OcularFracture

Everyone. I’m not blaming them; I should have had the sense to, like… not listen? But I’m not only autistic, I’ve never been shown a good example of what self love actually looks like. I’ve just observed and listened, and what I discovered was that people seem to fall under one of two extremes: self love to the point of narcissism (which, let’s be honest, is actually a reflection of deep insecurity and a fragile ego), and selflessness to the point of constant sacrifice.

Not wanting to be the type who would hurt or otherwise exploit others for personal gain, I opted towards the sacrificial. I am sure that religion, which came to me at a time where I was already confused about who I was an how I should be, likely did not help me to develop any shred of self love, as it was sinful to do basically any of the things that made me who I was (including being attracted to other girls, causing me to act stupid around them, or have brief, secret relationships that ended in grief). And don’t get me wrong, I resonated a lot with all the things Jesus taught about turning the other cheek and forgiving those who hurt you, basically infinitely, but it only reinforced the idea that I should be a doormat until I drop dead.

And of course, being autistic at a time when it wasn’t understood, I was unfairly pegged as demon-possessed, or someone likely to shoot up my school, even though I rarely fought back when the other kids beat me into a pulp, and tried to just walk away, even knowing they would only chase me down and bash my brains in anyway.

No one saw the abuse I received both emotional and physical from other kids, family, neighbors, even creepy perverts, because I never let it out. I was shamed for everything in the book, blamed for things I didn’t even do, and treated like I deserved what did come out that I’d gotten, so how could I confess to being sexually assaulted multiple times before the age of 16? It was already deeply embarrassing and I already felt guilty and ashamed. To tell anyone would have just run me the risk of also being blamed on top of it, because of course it’s always the fault of the victim and never the fault of the attacker.

I could’ve said no more forcefully. I could’ve tried to run. But if I couldn’t outrun other girls my age who only wanted to smash my face into the cement, how do you think it would’ve gone over if I’d resisted older boys who wanted to use me?

For so long, I believed it was my fault, just like I believed that I was just a fucked up failure of a person, a useless shit, a personal hell, a demon-possessed danger to all, broken, damaged, worthless… and so on.

It doesn’t help that people continue to leave rather than try to work through anything. It doesn’t help that the abuse continues in places I can’t escape. It doesn’t help that my value, to others, has always been measured by my net worth… my ability to do manual labor… the frequency at which I put out, which becomes more of a fucking chore the more it’s required and the less your own satisfaction seems to matter… when your few sexual encounters have been largely comprised of unwanted assaults, and your partner fills you with dread any time you even cuddle up because it always, always has to go further, and if you’re not always comfortable, they go on social media and lie, telling everyone you guilted them out of sex “all the time” which for one, never happened; they were the one doing the guilting, trying to use reverse psychology when I wasn’t feeling into it by being like “you’re right, it’s not fair to you, I always get it when I want it,” implying those words ever even left my lips, but you see how that kind of manipulation works. Saying things like “you’re right,” to gaslight you into thinking you must have said something that gave them that impression (when in reality, you were just sore, exhausted, sick, etc), so you’d feel bad for them and let them get it over with, and since you weren’t into it, it was the perfect tactic to get you to spread your fucking legs without having to do Jack shit in return.

And for two, ass grabs, slaps on the ass, and being told “I’ll miss you” when you leave, while squeezing your ass to let you know what part of you will really be missed just aren’t things that radiate romance in a relationship, especially when no boy ever wanted to do more than get his rocks off at your expense but wouldn’t be caught dead actually dating you, cause ew, and everyone hates you.

I would’ve loved some wholesome hand-holding that didn’t end with my hand being shoved down a pair of pants, or a surprise hug that didn’t involve a boner being pressed against my ass. But I never complained, and yet I still let that fucker gaslight me into believing everything was all my fault so they wouldn’t have to be held accountable for their misogynistic, sexually devious and destructive behaviors. Like I said, it’s always the victim’s fault.

I allowed that same person (as well as so many others, but this one did the most damage, covertly trying to goad on suicide without explicitly saying “kill urself slut” outside of, you know, adding it as one of the very first songs on the playlist they made for dumping you) to make me feel like I did everything wrong and that they were innocent, and it took me fucking years to convince myself they were full of shit, much less my family who not only bought into it but assisted (and may even still be assisting).

https://spotify.link/qnAqvXoRHHb

And I tried. Many times. Until I got this dumbass idea that I guess I just can’t die, so I just stopped caring if I lived and started abusing my body because clearly nobody likes me, I “have less followers than I do cats,” I have no friends, and no one even likes any of the music or art that I waste my pathetic excuse for a life on. So I just gave up. Figured I’d just ride the wave of bodily torture as far as it would take me and then fade out eventually, probably in my sleep or something.

But of course it wouldn’t be painless, because that’s my life.

So, there are a few things that I’ve known for a while, but I’ve mostly kept that knowledge completely inside my own head, as it’s the one place no one can hack, stalk, lurk, or spy to get information on me without at least dignifying me with a conversation, but I don’t talk to people anymore, really, even if they do seem legit, because of all the fucking gaslighting and sloppy trails of breadcrumbs that a blind bird with no sense of smell could easily follow.

As for why I have chosen to keep this information close to me and not divulge to anyone, well… A- I still care too much, even about those who have hurt me in the worst ways, and so on the off-chance they might suddenly decide they care, I wouldn’t want to worry them. And B- divulging such sensitive information to those who have shown time and again that they definitely don’t care would likely be smeared as a ploy for attention, and god, that’s the last thing I need right now.

Last week, I started to really feel a change for the worse, so I randomly decided to go blow a bunch of money to buy actual food. Like, something that’s not ramen or boxed macaroni, or clearance bread. I bought actual apples, yogurt, dried fruit and meat, and almond butter and some jam with no high-fructose shit syrup in it.

But it was a waste of money because now I can’t eat anything. I’ve been desperately ill for five days now, feeling like I swallowed a boulder while walking through a waist-high gun-fight. I want to believe it was just an accidental ingestion of peanuts, or food poisoning, but after taking colace for two days, as well as fiber, mineral oil (gross), and organic senna tea with zero results, I finally bit the bullet and drank an entire bottle of magnesium citrate, and even that didn’t work until the next day. That was Sunday evening/Monday morning. And I still can’t even breathe without feeling like something inside me will rupture. Every burp, cough, sneeze etc, sends me into a screaming fit.

Even laying and doing nothing is incredibly painful, and drinking just water has to be done very slowly in little sips, or it hurts like a motherfucker. I may also be having some sort of seizures in my sleep. I have a feeling that it’s my pancreas. The whole reason I went and bought decent food was because I had started feeling feint. My tongue kept prickling and my lips would go numb. I should’ve realized by that point that it was too late.

And now, laying in bed for five days, barely able to move, I’ve had a lot of time to think. I’ve started piecing together large sections of the puzzle that is my life, and it really started to sink in just how much damage has been inflicted upon me in my life, even at my own hand as a result of a lifetime of feeling like I’m just some nasty shit on the bottom of everyone’s shoe that should be scraped away and discarded like always, but you know, more permanently.

And still, how can I blame them? People are inherently blind to the pain they cause others. On the other hand, it’s generally a choice. I’ve allowed myself to be conned into thinking I was a disgusting monster of a person by people who refuse to acknowledge the hurt they’ve caused me, or give a genuine apology that isn’t laced with justifications, or “I don’t regret its.”

I don’t know what to think, I guess. I know I said I didn’t blame anyone and that I should’ve been “smarter” but how could I have been when from birth, all I’ve known is how much I bother/annoy/terrorize/hurt everyone, even when I try so hard not to. People take my feelings— feelings they conjured up in me— as a personal attack, rather than an act of extreme trust, and they jump on it as an excuse to continue the cycle of abandonment issues that led to my nonexistent self-worth and lack of fucks about my health.

It’s too late to regret it, probably. But I do. I wish I’d had the power to fight for myself. To look at things objectively and see that I wasn’t worthless. That I deserved to have support from people who wouldn’t just leave me when I no longer served them.

I wish I would have talked to and treated myself the way I would have done to any friend. The way I always did for my friends.

I wish so much that, in a world as lonely as mine, where no one is my friend and everyone dislikes me, I would have had the strength to be my own friend.

But that was always my weakness; I gave all of my strength to those I cared for and never spared a single drop for myself.

Who else would contract Covid-19 on April Fool's Day? 🙄 I promise it's not a prank. Cause if it was, I would've mentioned it yesterday instead of dying in bed yesterday. This blows, yo. Instagram is pretty much the only social media I use, and it's been down. None of my internet friends (and by internet I mean only) want to hang out online and do anything together. There's this neat Chrome plug-in you can get where you can sync a movie up with your friends and watch together. No one wants to. I've invented some fun discord (or other social media) games that no one wants to play. I can't post art on instagram cause it's down, so I'm like running out of shit to do. I was gonna keep it a surprise and shadow drop chapter five of Crayzee Mayzee when it was complete, but I don't think I can do that now, especially if there are people out there who are as bored as I am right now. So sit tight. I've got some pages done.

Also. #savehoofs