The worst is when you don’t know if it’s you, or The Disease, talking.
Getting diagnosed was a big deal for me, partly because my chaotic life began to make sense, but also because it allowed me to externalize some of the blame. Not as an excuse, but as an explanation: There is this angry, scared little girl inside of me that I battle every day, and sometimes I lose.
But isn’t she me, too?
I certainly believed so, for many years.
I do laugh at her ridiculousness, sometimes. More often in retrospect.
I am envious of her childlike wonder.
I live vicariously through her passion.
But regardless, she and I are at war. It doesn’t much matter whether we were once on the same side; Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia.
I hate her cunning, her knowing just when my guards are down.
She breaks every single compromise we make, and yet I keep making them.
Because whether she’s me or The Disease, she’s here to stay. And I can’t just hate her out of existence.
I need to convince her, instead, that I love her. That her chaos has made my life meaningful, even as it pushes me from one meaning to the next. That I would be less without her. That her deep-seated fears that I’m not good enough and I’m not strong enough and everything is boring are the reason I am good enough, strong enough, and never boring.
If I’m ever going to achieve a detente, I need to convince her that she, too, is me.