It’s got so bad tonight that I phoned Samaritans and gave myself a salt and ice burn. All I want is someone here, all I want is to feel like its not been my fault, all this time. Sod the phone, I just want to feel wanted
Your mum calls you manipulative and a nasty piece of work.
Good talk, ma.
I am in desperate need of a new book. Something that will captivate me, shock me, make me feel something.
Won’t you let it dry?
Tonight my parents decided to get Chinese for dinner.
We know what Chinese food means - prawn crackers. God I hate them. The noise they make is unbearable. I cannot describe the rage that noise makes me feel. It’s horrific.
So my parents know that it gets to me, and, naturally, they think it’s hilarious and ‘try’ to eat them quietly, which is impossible. So I get aggravated and can’t help but become visibly uncomfortable.
Of course then my mum gets all offensive, apparently I’m preventing them from enjoying their meal. GAH. So I end up with my headphones in, watching a film on my ipad, being antisocial and generally being seen as a douchebag.
And when I explain to them that I can’t help the anger and the anxiety and that it’s called misophonia my dad actually laughs in my face.
Like what? I have to consciously try to get through meal times, or lunch time at work, or someone eating an apple or a bag of crisps on the train - and that’s funny? Really? To worry about every situation and force myself to stay calm and not scowl.
And my parents cannot find it in themselves to understand.
Why do people get so defensive over this? Why do they see it as a personal affront? I can’t help the way I feel when I hear people eat, if I could it wouldn’t affect me in such a violent way.
Urgh, like feeling like this is a choice.
Let me just say, to those who think they do
No-one holds a monopoly over my body. No-one.
I don’t care if you raised me. I don’t care if I’m in love with you. I don’t care if you just say you have my best interests at heart.
None of you understand what it’s like to inhabit my body, just like I don’t understand what it’s like to inhabit yours - so what makes you think you have the right to pass judgement or comment over what I do with mine? Or claim that your opinion is more valid over someone else’s.
Last year I let you all have monopoly over me. I let everyone push and pull me like the rope in a tug of war. And I agonized over how I was going to make the right choice for everyone else. I forgot about what was right for me, and my body, and my emotions.
And in the end that heartache and turmoil ended in more heartache and turmoil. I didn’t even get to make a choice - not even my own. And then I felt guilty because I’d failed one group of people, and the other danced on merrily with their lives thinking it was the best thing that could have happened.
And neither knew, or cared, what I was going through.
The person everyone was making all the ‘right’ decisions for got left behind in the end and no one ever thought to ask: “How are you?”
And I wasn’t okay - because I’d lost my baby. And I don’t care if it was ‘barely a cluster of cells yet’ - because, fuck, it was a part of me and my body and it was traumatic and painful and through it all I couldn’t help but think that every one of you who claimed to love me only had your own best interests at heart.