Empty ~ Poetry

I See Myself

I see myself.

When I read the accounts of women,

'They thought I was just shy'

'Girls are supposed to be timid.'

I see myself.

Within not understanding the distinctions between what is socially acceptable

'Can I have that piece of paper?'

Because I needed that one for no other reason than I that I just did,

Even though they were all identical, in colour, size, shape.

I see myself.

Masking.

Screaming at my family that I wanted to die.

Because I had wrapped myself in so many layers of false identity, of being what I thought others wanted me to be that I had lost myself.

Trying to downplay it, telling them I was just emotional,

Still crying myself to sleep.

I see myself.

Feeling ill when I have to look at someone in the eyes,

Crying silently at sleepovers,

Having a meltdown during an interview because everything was too overwhelming

Being treated for social anxiety.

I see myself.

Feeling out of control,

Needing structure and rigidity,

In everything, even when it meant my weight started falling.

Being treated for an eating disorder.

I see myself.

Feeling ill with anxiety when people start to get too loud,

having a panic attack at the school disco when they used strobe lighting

desperately needing to run out of the classroom when the projector is too loud but too afraid to move and be seen.

I see myself.

In the experiences of autistic girls.

Those that weren't diagnosed till they were in their teens.

Those that never had their symptoms recognised.

Those that were stamped with social anxiety, anorexia, depression.

When all those things,

stemmed from one, central thing.

And I know it is only a label.

It will really make no difference to who I am, how my life is.

But looking at the experiences of other girls, hearing about them

I just can't help but cry.

Because I feel as if I'm looking at something that could've been written by me.

That I am being understood properly for the first time in my life.

And so yes, I wish I had a diagnosis

To find some sort of liberation.

But nevertheless, it makes me uncomfortable

And I would be terrified to admit that this is what I want

For fear that people would reject what I had to say, call it unimportant, think that I was only looking for attention or just wanted to be 'quirky'

And yet,

I still search up the articles written by those girls,

Read their words,

And feel myself enveloped within their experiences and feelings,

Because although I don't know what to do,

It is impossible to look away,

When I so clearly see myself.