A More or Less Aimless Rambling That Took 3 Days to Write

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I don’t know if it more stupefies or saddens me that each and every time someone seems surprised when they discover I have a head injury and/or cognitive impairments and/or slew of mental/emotional disorders (etc), I’m legitimately taken aback. Do I not have “BROKEN” stamped on my forehead in red ink? Can’t you see all these “fragile” stickers and all these glaringly obvious cracks in this functional adult facade? Have I really assimilated to “normal” people so well that no one actually suspects that I’m really 7 stray cats in a trench coat?

The other day one of my manager’s friends came in right before her and I got slammed with a rush and the conversation turned to texting and driving, which of course got me started on a tirade. I don’t know what it is that makes my brain tell my mouth to automatically recount all the other awful, tragic, scarring experiences I’ve had whenever one of them gets brought up. I guess it’s like Battleship; as soon as you’ve discovered one vulnerability, it’s not long until the whole ship sinks. I’m just saving us both the effort and speeding the process up, is all. As many times as I’ve been through this schtick, you’d think I’d be unphased. But for some reason this whole “lack of identity” thing, the third of nine diagnostic criteria for borderline personality disorder (all of which I meet) really started to get to me.

David and I been watching a lot of Cosmos lately, and Neil Degrasse Tyson always says how if the Universe were created on January 1st, the history of ALL of humanity and life on earth came about at the very, very end of December 31st. I guess the thing I lose sight of is that I’ve been in this body, guided by this brain, for 26 years. I was originally diagnosed with borderline a decade ago. It wasn’t until just around this time last year when I was re-diagnosed that I was given the resources to learn to cope with it, though. I started DBT in about mid-November of my own personal calendar, if today were New Years Eve.

I try to bear that in mind when I catch myself feeling like a peculiar being blasted from some random galaxy with no solid trajectory. I try to remind myself that I’m made up of all the same stuff as everyone else, and that we’re all broken in our own ways. Mine aren’t carved in stone and carried about around my neck. And neither are yours.

Maybe that’s why I share my story to any who will listen. Just hoping that they might be brave enough to open up about theirs. Eventually, it may cause a tiny wave. Maybe that wave will wipe out stigma for good. Maybe it will just help someone forget about the sucky stuff in life for a few moments. Either way, I realized that all I’ve been through doesn’t have to be kept holed up inside. Letting it out is my way of validating myself, of letting you know that I do have some ticks, and triggers, and flaws. But most importantly I feel like I wave my crazy flag like a beacon. To let others know that I know what it’s like, and my door is always open if you feel like you’ve got nowhere to turn…

And just remember…

If you haven’t read Scaachi Koul’s novel, you fucking need to. Because she’s hilarious and far better spoken and prettier than me, and her words give me hope in a way that I can only hope I give to you. Meeting her was totally worth my radiator exploding and almost stranding me in Ann Arbor for the night… (except it didn’t because I have amazing friends who do NOT get enough credit for taking care of my ass)… More on that next time, though. I’ve got important business to attend to…

It’s not the apocalypse we deserve, but dammit I’ll take it….

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