Misunderstood

I've been used to being misunderstood my entire life. My mom didn't really seem to understand me growing up. Maybe that's just a thing between kids and their parents, but like she really didn't seem to understand me. She never understood where my emotionality came from, why I behaved the way I did, what my intentions were, anything. If my own mother couldn't understand me, my friends and peers didn't stand a chance. Many of them would be alarmed or even mocked my upbringing, not realizing that the things they found shocking didn't hold a candle to the truth I was hiding. Teachers? Forget it. When teachers tried to understand me I had DYFS (CPS) called. I was told I was a know-it-all, that I was bright but didn't seem to understand why other children didn't know what I knew. I couldn't explain to people how I reached the right answer, but I often did.

Really the only person who seemed to understand me at all was my little brother. We were only two and a half years apart and he was forcibly glued to my hip. When we were really young people thought we might be twins. For a long time he was the only one I could look at and we'd both know we were thinking the same exact thing at the same exact time. It almost felt telepathic, but it only made sense. We had shared so many life experiences that we were bound to think in similar ways. There came a time when, as we grew, that bond was lost. When I started going to therapy I mourned that lost and lamented that I would never feel that bond again. It turns out that's not true, it just takes a lot of time and special kinds of people I hadn't met yet.

All of that is to say I've been largely misunderstood my whole life. I understand why. I say things, I inflect in a certain way, I write in a certain style, my face moves and people think they know what's going on with me, but the truth is so many just don't have a clue. It's only natural and normal to make assumptions. Thoughts need to work quickly. Decisions must be made swiftly. Time's a-tickin'. Still, being misunderstood has burned me so many damn times in my life when so much could have been avoided if people just asked me one simple question, "Hey, is this what you mean?" Because no. Likely, that's not what I mean. Let me see if I can explain further and let me know what you get from what I'm saying.

I really don't know how smart I am. I've been told I'm smart my entire life, but I'm not sure what that means or how smart I actually am. I was never in the gifted programs. My grades weren't perfect, merely good. I knew how to understand what people wanted from me and give them exactly that in school. A friend once told me that did make me smart. He might be right. I just don't see how it helps me, though. It got certain people what they want and only seems to contribute to me being misunderstood.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I think a lot of people misunderstand what's going on with me or what's going on in my head. I write a lot about it and talk a lot about it but the god's honest truth is there is just so much that happened, and so much still happening, that I can't talk about. I have no right to talk about it. It kills me that I can't say things. I just can't. If I could, so much would be clearer. I know it would. But I can't. I promised. It would hardly matter to most, anyway, I fear.

What I can say is that some have certainly misunderstood my reactions. Maybe no one owes me anything. Maybe I take things too personally, but I've been begging, begging people to talk to me since before I could tell anyone there was a problem. I had the door slammed in my face and was told no, we don't get to talk about this. No, you don't get to lean on our friendship. No, you were wrong about the love you thought was here for you. Maybe it's selfish or wrong, but I thought I had earned more than that after everything I'd done to be a good person, a good friend, everything. I thought I had at least earned the benefit of the doubt or a moment's hesitation to ask, "Hey, is this what you mean?"

There is a portion of this that is my fault. I don't know how big a portion, and I don't think that matters. I need to believe there is a portion that belongs to me because if there isn't then I'm not in control of anything and if I'm not in control of anything, then what is the point of trying? Of living? Of anything? I trusted people more than I should have. I misread and misunderstood them, and didn't accurately assess what we had or believe them when they told me what they were about and how they were. That is on me. It absolutely is. I know I'm an optimistic person, yet I set these traps up for myself every time and let it hurt me.

So, when those metaphorical doors got slammed in my face I straight up lost my damn mind. You might think you know how this affected me and what my reaction was, but if you weren't in my head you really can't know completely. I lost. My. Mind. I've never really been prone to paranoia, but there was some sort of wellspring of it that flooded out and everywhere I looked my brain was screaming. I saw betrayal and abandonment, conspiracy and two faces. I was still with it enough to know that it was paranoia, but then came the one lie mixed in with half-truths and I fully lost it. It didn't matter what the truth was. Truth is of no consequence. I am of no consequence. None of this is real. I'm not real. Reality isn't real. I well and truly lost it.

It's interesting that I was able to make semi-logical decisions during that time, because I completely lost myself and felt truly alone. Now I know that people were afraid of me because of misunderstanding me. Somebody please talk to me. Tell me. Tell me, please. I screamed and cried that over and over again and there were precious few that answered the call, not the least of which was my husband. I trust him completely. I've said time and time again that I don't believe he's perfect, but I know him and I know what he told me was true (except for a brief period while I was losing my damn mind that I thought even he must be false and a liar, which wasn't fair). People thought they knew my position, knew the whys, knew the order of events, but really the overwhelming majority still don't know everything or much of anything, can't know everything. I promised. People were afraid to lose me, to challenge me, to talk to me at all, let alone ask, "Hey, is this what you mean?" The ones who were finally brave enough got the correct answer from me, but so many were not that brave. I don't blame them, but it was so fucking painful and lonely.

I know it's probably not fair, but I thought I had earned more than their silence and fear. I thought I had earned the benefit of the doubt, and just so many people assumed the worst and left me to rot. I've rotted, and most people have hardly noticed, or maybe they blamed me for it. Like I said, there is a portion of this that belongs to me. Besides what's already been stated, no one asked me to put myself out there like that, to love like that, to be there for them like that. Pretty much not a single damn person did. I just do it.

A friend said they believe that I'm a true empath. Truthfully, I roll my eyes at people who claim to be an empath and post listicles and memes about how they're such an empath to the point that I hate claiming the title myself, but I am. This is why my mom couldn't understand where my emotionality came from. I don't think it came from her or my biological father. I don't know where the "gift" comes from, but I've always had this ability. I know how it sounds. Trust me, I know. It sounds haughty and self-important, even delusional, especially because I never let on how much it truly hurts to be this way. Only the people closest to me have witnessed it first-hand and therefore know it's real. I've been drained and incapacitated for weeks because of my empathy. I've learned how to adapt over the years, but it's like a damn mutant ability not dissimilar to Rogue's. I can't control it, I can only manage it. Wear gloves. Remove myself. Try not to get too close. I even weaponized it, used it to start a career and make money. I am a true empath, and it is sheer torture. In my head, I have this image of myself curled up in a ball and just absorbing everyone's feelings in a 5-mile radius. That starts to approach what it feels like. I don't expect everyone to believe me. I do expect people to find it co-dependent and toxic, but I know my truth and that's the damn truth. Why would I lie about that? To what end? What the actual fuck does that get me?

I guess what I'm trying to say... somehow... is there is a really good chance that if you haven't been talking to me, or haven't been asking me to clarify what I mean, you just have no idea and you're misunderstanding me. I thought I was making myself clear, but I guess only some (precious few, really) speak my language. So few people can actually see me. That doesn't make you bad or wrong for not having that ability. It just is what it is, but I'm asking you to try to understand and to ask me the question. And I've been begging you please, please talk to me.

I don't know if any of this makes sense. I think it could do more harm than good, but it's been kicking around in my brain and needed to go somewhere. It lives here now. I'm tired. I'm going to bed.