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I'm getting tired of trying to convince people I'm not a monster. I am fucking π΅πͺπ³π¦π₯.
I'm not scared of the word. I'm scared of how other people use it, and continue to use it. How their eyes still shutter and look away skittishly when I admit to it. How I drown in an ocean of shame when someone refers to "...you know...", like it's something that can't be said on television before the watershed.
And yet, those who haven't known the word as intimately as I have insist: it's just a word. You can't own words.
Certainly. To you, it's just a word. Okay, fine. But before you open your mouth and tell me I'm overreacting, here's what it is to me:
Firstly, it was a diagnosis that I hid for literal decades because of the stigma attached to it. I would go ice-cold whenever anyone mentioned the 's' word and would do everything within my power -- to the point of absolutely destroying myself -- to make sure nobody thought for one instant that I had it. I didn't want to admit it.
Then it became a forced admission of fault that could be moulded into what anyone wanted it to be, a universal blemish. I must have done something to cause it. There's no possible way I was born with it, it doesn't work that way. What did I smoke? Eat? Drink? Who did I hang out with? What did I believe in, spiritually speaking? Don't I know how to cope with adulthood?
Then it was a judgement. Oh, she's...you know. Medicated. Compromised. Irrational. Unbelievable. Mendacious. Insensible. Unrealistic. Hysterical. Stupid. Unwilling. Uncooperative. Oversensitive. Intensive. Careless. Flaky. Precious. Broken. Foolish. NaΓ―ve. Pathetic. Wilful. Disobedient. Obnoxious.
Then it was denied outright. I can't be. I'm so normal! You don't seem "...you know..." at all!
You have no idea how fucking exhausting it is to pull off looking this normal, just so ignorant tremblers don't get frightened when I say the dread word. The truth of the matter is this: I am in far, far more danger from you than you will ever be in from me.
Imagine having to live with that.
And then the blustering assholes both on and off the everfucking Wired have the temerity to tell me I'm overreacting when I'm begging them on my knees with tears in my eyes, feeling like something they wouldn't spit on if I was on fire, feeling like my brain is physically caving in and my very soul is rotting as I grasp desperately to something that can pass as normal, fine, good, to please. please. stop using my horrendous life-ruining soul-destroying happiness-burning relationship-hurting motherfucking π’ππ£π©ππ‘ ππ‘π‘π£ππ¨π¨ ππ¨ π π’π€π€π πππ¨ππ§ππ₯π©π€π§--
I need to get over myself. It's no big deal. The internet is feeling terribly schizophrenic today.
Of course.
In which case, I hope the internet enjoys it the way I do.
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