So, I’ve been trying to figure out how to say what I next want to say.

Do I dislike who, and what, I am? Of course not. That’s ludicrous. I know that I’m a good person, even though people have said I’m such a horrible person, I shouldn’t even hang out with people who want to see me, because I’m that toxic. Thanks, Pat and Barbara!, et. al.

Do I despise who I am? Even more ludicrous. I was born to understand love and humanity. Yes, I know, some people will view me with contempt and disdain, because I’m injured – thanks again, y’all! – and don’t think there’s any reason to listen to me, to find out if maybe there’s a good explanation for why I’m acting strangly.

Well – do I feel unwavering contempt for myself, for doing, and acting, strangely, in ways that people will later view as contempt-worthy, and hateful, even though I can see that my actions allowed a hateful person to see me as contempt-worthy and hateful? Dude – I really do not do self-hatred, nor do I hate the disabled and injured. Why are we discussing all of these stupid questions?

Here’s why: Do I feel completely and thoroughly ashamed of being someone, who, on occasion, suffers from extreme fatigue, neurodivergence, infrequent emotional lability too extreme to allow rationality, and, do I further feel totally ashamed and worthless, because I can’t always be a mature, responsible, emotionally-stable grown-up able to hold productive discussions about relationships?

Yes. 100%, and totally. It’s why I can’t write anything these days – everything sounds like the whining of an ugly, faceless, useless hunk of biomass.

There’s a song that’s been ringing through my head – probably Odetta’s version, it sounds like her strong, wise, voice, leading “this little light of mine… I’m gonna let it shine….” One of my gifts, insofar as it’s worthy of the name, is, I see lights that shine, better than many. I could see it in both of my brothers – I later realized it was in me, too, but I wasn’t aware of the signs.

Once I hit maturity, I learned about my own heart’s ability to shine, to see joy, and beauty, love, and, all manner of wonderful things. Even better, I learned to have some control over it. I learned to shine it. I could see the effect it had on people. It made me happy.

One really awful thing about being me – about having my particular set of circumstances – is that parts of me shut down, without warning. Once a person sees this light from me, I understand that it can be painful if it’s gone, so I exert a lot of energy to turn it on, when needed, and to keep it going while I’m with someone. But over the long term, my life has been one where the light is bound to go out, and I’m no longer completely human. That’s how it feels, and not having something all humans have is, in a sense, being “not completely human.” You see what I’m saying? I’m human, but something is missing, just as surely as if it was amputated, except, a light to shine can grow back. Hypothetically, at least.

The worst thing is, due to my disabilities, I sometimes turn ugly, in mood, expression, mannerisms, or appearance. Sometimes, even if I know I’m ugly, I’m too tired to fix it. And people can justifiably freak out because of that, you see? I can’t blame someone for freaking out – it’s not a normal kind of ugly, so people have to adapt. The problem is shame.

Because I’m ashamed of being broken, damaged goods, toxic, etc., I never think through how I’m broken, why people say I’m damaged goods, what specific toxins are present, and how can they be neutralized, etc.. I avoid it – it’s past the door labeled “shameful stuff, do not disturb.” So, when someone freaks the eff out, I’m not ready to explain things to them.

Just out of the blue, I came up with “I’m sorry – sometimes, my emotions express themselves in a weird way, due to my PTSD.” But first, I had to confront the shame enough to recognize that I’m not crucifying myself in front of people, I’m just offering an explanation. Instead, my shame leads me to try to ignore the times I’m damaged goods, or toxic, and hope the other person just forgets. That’s not a terrible strategy, to hope a friend forgets a behavioral outlier – but an explanation makes it easier for them to understand, and not need to forget, the outlier.

I’m ashamed that I need to remind myself to be a good, happy-making, human being – it’s not enough to do nothing wrong, you need to do some things that are right. I’m deeply ashamed of having weaknesses that could be pointed to and mocked, which would hurt when I’m exhausted, or mentally/emotionally injured. And I couldn’t tell you, not if my brain clicked on, and I was no longer damaged goods, and not if I had a million years, could I tell you, how ashamed I am that I can’t turn on “this little light of mine.”

I miss you – all of you out there. But without that light, nothing really seems to make any sense, so, it’s really, really, difficult to engage.

(This is the first of a series of essays - they aren't posts like a normal "hi, here's how I'm doing, how are y'all doing?" I'm not ready to read, and respond, though I'll try. These are "how do you live when you are (or, how do you live with) a person who's too damaged for ordinary descriptions?)

I have a problem with forgiveness. I do it too easily. The reason for that is simple: people hurt me all the effing time, and I don’t know when I’m entitled to respond.

All my life (I believe) I’ve had me/CFS. Early in life, I was taught not to complain, and to ignore many things that bothered me. That’s part of the “people hurt me all the time” – things that shouldn’t hurt, can hurt me. I have to forgive those minor, unintentional, hurts constantly. I also I learned that no one really cared when I was hurt, and, when they hurt me, if I complained, it was always *my* fault.

I don’t mean, if I complained about getting swatted to a parent, I got another swat. I mean, if someone hurts me in a social situation, and I try to express that I’m hurt, it’s somehow my fault, the whole situation, and not even a bit of fault for the other person. My pain doesn’t matter. My feelings don’t matter. I have to accept any hurt thrown at me, and avoid hurting anyone, in any way, because I’m the ugly weirdo (brutal truth, not self deprecation). That has to change if I’m going to survive. It might not change. Meh, it happens; people die.

What are the limits? I’ve been thinking about that, and “stuff that shouldn’t hurt me, does,” and “basic human behavior”. Well… one day, in a store, near Christmas, I realized the checkout clerk noticed me wincing at the music and so, pretending she was just being jolly, started singing it, loudly, at me. How do I know she was doing this? Folks – especially we neurodivergent people, but all bullying victims – learn when people are doing that. And wow, do folks hate it when we’re right and call it out!

I want to make one thing clear: I don’t mean she was being a horrible person. She was the equivalent of a big sister tweaking her kid brother; this is a perfect example of a “microagression”. She realized she could hurt some poor slob who just wanted to get home and collapse, so she did. Somewhere, I need to learn the courage and anger to look such a person in the eye, and say “you’re doing that to hurt me. Stop it… no, I don’t want to hear it, just stop singing.” No complaining to managers – it was a (relatively) harmless mistake, and it shouldn’t have hurt me as badly as it did.

Then… I have to do something braver. She might feel stabbed in the gut, like, if her kid brother screamed for mom, she’d say “come on, I was just playing! A little!” if mom was angry. I have to ignore that, stay angry, and walk away. My attitude must be: “You hurt my inner child – I’m angry, until my child is safe and comforted, and *you* don’t get comfort – even if you weren’t a terrible ogre, even if you were ‘just playing, a little.’”

I know how it hurts, to be told I was hurtful, especially when I caused pain without realizing it. I want to help her process, and assure her she’s *fine*, now that she stopped, just, some customers *are* very sound-sensitive, etc., etc.. But it’s not my job, and even if I wanted to take it on, *that* is where things go wrong. Friends will have time to talk it out later; those who don’t talk it out are risky people to hang with. Those who aren’t friends have to learn to deal with their own emotions, so long as I try to be gentle.

It’s crazy to say it, but friends shouldn’t need good reasons to care about another friend’s pain. They should just care about avoiding it! But not all of my pains are visible, and some visible pains… shouldn’t be. What I’m doing isn’t working, so I recognize I have to do better. I have to make the right pains visible, and remember that a friend who doesn’t care about your pain (even if your pain is “weird” or your reaction to it is “ugly”), is not your friend at all.

What are *your* obligations, as my friend? Well, some pains need to be ignored, not stared at, and, as best as is possible, forgotten, even though you are shocked that I suddenly looked so hurt. I could almost have this printed on a card:

“Even if it looks like you hurt me, or upset me. I might be having a flashback to an old trauma, of a similar situation – you didn’t hurt me, PTSD did. If you keep hitting a trigger, I’ll let you know what it is, as quickly as I can identify it. I’m sorry my PTSD makes it look like you hurt me, but, gimme time to get to that, while I deal with the PTSD, okay? First, my trauma, then your comfort.”

Um. Did you see how complicated that got? And how accusatory the ending sounds? You say, or do something, and I have a flashback, and you feel hurt – not unreasonably. I want to comfort you. But I have frickin’ PTSD, so I can’t stop to explain that when I’m having a flashback. Later, I’ll tell you it wasn’t your fault, and you better effing trust me, because it’s dirty pool to blame me for your hurt, when I’ve done my due diligence in reassuring you, right? That’s true for any friendship – if you need more reassurance, ask for it, but don’t decide my reassurance wasn’t enough, not ask for more, and blame me!

And don’t tell me it’s hard. I get that it’s hard. But I’m the one with the broken brain, major depression, constant pain, and constant fatigue, and probably more I’m forgetting to mention, and I can’t do it alone. Do you need some hugs, some cuddles, more verbal reassurance, an explanation? I’ll try to do any of those things (cuddles excepted for most guys), but you need to play fair with me and let me report my experiences, my fears, and my traumas.

Okay, and then, if I say something like “when you argued with me, I felt bullied,” you are allowed to *ask*, “did you think I was bullying you?” and if the answer is “no,” you take it as golden. (It might be *wrong*, but it’s my mistake to make – not yours to correct.) If the answer is “maybe” or “yes”, you have a problem. I don’t think you’re a perpetual bully, but I might fear you were in that situation

The problem is, maybe you sang along to a jolly Christmas song, and it hurt, and I felt you were microbullying – I felt bullied, even though it was just the ordinary sorts of – I think in the UK they call it “piss-taking” – friends do. You rib your friends about embarrassing moments, they laugh, and poke at yours. So: maybe you’ll say “if I ever do that again – whack on you for being oversensitive to loud music – you can call me out. I’ll try not to, but, come on, man, I might make a mistake.”

Right there – that’s friendship. We have an issue, we try to avoid it, if we mess up, we try to make right.

But if you say “oh, come on man, you can’t feel bullied every time someone teases you about being sensitive,” I’m gonesville. I have to be. It’s not that I should feel bullied when someone teases me in that way; and I’d rather not be. But I can’t help it – that’s why I asked some hypothetical person to stop, as a friend would, if they cared. I can’t risk friends who don’t care, not any longer.