My Crucible and How to Be Nothing

I was a lonely kid.  I had few friends and was not well liked.  I was bullied and ostracized.  I struggled, I felt alone and confused, and I was unhappy.   The same people who saw my struggle - adults who should have nurtured me and offered insight - denied that anything important was happening.  Everyone insisted there was no way in which I was different than anyone else, adding to my confusion and isolation.  People dismissed my struggle across the board with the mantra that teenage angst was both temporary and something to be ashamed of because it was immature.  The adults I confided in showed a disdain not just for me but for anyone who wasn't them.  They were certain that one day, when I was a fully functional member of their society, I would look back at my childhood and laugh at the fact that I thought I was having a hard time.  Because that was what everyone did, and I was the same as everyone: forgettable and wrong about my feelings.  They needed me to fit into their picture of people.  In their minds, I was either identical to them or I was nothing.

At 37, I was diagnosed with PTSD, social anxiety disorder, inattentive ADHD, persistent depressive disorder, an autism spectrum disorder, and a nonverbal learning disorder.  I'm open about all of this.  No one in my large family has reacted.  None of the people who saw me struggling and laughed that I cared so much have commented on this new information.  I don't need to have validation or engagement.  I don't need attention - or even apologies - but it would be nice to see some interest.  I can now point to the past and offer both some proof of my struggle and some clinical descriptions of my experiences, but I feel as if that doesn't matter to the people who ignored me before.  They're still ignoring me - that's how it seems anyway.  I would like someone to acknowledge the trauma, is what I'm saying.  I'm sure there are a number of reasons they don't: they feel guilty, they misremember or they don't remember, or maybe they just don't believe me.

This blog entry constitutes an admission.  I'm embarrassed by what I'm expressing.  It might sound as though I'm pining for pity or for vindication.  But this blog is for me and that's some comfort.  It's a place for my truth where I can be fragile.  All told, I'm talking here about being seen.  I'm definitely not the first person with mental health issues to describe having their pain waved away.  Even with all the abuse I experienced, the real crucible of my youth was being invisible.