it is very hard to be neurodivergent. you are the cigarette butt of every community you might seek solace in, and considered disposable even by other mentally ill people — usually people who have it less severe and judge you for not being able to keep it together and feign normalcy like they do.

the worst part is knowing that people are judging you and don’t respect you and don’t hold space for you, but not knowing how to fix it. not knowing how to stop being psychologically broken.

not knowing how to be less autistic, less ADHD, less bipolar, less BPD, less psychotic, less paranoid, less hyperfocused, less inattentive, less hysterical, less traumatized, less sensitive, less. less of who you are neurologically.

you can’t be. so you hate yourself, because you can’t be. your brain doesn’t do it, and you hate it, because why is it doing this to you? what god did you enrage?

they call you stupid. maybe not explicitly, but they’re thinking it when you don’t understand the argument, when you don’t respond in the right tone. when you have a meltdown because you hate yourself and you hate your brain and you hate hate hate hate hate YOURSELF why are you LIKE this? you go away.

then you come back, and find they’re no longer calling you stupid. they’re calling you crazy.

you cannot be chained down by their neurotypical standards. you wish you could, earnestly. you hate your intimate chemistry for doing this to you; you hate them for making it worse. (but you don’t, not really. you just want them to accept you. please.) you will never be the way they expect you to be, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t worth something. they curl their lips behind backs, behind screens, because they don’t want to confront the part of them that disagrees. they want their normalcy unchallenged.

when you point this out, you’re derailing. when you point this out, you’re gaslighting. when you point this out you’re making excuses to justify your bad behaviour, you intellectually dishonest insert-slur-here. you are violent, and you are not welcome.

it’s okay, you tell yourself, fighting the urge to relapse, going back to the place where you are bloody and starving. it’s okay that you’re no longer (were never) welcome. you didn’t really believe this space would be different, anyway.

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