Post by Deleted on Mar 3, 2014 6:18:17 GMT
When you are diagnosed with a personality disorder, it’s hard to figure out where it ends and the you that is uniquely you begins. Recently, I was diagnosed with one that’s main factor is, essentially, I am what most would call “overly-sensitive.” This disorder has caused many problems throughout my life, but, in a way, it is a blessing in its own strange way.
Yes, this disorder may possibly lead to someone breaking out into tears on a train once upon discovering his White Castle hamburger was covered in onions and, no matter how much you scrape it off, would still be inedible due to the fact that the acid contained in the chopped onions has seeped into the beef patty, which, if eaten, would cause an allergic reaction in which his throat would burn and swell, and the fact that he can’t eat this shitty, microwaved burger in a plastic pouch he didn’t even want in the first place is somehow just as tragic as, if not more so than, the fact that the reason he is on said train is to attend his grandmother’s funeral—a woman who he will still think of, over a decade and a half after her passing, with both joy and sadness whenever he eats a piece of cinnamon toast—because that stupid little burger is indicative of the fact that nothing in his life ever works out properly, thus making the entire thing seem like some torturous hell he’s been put in, possibly as punishment for actions of a past life, because, as far as he can remember, he never did a damned thing to deserve this, but it can also bring great joy. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
While a single rude stranger can ruin my entire faith in humanity, the slightest kindness can reaffirm it. While watching my son have a seizure—an image that I will likely not ever forget—sent me into a fear and depression so neurotic that I instantly started picturing the tiny casket he would be placed in and how hard it would be to continue this life without him, I am also so overcome with joy that tears come to my eyes simply from watching him sleep.
Simply put, because of this disorder, I am able to feel joy most of the world will never experience. When I finally admitted to people I have this disorder—which I put off for some time due to the fear about how it would change their image of me—they said what I already knew: “This doesn’t define you.” But, knowing and feeling are two completely different things. When you go over the list of signs and symptoms with your wife and her exact words are, “Yep. That’s you,” it’s hard not to feel like a case study, regardless of the innocence of her words or how she meant them.
While everyone who knows me still sees me as me, the guy who’s there for them when they need someone, who can always crack a well-timed, though sometimes over-the-top joke, who’s always helpful in any way he can be when it comes to life advice and artistic projects, and whatever else it is they see in me, when I take a long, reflective look in the mirror, all I see is borderline personality disorder staring back at me.
Yes, this disorder may possibly lead to someone breaking out into tears on a train once upon discovering his White Castle hamburger was covered in onions and, no matter how much you scrape it off, would still be inedible due to the fact that the acid contained in the chopped onions has seeped into the beef patty, which, if eaten, would cause an allergic reaction in which his throat would burn and swell, and the fact that he can’t eat this shitty, microwaved burger in a plastic pouch he didn’t even want in the first place is somehow just as tragic as, if not more so than, the fact that the reason he is on said train is to attend his grandmother’s funeral—a woman who he will still think of, over a decade and a half after her passing, with both joy and sadness whenever he eats a piece of cinnamon toast—because that stupid little burger is indicative of the fact that nothing in his life ever works out properly, thus making the entire thing seem like some torturous hell he’s been put in, possibly as punishment for actions of a past life, because, as far as he can remember, he never did a damned thing to deserve this, but it can also bring great joy. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
While a single rude stranger can ruin my entire faith in humanity, the slightest kindness can reaffirm it. While watching my son have a seizure—an image that I will likely not ever forget—sent me into a fear and depression so neurotic that I instantly started picturing the tiny casket he would be placed in and how hard it would be to continue this life without him, I am also so overcome with joy that tears come to my eyes simply from watching him sleep.
Simply put, because of this disorder, I am able to feel joy most of the world will never experience. When I finally admitted to people I have this disorder—which I put off for some time due to the fear about how it would change their image of me—they said what I already knew: “This doesn’t define you.” But, knowing and feeling are two completely different things. When you go over the list of signs and symptoms with your wife and her exact words are, “Yep. That’s you,” it’s hard not to feel like a case study, regardless of the innocence of her words or how she meant them.
While everyone who knows me still sees me as me, the guy who’s there for them when they need someone, who can always crack a well-timed, though sometimes over-the-top joke, who’s always helpful in any way he can be when it comes to life advice and artistic projects, and whatever else it is they see in me, when I take a long, reflective look in the mirror, all I see is borderline personality disorder staring back at me.
