Control, relationships, and bipolar symptoms, oh my.

On November 28 I told a friend I was irrationally angry with a close friend, but my meds were working so I wasn’t ready to end the relationship, yet.

So was that the paranoia building up in the manic/hypomanic episode?

I recognized my anger was irrational, but I couldn’t dissolve it. Because I felt shut out and ignored. And I couldn’t help but think how many times I’d been there for her when I was suffering, and how I seemed to be the only one who saw all sides.

I resented that, in my mentally ill state.

I resented being treated like I was being mean or bad when I was basically wailing for help every way my overloaded system could, for days.

I resented that everyone stood up for this friend, but no one stood up for my siblings or my Dad.

And then I thought, is that true?

Did people tell me? Could I hear them?

Does it matter?  It’s over.  I can’t change what I did, how I sounded, how I seemed, anymore than I can change how I felt in the moment.

I can process my feelings.  I forgave and let go.  But I also cut ties, because I need all my energy for healing my own heart and mind, now.

I can’t count on people to see me as a hurting person when they are literally choosing to live in stress and play power games and all that Allistic bullshit I can’t keep up with or handle.

If I am speaking from my wound, and you say, “excuse me? I have been crying over you, you are a bad friend!”

I am hearing, “I feel insecure and need you to mask for me so I feel better, no matter how you feel right now.”

And I am responding appropriately by walking away. Until you tell me you keep your opinions to yourself.

But I’ve been asking!

Begging!

Begging for clarity!

I was.  I’m not anymore.  My body trusts me to keep it safe from harm, now.  I can just recognize anxiety and breathe it out.

But I can’t teach anyone to do that who looks down on me.

I can’t teach anyone who chooses to see me as the problem, rather than seeing my problem and teaming up with me against it.

I am mentally ill and I am proud I have survived to 42, outliving my biological parents…I think…I have to look up when my first Daddy died. I was 5.

Mom was 23 and he was 41 when he shot her.

I was 3.5ish.  January 5th 1986…I turned 4 on May 9th that year.

Damn, I suck at math. Why am I having such a hard time with this?

Oh yeah! I’m autistic and was always told I was too old or too smart to need help all my life!

I was 5 when he died. So yes, I am about 42.5, the age my father was when he died of a heart attack, in the hospital, not the jail, I hear Grandma telling me, every time she saw me, my whole childhood.

We all have hard lives.

We’re not supposed to be keeping score against each other.  If you forgive but hold onto the pain, pretty sure that’s not forgiving.

If we’re friends, I love you.  Wholly, freely, exactly as you are even at your worst.

If we’re not talking right now, it’s because you aren’t giving me the same.

That can change.  But I am putting myself first from now on.

If I have to beg forgiveness for how I behaved when I was out of control from mental illness and stress, NOT CHOICE…and you can’t accept that I can be a grumpy asshole and still love you, well that’s not very accommodating of my many disabilities.

So, I’m no good for you if you’re stressing me out and draining me and wanting me to feel bad for saying what I think and feel without pussyfooting or sugarcoating or anything other than blunt exasperation.

When Tarah left, I felt broken.

Now I finally feel whole. And I still don’t know myself as well as I need to.

So I’m quarantining my brain from social media and just being me this holiday season.

Just a happy, loving wife and mom.

Maybe that’s all the intimate relationships I can handle, with my brain as it is now.

I’m at peace with that.

I don’t recall feeling mean or angry, but I am sorry I hurt my friends’ feelings, again.

I’d rather avoid people than spend my life afraid to say what I see, and resentful that I feel that way.

Hello, I have a communication-stifling, impulsivity-increasing, emotional regulation-derailing developmental neurological disorder collection – gotta catch em all!

ASD and ADHD are my hard drive. They fight each other for dominance, one craving change and the other, stability.

PTSD is many spankings and losses kicking my hard drive every time I think I make a mistake or hear a loud noise.

OCD is my inner control freak trying to make me likeable to everyone, anyone.

GAD is my permanent anxiety, constantly yammering in several voices at different speeds and volumes, all day, all night.

Whoops, I forgot bipolar again.  It’s the third leg of my hard drive.

And I’m still figuring it out.