The Little Box of People

 'You're one of a little box of people that doesn't really fit anywhere'

That is what the doctor said to me after my autism diagnosis. Before you feel appalled, know that this was in reference to the absence of any support services for me, that there was nowhere for her to refer me going forward. 

Years later, I now see that statement as referring to my life more generally. A diagnosis of my existence. As I've plodded on through life, I've not really been able to shake that sense of not fitting. I've often felt uncomfortable, not fully present, and masking to try to fit in.

More recently, it's become such a heightened sense, that I don't actually think I feel like a human. Life seems weird, I feel like an alien. I'm some kind of being sure, wrapped in a man's body, but not quite human. 

I observe the people around me. I am not what they are. I mimic them, I talk like them, laugh with them. But I am not like them. Behind the mask of pretending I'm confused, shifting uncomfortably in this skin. This skin that itches and aches, physically, metaphorically (is that the right word? I'm not sure, I'm alien after all). I sometimes just want to peel it all off, shed this corporeal error and let whatever I am inside float away. But knowing my luck, rather than float to where I belong, I'll get stuck in a tree, and won't be able to ask for help.

Not that I can ask for help even when equipped with this flesh. 

I've explored plenty how I feel and struggle, and tried several times to sort myself out, including three rounds of talking therapy, medication. Day to day I do the things that are suggested to help -  a healthy diet, working out 6 times a week minimum, gardening, getting out in nature, seeing friends..

These things are to treat the illness of depression, anxiety, the thought traps.

Depression is not my illness. Anxiety is not my illness. Deep dark thoughts are not my illness.

These things are merely symptoms. Symptoms of how autism is manifest in me. There is no cure for that, and so the symptoms will ever persist regardless of what is done to try to ease them.

And knowing this creates the feedback loop of hopelessness. 

I'm sad today, more than usual, because I'm thinking about this, about how I am fundamentally broken, faulty, malfunctioning. I know, the humans would say not to use words like that, and they'd also see me roll my eyes right now because I'm in my room and unmasked so can contort my face however I please. What ails me can not get better, so I know life will always hurt. The thoughts will always be dark, I'll always be sad and lost. 

No one can say anything to me to make it better, no one can do anything to make it better. There is no help and so there is no hope.

Hope is what gets someone through. Looking to a future when things are better, and the dark has gone. Looking forward to when things are good, even exciting. I've tried hope. I've thought about how my world would look if I was happy. I shan't bother to list them - all those things are beyond me because of my disability. I have invested years thinking long and hard about it all. What I've learnt is that for me, hope is only a lie, and I can no longer entertain it. I will no longer entertain it. 

And so to those concerned people around me, who know of my struggle, who, quite naturally, want to help, want to offer kind words, I am grateful for your concern. I might not reply much. I know you want to see hope for me, but I don't want to smother you in my darkness too much with rebuttals. So I'll say little to you, and use my blog instead. I've even added a shitty little picture at the top.

You might read this, you might feel sad, you might disagree. But the diagnosis is quite clear, and proven by time.

When it comes to life. to relationships, to careers, to making it in this world:

I'm 'one of a little box of people beings that don't really fit anywhere'.