The hardest thing about having an affliction which is not physically visible is that it’s doubly impossible for people to “get” you (as if it’s not hard enough for that to happen when you’re “normal”).
Real compassion is a rare thing, in my experience. Empty words of pity, while understandable, are nauseating. Will you still take them though, because you’ve got nothing else? Or run away from them in disgust and closet yourself till you can deal with the deceit of these insubstantial offerings again? I tend toward the latter.
Feeling isolated, on the other hand, is extremely common.
No, it’s not feeling sorry for yourself when you vividly see yourself drifting like an astronaut on a space walk, tethered by a little line to the rest of the operation, and sensing your energy is draining to the point that you want to cut through that little line, and drift into a quick non-existence.
It’s a struggle every day to find that kind of life-sustaining energy, on top of all the other energy you need to live, and move forward “with a big smile on your face and a spring in your walk,” without the support that you really need. That is, if it even exists outside of your desire for it to. (It is at this point that we start to get deep into dark feelings clouding the positive potential of what is, and what might become real).
Sometimes you wonder whether it’d be easier if you were a spirit in a mechanical body, staying out of it except when there is a real possibility of compassion between you and another. Assuming, that is, that you’re smart enough to pick up on that – a rather presumptuous assumption, actually. We might be that smart, sometimes, but then there’s the “taking it because you’ve got nothing else” desperation, a kind of exchange that feels like prostitution to me. I don’t like that kind of exchange, it robs me of my dignity, that kind of “pity.”
However, that’s not how it works. That is, having a choice to be around when it’s good, and not be when it’s bad.
To me, we stumble around like blind fools through this world, most all the time each in our own prison of delusion, once in a while being miraculously less self-focused enough to really connect with someone – for seconds.
Oh, how idiotic we are. We’ve never been more than silly than the second we were born, and probably least silly the second we were born. We push everything backwards as we try to move forward to find our way to truth, truth about ourselves. In my opinion, I can only envision that this truth consists of realizing that we are better off the minute we recognize and accept our helplessness, our wide-eyed infant helplessness – the plain facts about our existence on Day One.