and looking at what you did, trying different ways to fix it, and finding something that works. Then you move forward.
It's trying to get a degree and having to go through prerequisite classes, only the classes are the therapy, and the degree is you finally in control of your life.)
But you can't do it alone, not really. I have had several experiences with bringing something up and having my therapists calling me out on that one, odd thing I said. Like a thread sticking out of the hem of your shirt. And she pulls at it insistently until I am clinging to my defenses/excuses/reasons by the skin of my teeth... and then once more. And out comes the truth. The hard truth. The painful, shameful, embarrassing, irrational truth. And then I can start thinking clearly.
At last my defenses are down. At last my blinders are off. At last I recognize that I am in a safe environment, working with someone who's primary concern is not to make my life easier, but to help me make my life better.
So yeah. At the start of this I mentioned the pros and cons.
Fact of the matter is, there are very few cons. Just one, really, that comes to mind...
I bring all this up because a fortnight or so ago I found myself idly, coldly, objectively dissecting the reasons my sister has not taken a certain action. I came to a perfectly reasonable, rather upsetting conclusion and wondered how she would react when I mentioned it to her.
Then I stopped and thought how much that would hurt her, and decided not to do so.
During the subsequent moment of clarity I made a choice... a new rule for myself: I will not psychoanalyze the people I care about. And if I do, without realizing?
I will not bring up my deductions in a fight. I will not back the people I love into a corner using things I've learned in confidence or realized on my own as weapons against family and friends. I know that pain. I know that fear. I know the helplessness and misery that comes with becoming the victim of people less conscientious than myself. I know what it feels like to be betrayed.
I also know what it feels like to be the assailant.
I've done that. And I spent years trying to make up for it. Years never being quite forgiven. It hurt. Hurts nearly as much as being on the receiving end of such an attack--and yes. They are attacks.
As someone who has been on both sides, I think I'm entitled to say that both suck and nobody ends up truly happy. One because they are haunted by another's words and deeds, the other because they will always wonder 'what if'.
I would say it happens on accident sometimes but I've never had that experience. Each time I hurt someone like that, using my intimate knowledge of their feelings and weaknesses and personal demons, I knew exactly what it would do. I planned what to say ahead of time. I steered the conversation down a path that would allow me to say, quite naturally, the thing I knew would hurt them most.
So. Psychoanalysis, yes? No?
Pros: better person, handle on your own emotions, understanding the reasons behind (in)actions, taking charge of your own life, making progress, learning more about yourself, able to better understand others
Cons: better able to hurt others' feelings, temptation to use knowledge against others, potential for social disaster when incorrect, potential path to misery
Basically? It would behoove you to remember a few things:
Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.
Karma is a bitch.
Think, then speak.
With great power comes great responsibility.
They are rubber and you are glue; whatever you say bounces off them and sticks to you.
And that's a wrap, folks. I know my personal views and experiences got us way off track. But honestly, it says at the top of the page I'm ADD, why did you expect me to stay focused?
...I think that's the closest I've come to writing an essay is about four years. Golly.
Ja na!
Here's something I've been stewing over lately. When you've been in therapy for as long as I have, and especially when you've studied Psych./Soc. like I did in school, you develop certain... talents. Skills if you will. Such developments are very helpful, both in therapy and in life. When something goes wrong, or you catch yourself behaving in a way that is resultant of whatever you're receiving treatment for, you can apply the mechanisms you've learned. They can be incredibly helpful, but like everything else in this world there are pros and cons. Once you've mastered (so to speak) the art of self-examination, you start looking at other people the same way. You start applying what you've learned to them. And that doesn't always turn out well.
The ability I'm referring to today is that of psychoanalysis.
Dictionary.reference.com defines psychoanalysis as follows:
noun
1) a systematic structure of theories concerning the relations of conscious and unconscious psychological processes
2) a technical procedure for investigating unconscious mental processes and for treating psychoneuroses
Today, let's talk about the latter definition.
Having psychoanalysis in your supply closet of coping methods is invaluable (unless you are one of those individuals who take it too far *cough* BBC Sherlock Holmes *cough*). It allows you to ponder things out for yourself, to pick apart your motives, desires, and actions. Once you've done that, it's easier to focus on each aspect. That's where the professional help comes in. Understanding not why you do something but what drives you--or stops you as the case may be. What blocks you from getting what you want?
In theory it's a fairly straightforward process. Ask questions; get answers. The questions my therapists usually ask me, and I have now begun to ask myself, are paraphrased below.
What do you want?
What actions can you take to achieve that goal?
What steps have you taken?
What stopped you from taking those steps?
What are the excuses your subconscious provides?
What are you afraid of?/What about this makes you anxious?
What are the reasons behind your reluctance to act?
What is the origin of that reason?
What can you do to manage those fears and anxieties?Well, essentially those questions. I think I got the spirit of it, anyway. Fact of the matter is that these aren't just questions; these are The Hard Questions. At the source of every decision or non-decision you make or don't make (choosing not to decide is still choosing, by the way) is a reason. A fear, anxiety, a traumatic incident, whatever. It is one of your vulnerabilities.You may not be able to recognize it.
More importantly, chances are you don't want to.
Your mind and heart and sometimes body will fight and fight and fight to keep that Reason hidden. Safe and untouched at the back of your mind or deep in yourself where it won't hurt as bad, and you can live without acknowledging it. You will rebel against the invasive, cruel, rude and unnecessary interrogation you or your therapist is putting you through.
You will get angry.
You will be afraid.
And it will hurt.
There are as many reasons, many of which are instinctive emotional reactions, to bury your vulnerability. Sometimes you hide these parts of you because you're ashamed. Sometimes it is because you have been hurt before. Sometimes it is even because you have examined it before and know it's irrational--but you feel it is truth regardless.
(Shit like this is why we need therapy.)
I can't very well expect you to examine yourself so uncomfortably closely without doing so myself. In the spirit of fairness and the immortal words of everyone everywhere:
I'll show you mine if you show me yours.
I genuinely believe I am replaceable. To expand on that a little: I believe myself to be a burden, and feel very deeply that "I am not the child my parents would have wanted". Why do I think that? Simple: I was conditioned to, through many unhealthy friendships, believe absolutely in my lack of self-worth. I am worth nothing without them by my side, I am unwanted, I am substandard, I am a bad person. Those thoughts wormed their way into my mind around the same time I started to really grasp the concept of "money" and understanding that my medications and therapy sessions were draining my family's funds. I was causing trouble, I was making life difficult for them. I still am: I am unemployed, I do not drive, I drain the family coffers with my wants and wishes and medicines. To this day I have problems--big problems--with feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness. I wrestle everyday with the concept that I am loved [And here I am stumped. I don't know how to phrase the next part of the sentence. ...because of who I am? ...despite who I am? ...regardless of who I am? They all have drastically different meanings. I'm not in my family's heads; I can't figure out which words to use and be accurate.] Because of this:
I am afraid of being left behind and/or forgotten. That is it. That is the bottom line. This one is simple. I submit myself to abuse, I am desperate to leave an impression, I dress in an unusual fashion, I spend time memorizing jokes. I am grateful for every single instance in which someone I have not seen for some time recalls who I am, and yet due to the above, remain incapable of speaking to such people for fear of interfering in their life and causing them trouble. In school I was so desperate to be acknowledged I maintained abusive relationships, openly mocked not only myself but others in a frantic bid to impress my so-called friends. I devoted myself to them, some more than others. I loved them and gave them everything I could--nearly all of me. It wasn't enough. For almost three years I spent money, my family's money, to talk about my friends and get advice on how to help them (she wondered why my years of therapy didn't seem to make a difference). Even now, even this second, I am fighting the urge to give in, throw what little self-respect I've built up since graduating out the metaphorical window, and contact them. Just one of them. Just her. Just her.
I hold myself responsible for things out of my control/I give myself too much credit. In contrast to the above I tend to feel that I (potentially) have a large impact on those around me. You saw some of this in my last post, but let me give you an example: If my father and grandmother get into a fight, and he leaves angry to go on a drive, I consider it my duty to catch him before he leaves, give him a hug, and try and calm him as much as I can. So far he's always come back. No car crashes, no arrests, no anything awful that doesn't bear thinking about. But if I were to move out, and my father and grandmother get into a fight, and he leaves angry to go on a drive, and crashes and dies because he wasn't thinking clearly--that would be my fault. I would carry my father's death on by shoulders for the rest of my life, not simply because I would mourn and miss him, but because I was responsible for not being there. I selfishly left home and foolishly expected my family of adults to actually be rational, responsible people. I also consider myself responsible for losing friends. You see, I have been friends with and lost so many people who are so very different. The only common denominator in every one of those relationships--was me. Logically, I am at fault. Which leads quite nicely into my next admittance.
Something is wrong with me. No ifs, ands, or buts. Something is wrong with me. As a person, a friend, a daughter, a sister, niece, cousin, goddaughter, human being, something is wrong with me. And whatever it is, is irreparable.
(I go to therapy to deal with shit like this.)
So. Psychoanalysis, yes? For me that means prying myself apart, combing through the separated strands of my memories, feelings, impulses, and thoughts, and looking at them very, very hard until I start seeing how maybe this way on the left there has something to do with that down in the right corner.
It is an invaluable ability. It tides me over between sessions. It empowers me to take the lead in my own therapy appointments instead of following the guidance of the person giving counsel (thought sometimes that is most certainly needed). I can direct us to where I want to go, what I want to work on, what I think needs to be examined.
(Therapy means unweaving the messy tapestry of my life, one section at at a time, and painstakingly investigating the source of the errors and mistakes before putting it back together, better. More like I wanted it to be when I started. Thankfully, despite my metaphor, I still get to jump around. I don't have to do it in any particular order. As things come up, as I have my revelations and epiphanies and go through various life experiences, I tackle them. One step at a time.
It's sewing and realizing you fucked up a stitch a while back but not so far it's worth tying off the thread where you are. It's going back and looking at what you did, trying different ways to fix it, and finding something that works. Then you move forward.
It's trying to get a degree and having to go through prerequisite classes, only the classes are the therapy, and the degree is you finally in control of your life.)
But you can't do it alone, not really. I have had several experiences with bringing something up and having my therapists calling me out on that one, odd thing I said. Like a thread sticking out of the hem of your shirt. And she pulls at it insistently until I am clinging to my defenses/excuses/reasons by the skin of my teeth... and then once more. And out comes the truth. The hard truth. The painful, shameful, embarrassing, irrational truth. And then I can start thinking clearly.
At last my defenses are down. At last my blinders are off. At last I recognize that I am in a safe environment, working with someone who's primary concern is not to make my life easier, but to help me make my life better.
So yeah. At the start of this I mentioned the pros and cons.
Fact of the matter is, there are very few cons. Just one, really, that comes to mind...
I bring all this up because a fortnight or so ago I found myself idly, coldly, objectively dissecting the reasons my sister has not taken a certain action. I came to a perfectly reasonable, rather upsetting conclusion and wondered how she would react when I mentioned it to her.
Then I stopped and thought how much that would hurt her, and decided not to do so.
During the subsequent moment of clarity I made a choice... a new rule for myself: I will not psychoanalyze the people I care about. And if I do, without realizing?
I will not bring up my deductions in a fight. I will not back the people I love into a corner using things I've learned in confidence or realized on my own as weapons against family and friends. I know that pain. I know that fear. I know the helplessness and misery that comes with becoming the victim of people less conscientious than myself. I know what it feels like to be betrayed.
I also know what it feels like to be the assailant.
I've done that. And I spent years trying to make up for it. Years never being quite forgiven. It hurt. Hurts nearly as much as being on the receiving end of such an attack--and yes. They are attacks.
As someone who has been on both sides, I think I'm entitled to say that both suck and nobody ends up truly happy. One because they are haunted by another's words and deeds, the other because they will always wonder 'what if'.
I would say it happens on accident sometimes but I've never had that experience. Each time I hurt someone like that, using my intimate knowledge of their feelings and weaknesses and personal demons, I knew exactly what it would do. I planned what to say ahead of time. I steered the conversation down a path that would allow me to say, quite naturally, the thing I knew would hurt them most.
So. Psychoanalysis, yes? No?
Pros: better person, handle on your own emotions, understanding the reasons behind (in)actions, taking charge of your own life, making progress, learning more about yourself, able to better understand others
Cons: better able to hurt others' feelings, temptation to use knowledge against others, potential for social disaster when incorrect, potential path to misery
Basically? It would behoove you to remember a few things:
Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.
Karma is a bitch.
Think, then speak.
With great power comes great responsibility.
They are rubber and you are glue; whatever you say bounces off them and sticks to you.
And that's a wrap, folks. I know my personal views and experiences got us way off track. But honestly, it says at the top of the page I'm ADD, why did you expect me to stay focused?
...I think that's the closest I've come to writing an essay is about four years. Golly.
Ja na!
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
"Sekai ichi no otoko to yobareru tame ni"—Character Song Carnival, One Piece
This is for people who don't really know about me or the way I think. For people who, specifically, don't understand the thought processes of someone with depression and anxiety disorder. I hope that having one specific account from one specific person helps clear up any question you may or may not have had.
Now, then. Tonight I'm auditioning for a role in a play at the semi-local community theater I've been volunteering at for.... Hmm, going on four years now (please note that I still mark years by when school starts). So yeah. I've read the play. I know the writer. I know the building like the back of my hand, even though, being a theater the exact layout changes fairly often. I've been in, what? Ten, thirteen actual plays and more skits than I could ever possibly count.
First, a bit of background: I’ve been involved with theater off and on—mostly on—since I was nine years old and eagerly participating in the after-school play. During the period of time from fourth grade to freshman year, I did just about everything there was to do, from acting to (admittedly rudimentary) set and costume design. I was in drama class for three years, first at my middle school and then my first high school. I was cast in both after-school productions during my time in middle school. I thoroughly enjoyed those three years in Drama, but decided not to continue studying theater after I transferred schools due to unfortunate circumstances... But oh wait. I can actually say this without having people freak out on my and send me in for evaluations!
Okay, people. I had always disliked the drama teacher at my new school, from before I entered junior high. However, I loved working in theater enough to try and put that aside. I signed up for Theater II and on the first day of school walked into the auditorium with happy anticipation curling in my gut and my head held high. Class started and within five minutes of the bell ringing he called my friend a cow. A cow. One does not call troubled sixteen year old girls with body issues COWS. But he did. And he remembered me from when I had (almost) inadvertently humiliated him in from of potential students two years before. He didn't say anything, but I could tell her remembered and he could tell I did, too. Thus began my sophomore year drama class.
I didn't last three months.
In under three months, I probably missed fourteen or fifteen of his classes. Sometimes I missed a whole day, sometimes just Drama. Now, why did I not attend class, you may want to know. Well, friend, let me tell you:
I couldn't walk into the auditorium without inevitably, instinctively
looking
for
a
way
to
kill
myself.
And there was no shortage of methods, considering the tools left scattered around by the Technical Theater class who were building the set for the upcoming play and the catwalk that I knew how to get up on and any number of other things. I remember turning in one assignment in all my time in that class: it was part of a group competition-type thing. The teacher shut me down four minutes into my presentation. "Okay, that's enough. Next, please," like it was a freaking audition. I dropped out of the class. More to the point, I attended school on a day I had that class and then sat in the waiting room of the counselor's office until I could talk to my counselor. They asked me to go to my class and told me that they would send a note to get me when he could see me. I said something along the lines of "I would, quite literally, rather die". (Not five minutes after saying that I was sitting across from my counselor. Imagine that.) By the end of the period I was all set up to go to study hall during the time I would have been in Drama, and I was happy as a clam.
The day I quit was also the day a large group presentation was due. I hadn't really known any of the people in my group. They were all older and smarter and, worse, they actually liked the teacher I was so afraid of. Regardless, the assignment was due. I didn't go to class, so I obviously did not turn anything in. As I walked across the patio to get to my friends, a girl I had known for years stood up from her table. "Ditcher," she accused. Another girl from the class looked over at me, sighed in a highly visible and dramatic fashion, then shook her head. I was frozen on the spot. It was the first time since coming to that school that anyone had drawn attention to me, that anyone had called me out, so to speak. More names were called, more accusations that I can't even remember now—something about hiding from responsibilities and being a coward who abandons people. I had no idea what to do, and I remembering being so, so, so relieved when two of my friends, one of whom was the one who had been called cow on my first day of school, seemed to see what was happening and walked over to get me, to rescue me.
Or so I thought. 'Cow' chatted happily with the drama kids who had been attacking me while the other girl took my hand and my lunch and led me over to where we were sitting. she sat me down and handed me my lunch and asked if I was okay. I told her something along the lines of "I'm sure I will be" and then 'Cow' swaggered over to us. (I didn't even know she could swagger, but she did.) She asked if I had really dropped out of class. Thinking back on it now, I can't even figure out how she knew I had been planning to drop out of class, but she did. They both did. And when I said yes and told them I would have study hall and, man, I couldn't believe that Stephenie had actually said all that. Now, both of these friends also quite liked the teacher, and knew I didn't. The one in class with me knew I was on edge when I was in class and how many days I missed, just not why. Worse yet, she has panic disorder too. And she looked at me contemptuously and sneered,
"I can. You deserve it. What were you thinking, dropping out of class like that? You can't just do that!"
I blinked at her, astounded and very, very confused. I looked to my other friend.
She shook her head; I was getting no help from her, apparently. "You should have gone to class," she told me. "You should have stuck it out. All you did was run away. You're supposed to face your problems, otherwise you'll never grow as a person."
Well, thank you, T., for deciding the future of my mental/emotional/social state for the rest of my life. I really appreciate it. NOT.
I stammered a few things, something like, "But, you don't understand..."
"No, you don't understand. What you did was wrong. You shouldn't have quit class..."
On and on it went. For a week those two and a few others pestered me about dropping out of class. They accused my of cowardice, laziness, disparaged my integrity, and otherwise alienated me until I finally sent one of them an IM saying something along the lines of "You want to know why I @$#@$ dropped out of Drama!? Because I couldn't walking into the %^&* auditorium without !%&$# WANTING TO KILL MYSELF.
"THAT A GOOD ENOUGH REASON FOR YOU????" 'Cept I didn't use symbols then. I used words. And let me tell you one thing: It was supremely satisfying after a week of putting up with their crap.
They got off my back after that, all of them, so I can only assume that she sent the IM around our group of friends despite her promise not to breathe a word of what I told her to anyone. I know for sure that she told her entire family, because her little sister came up to me and asked me if I was feeling okay just a few days later.
Fast forward a month or two. That other Drama friend, the one not in in class, asked me to be the sound technician for a play at a local community theater. I worked sound for two plays that year, and have since continued volunteering there, working primarily as an usher and, when called upon, a stand-in sound technician. I love doing that. It's nice. Nicer when I was the only one in my family who worked there because it was something all of my own that gave me a nice, golden-warm feeling in the vicinity of my heart, but there's nothing I can do about that now. And hey, at least now I don't have to feel bad for having them drive me there all the time, because now it's not just for me. I guess.
Now, then. Tonight I'm auditioning for a role in a play at the semi-local community theater I've been volunteering at for.... Hmm, going on four years now (please note that I still mark years by when school starts). So yeah. I've read the play. I know the writer. I know the building like the back of my hand, even though, being a theater the exact layout changes fairly often. I've been in, what? Ten, thirteen actual plays and more skits than I could ever possibly count.
First, a bit of background: I’ve been involved with theater off and on—mostly on—since I was nine years old and eagerly participating in the after-school play. During the period of time from fourth grade to freshman year, I did just about everything there was to do, from acting to (admittedly rudimentary) set and costume design. I was in drama class for three years, first at my middle school and then my first high school. I was cast in both after-school productions during my time in middle school. I thoroughly enjoyed those three years in Drama, but decided not to continue studying theater after I transferred schools due to unfortunate circumstances... But oh wait. I can actually say this without having people freak out on my and send me in for evaluations!
Okay, people. I had always disliked the drama teacher at my new school, from before I entered junior high. However, I loved working in theater enough to try and put that aside. I signed up for Theater II and on the first day of school walked into the auditorium with happy anticipation curling in my gut and my head held high. Class started and within five minutes of the bell ringing he called my friend a cow. A cow. One does not call troubled sixteen year old girls with body issues COWS. But he did. And he remembered me from when I had (almost) inadvertently humiliated him in from of potential students two years before. He didn't say anything, but I could tell her remembered and he could tell I did, too. Thus began my sophomore year drama class.
I didn't last three months.
In under three months, I probably missed fourteen or fifteen of his classes. Sometimes I missed a whole day, sometimes just Drama. Now, why did I not attend class, you may want to know. Well, friend, let me tell you:
I couldn't walk into the auditorium without inevitably, instinctively
looking
for
a
way
to
kill
myself.
And there was no shortage of methods, considering the tools left scattered around by the Technical Theater class who were building the set for the upcoming play and the catwalk that I knew how to get up on and any number of other things. I remember turning in one assignment in all my time in that class: it was part of a group competition-type thing. The teacher shut me down four minutes into my presentation. "Okay, that's enough. Next, please," like it was a freaking audition. I dropped out of the class. More to the point, I attended school on a day I had that class and then sat in the waiting room of the counselor's office until I could talk to my counselor. They asked me to go to my class and told me that they would send a note to get me when he could see me. I said something along the lines of "I would, quite literally, rather die". (Not five minutes after saying that I was sitting across from my counselor. Imagine that.) By the end of the period I was all set up to go to study hall during the time I would have been in Drama, and I was happy as a clam.
The day I quit was also the day a large group presentation was due. I hadn't really known any of the people in my group. They were all older and smarter and, worse, they actually liked the teacher I was so afraid of. Regardless, the assignment was due. I didn't go to class, so I obviously did not turn anything in. As I walked across the patio to get to my friends, a girl I had known for years stood up from her table. "Ditcher," she accused. Another girl from the class looked over at me, sighed in a highly visible and dramatic fashion, then shook her head. I was frozen on the spot. It was the first time since coming to that school that anyone had drawn attention to me, that anyone had called me out, so to speak. More names were called, more accusations that I can't even remember now—something about hiding from responsibilities and being a coward who abandons people. I had no idea what to do, and I remembering being so, so, so relieved when two of my friends, one of whom was the one who had been called cow on my first day of school, seemed to see what was happening and walked over to get me, to rescue me.
Or so I thought. 'Cow' chatted happily with the drama kids who had been attacking me while the other girl took my hand and my lunch and led me over to where we were sitting. she sat me down and handed me my lunch and asked if I was okay. I told her something along the lines of "I'm sure I will be" and then 'Cow' swaggered over to us. (I didn't even know she could swagger, but she did.) She asked if I had really dropped out of class. Thinking back on it now, I can't even figure out how she knew I had been planning to drop out of class, but she did. They both did. And when I said yes and told them I would have study hall and, man, I couldn't believe that Stephenie had actually said all that. Now, both of these friends also quite liked the teacher, and knew I didn't. The one in class with me knew I was on edge when I was in class and how many days I missed, just not why. Worse yet, she has panic disorder too. And she looked at me contemptuously and sneered,
"I can. You deserve it. What were you thinking, dropping out of class like that? You can't just do that!"
I blinked at her, astounded and very, very confused. I looked to my other friend.
She shook her head; I was getting no help from her, apparently. "You should have gone to class," she told me. "You should have stuck it out. All you did was run away. You're supposed to face your problems, otherwise you'll never grow as a person."
Well, thank you, T., for deciding the future of my mental/emotional/social state for the rest of my life. I really appreciate it. NOT.
I stammered a few things, something like, "But, you don't understand..."
"No, you don't understand. What you did was wrong. You shouldn't have quit class..."
On and on it went. For a week those two and a few others pestered me about dropping out of class. They accused my of cowardice, laziness, disparaged my integrity, and otherwise alienated me until I finally sent one of them an IM saying something along the lines of "You want to know why I @$#@$ dropped out of Drama!? Because I couldn't walking into the %^&* auditorium without !%&$# WANTING TO KILL MYSELF.
"THAT A GOOD ENOUGH REASON FOR YOU????" 'Cept I didn't use symbols then. I used words. And let me tell you one thing: It was supremely satisfying after a week of putting up with their crap.
They got off my back after that, all of them, so I can only assume that she sent the IM around our group of friends despite her promise not to breathe a word of what I told her to anyone. I know for sure that she told her entire family, because her little sister came up to me and asked me if I was feeling okay just a few days later.
Fast forward a month or two. That other Drama friend, the one not in in class, asked me to be the sound technician for a play at a local community theater. I worked sound for two plays that year, and have since continued volunteering there, working primarily as an usher and, when called upon, a stand-in sound technician. I love doing that. It's nice. Nicer when I was the only one in my family who worked there because it was something all of my own that gave me a nice, golden-warm feeling in the vicinity of my heart, but there's nothing I can do about that now. And hey, at least now I don't have to feel bad for having them drive me there all the time, because now it's not just for me. I guess.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
"I will never stop wanting what I don't have." —Lost in Yonkers, Act II
I intend to tackle some (okay, one) of my more painful questions. This is pretty much just an exploration of my crazy brain. Of my memories. And if they've lead to something that I consider one of my 'most painful questions' it's pretty clear that these don't have happy endings. This really doesn't have anything to do with CHADD, but I don't see any reason to make a whole new blog just for my introspective emo time. Read if you want, don't if you don't. Simple, isn't it?
Also, I realize that in the previous post I begin as though in the middle of a conversation. There is one simple reason for that: I started writing this one first.
________________________________________________
When--where?--did I learn that I am replaceable? Not in the way of every human being is a small piece of the whole, but in the way of "I'll never be as good as the next model". I won't. There is always some-one or -thing that is better than me by just enough to be worth dropping me right then and there and moving on with the newer improved model.
Maybe I should start with the earliest example in my memory, the one that started it all. Yes, Julie Andrews, the beginning is a very good place to start.
When I was five years old my family moved to Oregon from Florida. We drove across the country in fourteen days. When we reached Oregon, I was tired and it was night. We were met by my uncle and led to the house where we would be staying with my mom's sister, her husband, and their six children. I didn't meet anyone during that time who hadn't known my cousins first. Not anyone. When we finally moved out, both families were relieved. A week or two, maybe more, after we settled in, I was at the front door of our house, the aptly named Haven, and saw a girl walking across the street. I asked my dad if it was okay, then walked over to her and said "Hi!". We struck up a conversation and she became my first official friend in Oregon that I met and made by myself.
I was six years old. She was ten, and I didn't care. I was just too happy. But there was one concern: now I had someone to play with and my sister didn't. So I got my sister, and I introduced them. And the three of us were friends. She introduced us to her family, her little brothers and sisters, and we would play together. It lasted like that for a long time.
But nothing lasts forever, and as the undeniable youngest of our core trio, I was eventually cut out of things, little by little. Bit by bit. Though we stuck together when the bullies on our street were around, I was the weakest and both my sister and out friend knew it. And they used it. I remember that at one point I was going to ride my bike home, but one of them got in front of me--not just blocking the way, but physically holding my bike in place. I sat there on my bike, pedaling away while she made fun of me until I cried. Then she let me go.
Fast forward: I've just turned eleven, and at the last Girl Scout camp my sister and I attended we met someone else who loved Sailor Moon. My sister had just started to draw, and I had not yet begun to write fanfiction. But the three of us got along famously, for our love of Japanese cartoons eclipsed all else. But she and I had something else in common, something that connected to two of us in a special way: she had ADD. Still does. The three of us were fast friends, with my sister being the eldest and I, once again, the youngest. In fact, we saw each other almost every day that summer, and during that time we decided we would make a film. We would write it, direct, produce, act... we each had out own trademark characters. I was Meg. I had brown hair with blue tips and I could control water and time. My boyfriend was Ryan.
Then we decided our characters needed theme songs. So we looked at anime music video after anime music video (AMV). And they each found one, and I found one. and then my sister decided that she wanted mine—Iris, by the Goo-Goo-Dolls. I could have hers, she promised. And since I had originally wanted Rose in the Wind by Anggun... but no. I liked Iris too much to give it up. Then our friend took her side, and never, ever went back to the middle ground. She got her song, all right. But the three of us kept hanging out. We still spent a lot of time together; we were a trio, after all. Little by little and bit by bit I, the youngest in the group, was pushed away and ignored.
For the next three years I was referred to as "wall".
My sister introduced her to some other friends she had made and together they began working on a marvelous story, the telling of which lasted until after they had graduated high school. The characters that they used were from our movie. I was not permitted to play. I was too young and too uncool. And then, on the weekends, when my sister and I would have played together or watched TV, she went over there and they played. I realized that she preferred their company to mine, and that she didn't love me anymore. And sometimes my sister's friend's mother, my mom's best friend, would invite both of us over, and I would go because I loved that house and that family.
I would go into my old friend's room and sit against the wall next to her closet. I wrote, read, and drew a lot in those days. I spoke very little.
I had spent two years trying to get them to like me, and it had never worked. I had done everything they told me to do and then some. I had been funny, supportive, and obedient. Eventually I stopped spending time with the pair and the group of them. If I was forced to go visit on holidays and other such events, I avoided them. I went to room they weren't in. I sat downstairs in the family room, the art room, the TV room, the quilting room. I sat under a table in a corner, in the dark. I had been doing that for months before her mother noticed. They never made me go back.
The movie, of course, never happened.
As this was going on, I had entered middle school and made a whole new group of friends. Why a new group? Simple answer: my old friends had all bonded very closely with the people I introduced them to, because as a rule I never introduced people who I didn't think would get along. In fact, they had bonded so closely that they had begun ignoring me altogether. With my new friends and my fresh stat, I was sure to be happy.
But I wasn't, because when you make friends from six different social groups and you want to spend time with them all at once, you have to introduce them. And they all got along.
Freshman year I went to a different school. I had one friend, a girl I had been in a play with the year before. Two weeks into the school year, she had met another girl. A popular girl, one who she had classes with. Ignoring the fact that I was in all those same classes, she ignored me.
Sophomore year, I'm back to school with my middle school friends, and I learn that they're friends with my sister. My best friend was the only person who kept me sane, because he kept me with him and as such with the rest of the group. It was slow-going, but I was once again among friends. My friends. Not my sisters. I admit though, during that time I did my fair share of befriending her best friends, too. Not out of spite, but because they were such honestly nice and interesting people.
I'll say no more on my social life in high school, because it is just as chaotic and painful and traumatizing as you might imagine. Thing fell apart. And I was replaced, little by little and bit by bit. Time and time again. I can safely say that I was replaced more times than I had friends who could replace me, because I just kept forgiving them. I just wanted them to like me. But I'll never be as good as the next model.
_________________________________________________
So maybe, just maybe, that's why I think I'm replaceable. Not in the way of all humans are, but in the way of the iPod Micro. Do you remember it? No? Most people don't.
It was replaced.
Ja na.
Also, I realize that in the previous post I begin as though in the middle of a conversation. There is one simple reason for that: I started writing this one first.
________________________________________________
When--where?--did I learn that I am replaceable? Not in the way of every human being is a small piece of the whole, but in the way of "I'll never be as good as the next model". I won't. There is always some-one or -thing that is better than me by just enough to be worth dropping me right then and there and moving on with the newer improved model.
Maybe I should start with the earliest example in my memory, the one that started it all. Yes, Julie Andrews, the beginning is a very good place to start.
When I was five years old my family moved to Oregon from Florida. We drove across the country in fourteen days. When we reached Oregon, I was tired and it was night. We were met by my uncle and led to the house where we would be staying with my mom's sister, her husband, and their six children. I didn't meet anyone during that time who hadn't known my cousins first. Not anyone. When we finally moved out, both families were relieved. A week or two, maybe more, after we settled in, I was at the front door of our house, the aptly named Haven, and saw a girl walking across the street. I asked my dad if it was okay, then walked over to her and said "Hi!". We struck up a conversation and she became my first official friend in Oregon that I met and made by myself.
I was six years old. She was ten, and I didn't care. I was just too happy. But there was one concern: now I had someone to play with and my sister didn't. So I got my sister, and I introduced them. And the three of us were friends. She introduced us to her family, her little brothers and sisters, and we would play together. It lasted like that for a long time.
But nothing lasts forever, and as the undeniable youngest of our core trio, I was eventually cut out of things, little by little. Bit by bit. Though we stuck together when the bullies on our street were around, I was the weakest and both my sister and out friend knew it. And they used it. I remember that at one point I was going to ride my bike home, but one of them got in front of me--not just blocking the way, but physically holding my bike in place. I sat there on my bike, pedaling away while she made fun of me until I cried. Then she let me go.
Fast forward: I've just turned eleven, and at the last Girl Scout camp my sister and I attended we met someone else who loved Sailor Moon. My sister had just started to draw, and I had not yet begun to write fanfiction. But the three of us got along famously, for our love of Japanese cartoons eclipsed all else. But she and I had something else in common, something that connected to two of us in a special way: she had ADD. Still does. The three of us were fast friends, with my sister being the eldest and I, once again, the youngest. In fact, we saw each other almost every day that summer, and during that time we decided we would make a film. We would write it, direct, produce, act... we each had out own trademark characters. I was Meg. I had brown hair with blue tips and I could control water and time. My boyfriend was Ryan.
Then we decided our characters needed theme songs. So we looked at anime music video after anime music video (AMV). And they each found one, and I found one. and then my sister decided that she wanted mine—Iris, by the Goo-Goo-Dolls. I could have hers, she promised. And since I had originally wanted Rose in the Wind by Anggun... but no. I liked Iris too much to give it up. Then our friend took her side, and never, ever went back to the middle ground. She got her song, all right. But the three of us kept hanging out. We still spent a lot of time together; we were a trio, after all. Little by little and bit by bit I, the youngest in the group, was pushed away and ignored.
For the next three years I was referred to as "wall".
My sister introduced her to some other friends she had made and together they began working on a marvelous story, the telling of which lasted until after they had graduated high school. The characters that they used were from our movie. I was not permitted to play. I was too young and too uncool. And then, on the weekends, when my sister and I would have played together or watched TV, she went over there and they played. I realized that she preferred their company to mine, and that she didn't love me anymore. And sometimes my sister's friend's mother, my mom's best friend, would invite both of us over, and I would go because I loved that house and that family.
I would go into my old friend's room and sit against the wall next to her closet. I wrote, read, and drew a lot in those days. I spoke very little.
I had spent two years trying to get them to like me, and it had never worked. I had done everything they told me to do and then some. I had been funny, supportive, and obedient. Eventually I stopped spending time with the pair and the group of them. If I was forced to go visit on holidays and other such events, I avoided them. I went to room they weren't in. I sat downstairs in the family room, the art room, the TV room, the quilting room. I sat under a table in a corner, in the dark. I had been doing that for months before her mother noticed. They never made me go back.
The movie, of course, never happened.
As this was going on, I had entered middle school and made a whole new group of friends. Why a new group? Simple answer: my old friends had all bonded very closely with the people I introduced them to, because as a rule I never introduced people who I didn't think would get along. In fact, they had bonded so closely that they had begun ignoring me altogether. With my new friends and my fresh stat, I was sure to be happy.
But I wasn't, because when you make friends from six different social groups and you want to spend time with them all at once, you have to introduce them. And they all got along.
Freshman year I went to a different school. I had one friend, a girl I had been in a play with the year before. Two weeks into the school year, she had met another girl. A popular girl, one who she had classes with. Ignoring the fact that I was in all those same classes, she ignored me.
Sophomore year, I'm back to school with my middle school friends, and I learn that they're friends with my sister. My best friend was the only person who kept me sane, because he kept me with him and as such with the rest of the group. It was slow-going, but I was once again among friends. My friends. Not my sisters. I admit though, during that time I did my fair share of befriending her best friends, too. Not out of spite, but because they were such honestly nice and interesting people.
I'll say no more on my social life in high school, because it is just as chaotic and painful and traumatizing as you might imagine. Thing fell apart. And I was replaced, little by little and bit by bit. Time and time again. I can safely say that I was replaced more times than I had friends who could replace me, because I just kept forgiving them. I just wanted them to like me. But I'll never be as good as the next model.
_________________________________________________
So maybe, just maybe, that's why I think I'm replaceable. Not in the way of all humans are, but in the way of the iPod Micro. Do you remember it? No? Most people don't.
It was replaced.
Ja na.
"Sometimes living on the up-and-up means being on the down-and-down." --Lost in Yonkers, Act II
As for the last CHADD meeting I went to, the one where beforehand I was nervous and tense and didn't want to go? Somehow, looking back, I feel that those feelings were justified. I don't feel that I contributed very much to the last meeting. In fact, I felt downright unwanted. Let me describe the scene for you:
Same small church room with the same small stage at the end opposite the doors. This time my dad and I sat facing it. And this time, instead of seven people, there were about, what? Fourteen? Me, dad, the woman next to me, the man next to her, his wife... One, two, three, five, six-seven, eight, nine, ten-eleven, thirteen, fourteen. (Wow I'm good. -Ish.) Anyway, all these people! And not just people. They're all legitimately grown-ups. And there I am, eighteen and two months to the day, and very obviously out of place at what was clearly a parents and grown-ups meeting.
Now, while I may be 18, and I may consider myself (mostly) an adult, that does not by any stretch of the imagination mean that I am "grown-up". Grown-ups have at least seven and a half more years of life experience than I do. Minimum. Of course, even beyond that there is a case-by-case basis.
So what was I doing there? These people (almost?) all had children with ADHD. I still am a child with ADHD. Sort of. Yes, I'm a babysitter. Yes, I'm a Girl Scout. Yes, I'm just as comfortable talking to people older than me as I am with those my own age (sometimes, I think, even more so). These were the thoughts racing through my mind, and there was nothing for me to do, nothing for me to contribute. And then, every time there was that little glimmer of realization that I have something worthwhile to say, I would feel like I was catching sight of someone who was staring at me, as though asking the same questions I already had earlier: what's a child doing here? I was unwanted I was a burden, I was superfluous.
I left the room. I went outside and walked around the parking lot trying not to cry because I hate being unwanted. [More on that in the next post.] Then I started noticing things; there was wind and people walking their dogs, and what on earth breed was that strange little fuzzy thing on a leash across the street? I let my mind wander, embraced the careless, distracted part of me that I had gone there to talk about.
And I did it silently, so no one noticed. I went back inside and listened to every word, piping in every now and then, usually when people were discussing something I had a strong opinion on. Beyond that though, I sat there, half-fuming, half-despairing, all wondering what I could do to feel more involved without feeling like I was interrupting a conversation between teachers/parents/camp counselors/doctors/other miscellaneous authority figures.
If it had been a smaller group, I would have just spoken up and told them that I was feeling awkward. I can be blunt like that, when I'm not feeling like I'm crashing a party with masks and ballgowns and no princes to be seen.
Ja na!
Same small church room with the same small stage at the end opposite the doors. This time my dad and I sat facing it. And this time, instead of seven people, there were about, what? Fourteen? Me, dad, the woman next to me, the man next to her, his wife... One, two, three, five, six-seven, eight, nine, ten-eleven, thirteen, fourteen. (Wow I'm good. -Ish.) Anyway, all these people! And not just people. They're all legitimately grown-ups. And there I am, eighteen and two months to the day, and very obviously out of place at what was clearly a parents and grown-ups meeting.
Now, while I may be 18, and I may consider myself (mostly) an adult, that does not by any stretch of the imagination mean that I am "grown-up". Grown-ups have at least seven and a half more years of life experience than I do. Minimum. Of course, even beyond that there is a case-by-case basis.
So what was I doing there? These people (almost?) all had children with ADHD. I still am a child with ADHD. Sort of. Yes, I'm a babysitter. Yes, I'm a Girl Scout. Yes, I'm just as comfortable talking to people older than me as I am with those my own age (sometimes, I think, even more so). These were the thoughts racing through my mind, and there was nothing for me to do, nothing for me to contribute. And then, every time there was that little glimmer of realization that I have something worthwhile to say, I would feel like I was catching sight of someone who was staring at me, as though asking the same questions I already had earlier: what's a child doing here? I was unwanted I was a burden, I was superfluous.
I left the room. I went outside and walked around the parking lot trying not to cry because I hate being unwanted. [More on that in the next post.] Then I started noticing things; there was wind and people walking their dogs, and what on earth breed was that strange little fuzzy thing on a leash across the street? I let my mind wander, embraced the careless, distracted part of me that I had gone there to talk about.
And I did it silently, so no one noticed. I went back inside and listened to every word, piping in every now and then, usually when people were discussing something I had a strong opinion on. Beyond that though, I sat there, half-fuming, half-despairing, all wondering what I could do to feel more involved without feeling like I was interrupting a conversation between teachers/parents/camp counselors/doctors/other miscellaneous authority figures.
If it had been a smaller group, I would have just spoken up and told them that I was feeling awkward. I can be blunt like that, when I'm not feeling like I'm crashing a party with masks and ballgowns and no princes to be seen.
Ja na!
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