Friday, April 28, 2017

Yo, diary

In trying to navigate my way through this noisome morass of mental illness I'm put in the aggravating position of not being able to talk about it with most people due to the way they react. Or, more accurately, the way I react to their reactions.

The ones who blankly don't understand or care to understand are the least of the problem. They, on the whole, are the fuckheads I wouldn't want to share details about my emotional state with anyway. I've been slow at realising who those people are unfortunately, especially one in particular. Blinded by fake empathy and, if I'm honest, an extremely pretty face.

The ones who offer endless ideas about how I can get better are irritating and exasperating but I get that they are coming from a place of trying to help. They're usually trying to help fix a problem I don't have though, due to a lack of understanding or imagination. And of course some of them are just fucking idiots, or assume me to be a fellow fucking idiot.

But if I have to put up with one more deluge of 'caring' from another overwrought sympathetic twat I will fucking scream. Jesus H Christ on a fucking skateboard I don't need you to be fawning and gushing with performative compassion. Who is this supposed to benefit? Do you see me melting into a puddle because your unexpected warmth in this cold, hostile world melted my stony reserve? No, you fucking don't. Because this isn't a fucking disease of the week tv movie.

Get the fuck over yourselves and leave off the exaggerated care & pity. I don't need you to feel sorry for me - I feel sorry enough for myself to last a lifetime. Tell me something interesting instead. Talk to me. Engage my brain. If you really want to get at my heart you should know you have to get there via my mind or you don't know me at all.

This post brought to you by the words bile and spleen, and the letter fuck off.

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