(no subject)
S. tells me yesterday that he is bipolar. I only believe this partially; I diagnosed him as narcissistic months and months ago. I don't see any of the tells of bipolar. Narcissistic personality tiptoeing along OCD.
Actually, the OCD is probably like me....obsessive without the compulsive. I count steps and love checkerboard patterns, I love it when words in a sentence or a phrase share letters and you can join them all into a long string with the shared elements. 'Long' shares a 'g' with 'string' shares a 't' with 'the' shares an 'e' with 'shared'...you get the picture. This pleases me beyond belief for no apparent reason. There are 14 stairs to my basement, 14 stairs to my childhood bedroom, 12 stairs down to my parent's basement. I count the landing as a step and always have because you're stepping it one way. Roughly 2000 steps (depending on stride) to walk from the plant to the mall bus stop. About 50 steps to walk between plant doors. If I don't have music to distract me I'm probably counting steps.
All of that and I swear there's no compulsion, just the need for...order? Whatever.
S. confides that he doesn't tell many people. Why me? Do I give off sympathetic crazy vibes? I would not like to think so, particular with S, who can be a giant hateful ass. I curled around myself to destruct; S lashes out cruelly to his subordinates. Not acceptable. We muttered about dopamine and SSRI's with a conference call our background noise.
S. doesn't tell many people....I tell noone. I refuse to acknowledge this thing as part of my definition of self. It's there. It's controlled for the most part. I didn't share my own diagnoses with him; I knew the ease with which I spoke of the details gave me away. Really...who else would know what SSRI stands for? It's a thing that was here with me once, and also I had the flu and an ear infection as a child....who strings the particulars of their conditions as a necklace flaunted to the world?
No thank you. The faded scars marching up my arm are bad enough,those silvery ghosts that catch the light in a peculiar way. Sometimes, in my professional corporate role which is so very distant from who I was once was, sometimes I catch people's eyes lingering too long.
I don't think it's shame. I just refuse to let it define me. Or perhaps I'm just making excuses for my habit of being closed to things I can't control...not that it's ever caused me or those close to me any grief....
Derrick is dead. Dead. DEAD. That terrible Valentine's Day is seared into my memory, but so is the tender way he would look at me. I'm happily married, don't get me wrong, but I once loved Derrick, regardless of how wrong it was. And he is dead. That feels so very strange. I keep tasting the word, wondering if that will change things. It doesn't. There are many names in my past that I don't remember, faces that I can barely conjure up, yet Derrick is one that stayed with me.
Hm.
Actually, the OCD is probably like me....obsessive without the compulsive. I count steps and love checkerboard patterns, I love it when words in a sentence or a phrase share letters and you can join them all into a long string with the shared elements. 'Long' shares a 'g' with 'string' shares a 't' with 'the' shares an 'e' with 'shared'...you get the picture. This pleases me beyond belief for no apparent reason. There are 14 stairs to my basement, 14 stairs to my childhood bedroom, 12 stairs down to my parent's basement. I count the landing as a step and always have because you're stepping it one way. Roughly 2000 steps (depending on stride) to walk from the plant to the mall bus stop. About 50 steps to walk between plant doors. If I don't have music to distract me I'm probably counting steps.
All of that and I swear there's no compulsion, just the need for...order? Whatever.
S. confides that he doesn't tell many people. Why me? Do I give off sympathetic crazy vibes? I would not like to think so, particular with S, who can be a giant hateful ass. I curled around myself to destruct; S lashes out cruelly to his subordinates. Not acceptable. We muttered about dopamine and SSRI's with a conference call our background noise.
S. doesn't tell many people....I tell noone. I refuse to acknowledge this thing as part of my definition of self. It's there. It's controlled for the most part. I didn't share my own diagnoses with him; I knew the ease with which I spoke of the details gave me away. Really...who else would know what SSRI stands for? It's a thing that was here with me once, and also I had the flu and an ear infection as a child....who strings the particulars of their conditions as a necklace flaunted to the world?
No thank you. The faded scars marching up my arm are bad enough,those silvery ghosts that catch the light in a peculiar way. Sometimes, in my professional corporate role which is so very distant from who I was once was, sometimes I catch people's eyes lingering too long.
I don't think it's shame. I just refuse to let it define me. Or perhaps I'm just making excuses for my habit of being closed to things I can't control...not that it's ever caused me or those close to me any grief....
Derrick is dead. Dead. DEAD. That terrible Valentine's Day is seared into my memory, but so is the tender way he would look at me. I'm happily married, don't get me wrong, but I once loved Derrick, regardless of how wrong it was. And he is dead. That feels so very strange. I keep tasting the word, wondering if that will change things. It doesn't. There are many names in my past that I don't remember, faces that I can barely conjure up, yet Derrick is one that stayed with me.
Hm.