Growing up, I was often accused of not asking adults for help when I needed it. My parents and teachers kept telling me that I should ask them for help more, but I did ask for help. I just didn’t ask for the kind of help they had in mind and my questions for help were rarely understood. I tried to ask for help with the sensory overload, being overwhelmed and the constant fatigue but that was dismissed as whining and moaning.
As a young adult, one of my (at the time being) friends called me the iceprincess. Because I didn’t let her in as much as she wanted, because I didn’t always share when I had a hard time. That was partly true, because when we had been friends for a couple of years, and before that partners, I never knew what to expect from her. Somehow it always got complicated when I tried to explain my thoughts and feelings. She took the liberty to redefine my situation and I got scared of being yelled at for something I didn’t understand.
Almost ten years later, I’m sad and scared and crying on my own. Because I don’t know how to be comforted. I’ve written about how I have a big problem with when people give me advice that I didn’t ask for (here and here) and I’ve written about how being comforted means risking to be erased, and that I’m easily overwhelmed and that makes it cognitively difficult to have a dialogue, but that’s still not the whole explanation. There’s something more in this. Something makes it unbelievebly hard to ask for comfort but to also accept it when somebody offers it. But I don’t know what it is. It’s there but I can’t grasp it. I can’t explain it.
I guess until I’ve figured it out, I’ll be crying on my own.