Emotionally Dying

TW: This post includes depression, trauma and internalized ableism

 

I’m dying emotionally. Maybe overly dramatic words but -no. Dying emotionally is exactly what I’m doing.

There’s very little of me left. It’s like I’m fading away, like I’m consumed or used up. I still have happy moments but they are so short and it doesn’t change the fact that there’s very little of me left. I’m the ugly, sticky bottle that you have left when you’ve had a soda. The bottle with the label almost gone because you kept poking and tearing it apart while you were drinking. The only thing left that reminds you of the soda you had is a vague smell and the lingering sensations on your tongue.

It’s not happening because of my disease (Myalgic Encephalomyelitis). It’s happening because I’m denied humanity. Because I’m not getting any ADHD meds, because people refuse ackonwledging that a life can be like this and that people can be humans in the way I am. It’s happening because my childhood memories are catching up with me. Because I’m denied being my autistic self. My dyke self.

I’m consumed because I spent everything that was me on trying to be allistic, and to some extent straight. By trying to do that I lost something that I can never get back, or maybe never had. I’m probably used up because the constant fear got to me. It ate me.

I guess this is one of the reasons why I’m failing so miserably at being close to people (besides from my kid). There is nothing of me left to give. I almost feel like I don’t exist more than as a physical body. A useless physical body that can hardly get out of bed and can’t be pushed inte performing. This description isn’t great but it’s the closest thing I can come up with. I’m gone. There is nobody left.

There’s no need to worry. I’ve been depressed like this before and just as then, I’m fighting to stay alive. The difference this time is that the world around me seems to be thinking that there’s no meaning with me being alive if I can’t leave my bed and since I can’t have long, verbal conversations, I’m denied a lot of healthcare this time.

I need to stay alive for my kid. Not only physically alive, but emotionally too. I can’t be just a shell to my kid, so I’m trying to preserve the tiny pieces of me that still exists.

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Shameful vulnerability and the longing for autistic access intimacy

Content: This post includes mentioning of an activity that occurs in a sexual context

 

A while ago I got to try a new medication and even though I’m still very ill, it has a good effect on one of my most problematic symptoms. Now, when my heart doesn’t go bananas and pushes me into a horrible PEM (Post-Exertional Malaise, core symptom of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis) crash that I never recover from every time I feel a little arousal, I can have sex sometimes. Not often, not without it affecting my health, but sometimes.

One of the things that I’ve discovered is that I really like it when my partner strokes my back. My spine used to be very sore but nowadays it isn’t, and that means that the experience of having my back stroked changed radically. It turns me on, but I also like it in contexts that aren’t sexual. This isn’t complicated regarding my diseases, pain and disabilities, it’s not complicated for my partner either so in theory, this is great.

Practically? This was (is) a huge deal for me to admit, both to myself and my partner. This is shameful and just writing it makes me blush and the butterflies in my stomach go wild. Why?

For a couple of months I didn’t at all get why and honestly, I couldn’t really handle thinking about it either. However, it bothered me so much to feel so ashamed and not understanding why that it kept coming back to me. How can it feel so difficult to like having my back stroked? It’s hardly considered taboo or particularly kinky to me. As a matter of fact, I feel way less bothered by a lot of other stuff that I guess I do consider kinky.

Then it dawned on me: It’s about vulnerability. It’s the same thing coming back again and again. Admitting this is a sort of exposure that means acknowledging a part of me that I’m still struggling to deal with and don’t have words for yet. It’s the scared, traumatized part of me that fears being judged for who I am, for my perception and sensory issues. This isn’t just about what feels good, this is about who I am. About having everything that is me rejected, dehumanized and considered not valid. This is about being autistic and connecting with my autistic self, and that is a very taxing thing for me. It’s also something I’m longing for.

My partner is not a judgemental person when it comes to sex, and my fear isn’t that he will judge me for this. This fear is so much deeper, because it’s about taking the risk of not having my sensory experiences understood. My partner can very often understand me on an intellectual level, but I long so hard for the kind of validation I only get when somebody shares my sensory experiences. I guess I’m longing for autistic access intimacy, and – I’m hurting from the lack of it.

Dear Life, Dear Pride

Dear life,

I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about everything that could have been, but never happened. I’m so sorry that I fooled myself so hard.

It’s summer now, meaning that I’m reminded of the LGBTQIA community that I’m not a part of anymore, because I got too ill and too disabled. Not that being ill and disabled is something that makes me less queer, not at all. But being the way I am, needing what I need, means that it isn’t possible to be a part of neither Pride nor an LGBTQIA community.

I can’t physically be at a Pride festival, because I can’t leave my home. I don’t participate in community discussions online, because the little energy I have, I need to spend on other things. Most of all I can’t openly identify with my queer self, my past, my desires, because I have to stick to the straight narrative to survive. Yes, it’s about survival. I’m in a place in my life where my existence is depending on me putting up a straight show.

This means that every summer, I cry when I see pictures from different Pride celebrations on social media. I cry because I’m reminded of that what I thought was my space, somewhere were I belonged, has turned out to be something else. Something that isn’t for me.

Dear Life, I’m so sorry that I failed you. Dear Pride, I’m so sorry that I’m not proud.

Invalidating My Vulnerability

I’m scared, like usual. This time it’s because I’m about to apply for permanent income compensation and this is super difficult to be approved for, meaning that I have to prepare for many years of fighting with lawyers and doctors. It’s a process with a big risk of a permanent worsening of my disease (Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, ME) and it’s a very painful reminder of how vulnerable I am. Since so many people still don’t get how awfully harmful these procedures are, I want to write about this openly. I want to write about it to give people a better picture of what austerity does, since that’s one of the few things I can to to contribute to a political change. However, I’ve come to a point where I don’t think I can, because the reactions I get from people are so painful to read.

One of the most common reactions I get is that people give me advice I never asked for. Bad advice. Advice suggesting that I do something that is either totally inapplicable or very basic, meaning that I’ve already thought of it. This is terribly hurtful and even though I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why and come to some conclusion, I’m still having a hard time grasping it. The other day though, something hit me: It’s about denied vulnerability.

When people give me advice I didn’t ask for just because I’m trying to describe and understand my reality, I feel invalidated. I’m trying to close in on my own vulnerability and fear, trying to articulate it, undrstand it, make room for it, and all that bad advice become an obstacle to that. Because if your simple advice actually were good solutions, then I wouldn’t be this vulnerable.

The abled world is constantly trying to deny the subordination and vulnerability of people like me, by pretending that disabled people and chronically or long term ill people aren’t treated as bad as we are. When people deny my reality to the point where I can hardly see it myself, it makes it very hard to deal with. I invalidate myself and can’t understand or process my feelings.

I live in a place where a lot of people still think that we have a safety net if you get ill or disabled. We used to have that but it has been crumbled more and more for around fifteen years and by now, there’s really not that much left of it. I grew up being taught that we have a safety net and unlearning that and realizing that no, it’s not me who’s ill the wrong way or not really disabled is a very difficult process. I’m trying to close in on my own vulnerability and make that elusive sense of exposure to danger more tangible and less confusing, but when people deny my reality, it gets too hard.