I hate it when people don’t close the door on the end of staircase leading to a room I share with my siblings. I hate it especially, because of people like my father, who do it on purpose. I don’t understand why needing peace and quiet is such a sin. Why is it a sin and why is it a sin for a person like me, who starts caving if the things are too loud, if the rooms are too bright, if the pencils on the table ain’t in perfect order.
Maybe it’s all my fault because I don’t explain myself to people. Maybe it’s their fault, because they do not want to understand me.
I will try to explain it to you anyways – take this as a confession I will never be able to say out loud.
I consider writing the only thing I am simply good at, something I simply knew how to do – always. But sometimes even writing makes me crawl inside my skin and fall deep deep and deeper, only because of who I am and how I am made. When I was 6 years old I was what people call a ‘problematic child’. I was loud, I never listened, I never stood where I had to stand – I couldn’t learn how to read and how to write, I couldn’t calculate the most simple things.
I have said this many times before, haven’t I? I guess I haven’t said it enough. I don’t think I will ever. It’s my own pathetic little tragedy, something no one will ever take as a big deal. That’s why it’s pathetic. But it is not little, that was a lie. This is what people will always want to see it as, this is what I want to see it as – little. Too bad I already know that it’s just a lie. Honestly it would be a little things even to me if i wasn’t me.
My teacher told my at that time ‘young happy parents’ that I have problems. She simply explained to them that I have obvious sings of dyslexia and ADHD. But my parents we just a young happy parents. Why would their perfect little first born they gave anything have any problems such this?
The thing is that I only learned how to read for real because of Harry Potter. Another thing is that I only learned how to write for real because of the worlds and people I have always had in my head – I was so dislocated from the world at some point of my life, that I crossed read light, not knowing that I even crossed it while daydreaming. My head was exploding from everything I had imagined. I simply needed to find a way to let it out.
I hate myself so much when I say that I have dyslexia. Really, I do. Why? Because I never got the diagnosis. And people will say to me that I’m stupid for thinking like that, because I have all the signs of it. But that doesn’t change the fact that I feel like I’m making myself look like a victim. And if I would be a victim, whose victim I would be? I don’t know. Maybe luck’s. Maybe fate’s. But again, do I even believe in stuff like those?
In this very writing piece I have made numerous dumb mistakes. Actually I just corrected one.
peiec instead of piece
sutff instead of stuff
sings instead of signs
dsylexia instead of dyslexia
I do this all the time, even when I write with my pencil. And I don’t do them once in a paragraph. I do around two in every fucking sentence. Ask me why I write again – because I love it and I try to not fucking care. Even tho I care a lot, actually.
People who know me pretty well will sometimes say that I’m crazy. But to be honest, I am probably a lot of more crazy then I will ever let anyone know. I don’t want to explain this. I will never be able to explain this. Because even if you think you know what I’m talking about, you just don’t. Even I didn’t knew. But I guess I can’t stop the memories coming right back to me. All I will say is that I know how is it when loneliness corrupts your mind when you are a way too young.
There is another thing, but it’s different. It started around two years ago, after all my problems with anxiety. Let’s go back to paragraphs. I hate paragraphs, because they aren’t even, they are out of place and things that are out of place make me really…anxious. All the dust, the uneven things, even the way my feet feel on the ground and how my cheek touches the pillow feels uneven. I overthink everything. When I walk down the stairs all I can see is losing balance, falling over and breaking all my bones. I can see my knee snapping back, I can see blood pouring out of my nonexistent wounds. But I don’t even flinch at it, maybe because I’m so used to the thought already.
Sometimes I ask myself this question. “Do you hate yourself?” Cause do I? I know that I don’t exactly love myself. Sure, there are parts of me filled with self hatred, but does that define the whole of me? I don’t think it does. I’m still indifferent about the question. I feel that it is all a part of the same coin – maybe I’m just a coin in free fall that currently isn’t defined by a position – therefore is hanging in between. So it’s just a coin. It’s just a coin without a name. But it’s turning as it’s falling – it’s a complex.
It’s sad that my mother is convinced that mental health issues only happen to people who were victims of something very traumatic. It’s sad that so many people think about this as something that only happens to ‘other people’, not realizing they are also other people for other people.
Please don’t think those words above were written because of a sudden emotional outburst. Please, don’t ask me if I’m okay. All of this is my reality, it’s what I accept enough to live with it. I am not hurting. You see…it’s hard to explain this. This is not a real pain to me. There are other things that make me feel sad and upset – but this just isn’t it. This is something in me. It’s real. It defines me. It is me.
It just happens to be dark.