She wasn’t the first person I sought out. I love my mom, but she could never understand me. Most people around me can’t, or rather, I can’t relate to them and vice versa.
I’m autistic and used to the fact that I’m just really bad with people. I don’t understand and feel things the way people expect me to, and that’s okay, because I can’t really help it. It’s just how I work..
I have one person who truly understands me. They’re so important to me and I’m so glad to have them in my life. I told them and it didn’t shock me when they told me they also struggled with sh and suicidal thoughts.
After gathering courage, I told my psychologist. I remember how disgustingly weak I sounded, my head hung low because I couldn’t face her after admitting that. But nothing changed! She assured me she wouldn’t tell my mother. Ofcourse, she worried for me… but she knew me enough to know that I “know what I’m doing”. She said she trusted me and I was a responsible person. Cool
Later, I accidentally let it slip to a friend. And another… and another ~_~ I’m good at keeping secrets, but I reckon this was a cry for help kind of confession. I didn’t make a scene about it. I just casually mentioned it as if it was just another silly thing my dumb little brain made me do. All the reactions I got were sympathetic but so, so, awkward.
I didn’t want to make them uncomfortable, I really didn’t. But they just looked like, well, they didn’t care. I know my friends like me. But idk this made me feel so bad. I told them I was fine even though nobody asked and I know they know I’m not mentally unstable but I wish they doubted me for a second, which is a terrible shameful thing to feel…
After maybe 2-3 years of cutting, I finally told my mom. It was such an awful experience: she was welcoming and didn’t judge me, but I cried so hard and made a fool out of myself. We had a long conversation about it and she assured me she loved me and nothing would change between us
I was glad. I’m a paranoid person, and if my mom were to start keeping a closer eye on me, I would’ve actually gone crazy
But now. Well. I told everyone that I trust enough to handle this information. And literally nothing changed
Nothing changed. My friends don’t care if I joke about ending it and cutting my wrists because they know I won’t actually do it. My therapist knows I’m not going to commit because I’m deeply empathetic and couldn’t possibly imagine how my parents would react. My mom trusts me and never once did she assume I was fragile and helpless
I hate it. I hate how I’m such a coward I can’t tell people I’m struggling. I hate how much I want to bleed out in front of everyone I know so they know that I was struggling too. I hate how I can type “im fine” to my friends while staring at fresh self- inflicted wounds. I hate how my thighs look, because cutting my arms would make people assume things about me I secretly know it’s true.
It’s such a pain. I wish someone worried about me the same way I worry about worrying them. It feels like every option I have is wrong, and I somehow only choose the painful ones
I feel like I’m the only person who worries enough about me, but also I’m my own biggest critic. So I need help, but I won’t ask for it because I’m too weak. Because I would see myself as a coward