Burnt Out Autistic

 "I don't know what it is like to not have deep emotions. Even when I feel nothing, I feel it completely." -Sylvia Plath

It's the nauseously repeated story of I can't keep up because I'm autistic. It's the shock at the accusal that I care about shit that doesn't matter. It's the putting on a fake smile because not showing my best side at all times leads to fights. Dismissals. It's the probably stupid at this juncture in my life shock (should  all that be hyphenated?) of trying so hard and putting in so much effort that no one appreciates. What did I expect? I put my heart and soul into a job, and it's either ignored or exploited, or I'm told point-blank that it doesn't matter. And people get mad that I feel bad for doing something for naught. Why am I the bad guy here? I love the Twilight Zone, but I didn't want to live in the fucking thing! 

It's what feels like a noose, the constant constant of being misunderstood. I explain myself ad nauseum, and it gets me nowhere. I have *ANY* emotion besides those that fit my curse- I'm the doormat who puts everyone first, is afraid to even THINK about my own needs, the one who wants to vomit when asked what she wants in any capacity because no matter what I say, it's fucking wrong! Because God forbid, I need to vent or cry because I'm the shoulder, not the shouldered. I am the one who's always wrong, the one who can fuck right off. 

I'm the one who does all the thankless chores, runs everything, schedules everything, keeps track of goddamn everything, and I must be Suzy Sunshine at any cost to avoid all the bullshit and confrontation and gaslighting- it doesn't matter if I'm painfully exhausted or utterly screwed over and can't read my work at a poetry festival where my work was accepted and I was personally asked to read. I can't get mad! I can't complain! I'd be a fucking bitch if I were upset when I was let down. I am the doormat; I am always down. I must stay down. Quietly. And with a smile. 

As Kenned Davenport said, "Fuck my drag." Yep. Fuck mine, too. I can clean the mess, but I am not allowed to be the mess. The maid cleans, she doesn't dirty. 

I wonder if all the pent-up exhaustion, frustration, stress, tears, desperation, shock, fear, annoyance, etc., is storing up to become a heart attack. How it isn't already at least a bleeding uulcer is a shock to me. Maybe that's why my hair is going grey from the inside out? Maybe I'm rotting from the inside out. 

It doesn't matter. 

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