(no subject)
It'd be nice to say that I'm fucked up. Obviously broken beyond repair, ruined to the point of guiltlessness. But I don't think I am: I function normally in most areas.
So strangers in an intentionally social context scare the hell out of me. And I carry a book around with me to avoid as much as I can the knowledge that other people see me and can coldly dismiss me from their minds as being worthless. I take a backpack everywhere I go around campus, because my fear is a physical sensation. It's coldness along my spine and an intense awareness that nothing covers it, that I'm vulnerable. It's the only time. I have nightmares because of the temperature, I grow paranoid because there's no pressure on my skin.
I'm not made of huge flaws, just tiny errors that add up to nothing that can be fixed.
When I'm tired or unfocused, like when you're in church waiting for a sermon to end, I spasm. Everything jerks like I've been shocked.
My hands rove my body of their own accord when I'm not directing them. They find bumps and scrapes and tiny cuts and scratch and tear at them until they become bleeding sores that can last for months. Odd thing to say, isn't it? That I'm not responsible for the actions of my limbs against myself. It might be like an addiction that I usually don't notice. I've tried to stop, never more than a day or two, but they're always finding these spots and soon I lose my willpower to some other part of me that believes these things must be destroyed.
I hate everyone when I first meet them.
My eyes don't always blink in unison. Sometimes together, sometimes almost so, and sometimes the left one alone.
Even fully medicated, my thoughts aren't always my own.
Small things that add up to nothing.
So strangers in an intentionally social context scare the hell out of me. And I carry a book around with me to avoid as much as I can the knowledge that other people see me and can coldly dismiss me from their minds as being worthless. I take a backpack everywhere I go around campus, because my fear is a physical sensation. It's coldness along my spine and an intense awareness that nothing covers it, that I'm vulnerable. It's the only time. I have nightmares because of the temperature, I grow paranoid because there's no pressure on my skin.
I'm not made of huge flaws, just tiny errors that add up to nothing that can be fixed.
When I'm tired or unfocused, like when you're in church waiting for a sermon to end, I spasm. Everything jerks like I've been shocked.
My hands rove my body of their own accord when I'm not directing them. They find bumps and scrapes and tiny cuts and scratch and tear at them until they become bleeding sores that can last for months. Odd thing to say, isn't it? That I'm not responsible for the actions of my limbs against myself. It might be like an addiction that I usually don't notice. I've tried to stop, never more than a day or two, but they're always finding these spots and soon I lose my willpower to some other part of me that believes these things must be destroyed.
I hate everyone when I first meet them.
My eyes don't always blink in unison. Sometimes together, sometimes almost so, and sometimes the left one alone.
Even fully medicated, my thoughts aren't always my own.
Small things that add up to nothing.