Sitcom

Part 2: Me

I spent a long time thinking about what the second part should be. I have read all these books, deconstructed them to find out, it is the least interesting parts that begin stories. Though mine is not a story, more so a series of them; I thought to start with and, I'd have to start with myself. I only ever learnt how to write in first person I guess, or I'd have named myself something interesting, like Zoya, something uncommon and cool. But, I have the most run-of-the-mill name, something my body periodically rejects and embraces. I look almost nothing like my name, but I'll just call myself S. Like many men who wanted to seem consequential would call me. It worked.
As I started writing this I was twenty two years old, when I finish I'm unsure of what age I'd be. As history predicts, I might just end it at twenty two too. I do things on hyperfocus; quickly, efficiently, without any strings attached. But to this, my strings are attached. So maybe this time, this will stay with me for a longer time. So, twenty-two years old (but raised to always think like a thirty something), law student (in a right-wing university), popular (but not liked), 5'2", dark skinned, with short curly hair (that I straightened everyday for most of my life) half dyed to blonde, a fake nose piercing, and a mostly-hourglass body. Usually attractive, sometimes not. But always stepped outside my room with concealer on. Not because of my insecurities, though there are many, but because I cannot convince myself to do anything productive, till I look the part. I also am loud, opinionated, moralistic and critical of everyone and everything, but most of all, myself. I have achieved enough to be called intelligent, but not enough to be called a genius; not because I may not be, but because I also suffer with various mental illnesses that plague every single day I am forced to wake up.
I will never forget the day I got diagnosed. Hiding in a room of my house, trying to tell a woman on a screen what a random inkblot pattern means to me, terrified on the inside that she might judge me, that I might be diagnosed with something alarming, or even worse, nothing at all. Terrified also that my mother might walk in at any time, in the middle of this three hour test, and find out, through no fault of mine; that her second child is unstable too. Though the arcs of my mother and brother are quite interesting, I'd discuss them later. As authors discuss the most problematic yet poignant characters in the last few chapters of good books.
I looked at my psychiatrist in her eye, and she asked me what I was diagnosed with. She wanted me to guess. I told her, I had read the manuals on diagnosing a Rorschach Inkblot Test. She sighed in annoyance, she is used to my eccentricities. She humours them, and I humour her. I start "So I'm extremely creative and intelligent, because of the complex story lines behind all my answers." knowing that this is just a screen that I'm hiding behind. A screen of competence that curtains my real personality, almost all the time. She knows that. She asked me to guess, to really guess what I have. Though the rational part of my mind had a realistic answer, something inside me screamed "Narcissistic Personality Disorder?" - "No" she said, and my whole body let go of the months of torture I'd put it through. When I was called a narcissist by a narcissist, and my body never let it go. "Not even traits?" - I ask knowing the answer might hurt me - "No, you are actually on the opposite spectrum, there are Masochistic traits in your chart." But the conversation wasn't over yet, she asked me to keep guessing. "Obsessive Compulsive Disorder" - "No" and this negation made my heart drop into my stomach, like I had been lying to my friends and family my whole life. "No, but it's something similar, you have Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder, we can talk about it later" as she urges me to keep guessing. With both fear and reason I say "Borderline?" - "Yes", I don't know whether what I felt when I heard that word was a sigh of relief or that of pain, am I that unstable monster that yells at everyone when she feels rejected? "Yes, but you only have the traits, they're internalised, you harm yourself, not others, not directly" I really have to start listening before catastrophising - I thought to myself. Not knowing what I later found out, was a trait in itself. And she urges me, once again, to guess. "Oh, Anxiety? Depression? ADHD?" I say casually, it's sad that it's casual but the fact that my first memory is that of a panic attack says enough about my knowledge of my mental health. "Yes, you have clinical Anxiety and a persistent depressive disorder called Dysthymia, no ADHD" - the last part confused me till I found out Borderlines are neurodivergent too.
"Is there more?" - "Yes, but nothing I have to diagnose, you are at the border-line for most mood disorders, but it's not enough to write down." And so, I had a diagnosis. I had eleven pages of information telling me what exactly was wrong with me. This was a year ago, and I've still not done anything I'm as proud of. The next step was to tell my parents, to ask for support, to get on medication. I did everything but tell my parents. The fear of being deemed mentally unstable by them, right before I have the power to take off on the next stage of my life, it made me feel like my vocal chords were made of stone.
So instead, I paid for my therapy through my then-boyfriend's bank account, paid for my drugs in cash and asked my bestfriend to come with me to stand in the waiting room as I asked to be medicated. It was terrifying. It made me more of an adult even if I already felt like I was forty. It made me completely detach from my family, something inside me changed.
So, mostly-attractive and severely-mentally ill, of-course I had a line of suitors all my life that affected it to a point where I cannot seperate the emotional wounds one (wo)man gave me from another. Though later chapters will talk about specific people, I can say for now that I sexually matured much earlier than most girls in my class. I became the guilty pleasure for many secretly lonely men, and the whore for many green eyed women. It started when I was twelve years old. I'd my first training bra but no period. I was half a woman. But the pattern of being the well-kept secret of men still continues. With my above average intelligence, my almost-perfect body, as if it was written by a man, I still end up meeting these lovers in the shadows of my university. Difference is, now I am the one with the secret.
My first love was when I was twelve. And he was objectively unattractive to the extent that when I had access to the internet for an hour a day, I googled "Will I crush on this guy forever?" "How do I get rid of a crush?" Though this said a lot, my attraction to objectively unattractive men who seemed aloof but interesting; with a key factor of attraction. Fair skin. I wanted what I could never have. I still do.
But maybe the most run-of-the-mill thing about me, is the fact that I'm a law student who likes being a law student-to some extent. Someone who has mediated disputes between so many people that doing so professionally was a pleasing idea to me. That, and the allure of financial independance before I drown in the arms of the man I will possibly marry. Or before he drowns me. Though I'd prefered being a psychologist - and be good at it, as exemplified by my almost insidious understanding of myself - I could not tell my parents this in time. So I blame them for it when I can, though I know it has always been my fault. I never respected the profession enough to fight to be in it.
Though there is a lot more about me that has nothing to do with my mental illnesses, my relationships and my career; a large part of it is my social life, that I've (un)mysteriously not spoken of at all. What this chapter does deserve is the mention that above all of this, I identify as someone who is inherently good and consistently tries to do the right thing, or right the wrong I'd caused already. Even at her own harm. But that'll show, soon.