What happens when you write during a meltdown…

***Disclaimer: I wrote this when being in a really bad/unstable mood after being triggered and needed to vent out words. Bear in mind that not everything in this post will be coherent or be like my “regular” thoughts.

Singing along to Croatia’s 2006 entry almost always cheers me up, especially the “oh-oh-oh” part in the intro where I can sing as off-key as I want to. But we’re not here to talk about the song…

I sometimes call myself Štikla. Yes, it means stiletto/high-heel. Yes, it’s not even a real name and I don’t speak any Croatian (or any ex-Yugo language, or any Slavic language). Yes, it doesn’t really make sense because I hate wearing shoes and only tolerate them due to legal and/or safety reasons. I’ve also never worn heels for more than 30 seconds unless I’m at the store reminding myself why I wouldn’t want to wear them for a longer period of time. So why would it be this name?

Long story short, I called a beta-test ex-SO Duša due to working on my Balkan Ballad paper at the time, binge-listening to ‘Ajde Jano. Štikla just followed since it was the first word that sounded like a name. Two months passed and I called off the beta test due to lack of communication (and eventually finding out about being purple and cakey), but the name just stuck. And after using it for a while, I decided that Štikla actually works.

Despite never being diagnosed by a doctor/psychiatrist, I’m sure that there’s some chemical disaster in my head. I can’t concentrate unless I’m actually interested and I bury myself into the topic. I don’t have a filter when someone tells me off. The Ohrwurm Network constantly plays in the back of my head. I hear “The rest of the trays are 22 [cookies]” instead of “The rest of the trays are 20 [cookies], too” at the bakery. And half the time I feel like a zombie for no apparent reason. I’ve also taken around 25 online ADHD tests; they say people should get tested if they score a 20 or higher, and I keep scoring a consistent 35. So yay, it’s great. To make things even better, without my headphones I’m about as stable as a football (the American kind) player running in 6-inch heels. They say that 3 days I’m okay, 1 day I have an incident, and then I’m tolerable for 3 days again. But sometimes it just takes one word to knock me off, especially without my $8 psychiatrist pumping music into my ears.

In most cases I just want to sit down and listen to something to calm down and not think about anything surrounding me. Family members constantly tell me off, that because I don’t do well at uni, because I failed an exam partly from having a panic attack midway, that I wasted time following ESC (or really doing anything that isn’t studying/finding a job/being “productive”), that I don’t listen to instructions, that I’ve got the mental capacity of a 10-year-old who thinks she can do something just because she’s pushed electrons in orgo once or asked recent car problems. They call me ungrateful and lazy when I can’t think straight because I’m not over Estonia qualifying 1 day after the semi, or that I wasn’t doing my job when I wasn’t able to get EPA employees to sign petitions for the EPA (That’s illegal by the way).

Since I’m not diagnosed I try to self-medicate. I talk to myself, try to sing it away, write, work on the Eurovision Confessions queue. Sometimes it works when I’m alone. But when they’re around they then tell me to shut up, stop singing, quit being snarky, stop using any language that’s not English or Mandarin so I can’t fight back. My symps start firing at overload, and there’s absolutely no way to use the methods that CAPS or my neuroanatomy prof taught to breathe, count to ten, and starve out a panic attack. They’ll be standing in front of me when I try to go down the stairs, when I’m leaving the bathroom, when I’m in the kitchen making dinner, telling me off again and that everything I do is a waste of time. I’m sometimes less than 20 centimeters away from them, and I know I can push them down or close the door on them. I know what a kitchen knife can do while making a pot of stew. And yet I don’t do anything, because they’ll throw me out and I don’t have a stable enough income to make it by myself. Or they’ll call the police for bodily harm. I don’t want to cry but sometimes it comes out as voluntarily as breathing and swearing (and it’s just great that it leads to a blocked nose and inhibited breathing in about 15 seconds); I shake on the inside like the Spitak earthquake of 1988.

I just want to talk to someone else outside of the family and vent it all out over coffee. Or go to an open mike night and sing it out, the bright lights blinding me so I can’t see the audience while singing off-key. Or maybe even just stand outside at 3AM and let out the loudest scream in the world for the darkness to take away all the pain. But no, I’m still at home, I can’t even mutter minced swears. I can only stay silent with a blank face, hoping that Constellation Prize starts playing on the Ohrwurm Network, thinking to myself, “If you don’t want to see me, go blind. If you don’t want to hear me, go deaf. I can’t move anyways.” I consider for a few seconds whether it’s a good idea to do that, and I quickly shake off the thought, reminding myself that I won’t be able to follow the next year’s Eurovision or watch South Park if I follow through.

Or in the worst case scenario, I’d learn to wear heels. Bare feet don’t do much damage when stepping on someone. Heels do. And you never know when that would come in handy.

***After reading this through a few times, I’m going to keep this post as a record in case I get to actually see someone about this.



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