being criticised, of running out of time, of not being good enough, of getting things wrong, missing out on something, not being able to focus on other things that may come up, letting other people down. It is a constantly shifting, free-floating anxiety that no matter what is done to assuage it, will easily and quickly attach itself to something new I havenât even thought of yet. Like playing some David Lynch-inspired game of Whack-a-mole where every time you hit one on the head, a dozen more shoot up around you. And they smirk at you and say the most awful things and remind you of just how fucked you are.
I wake up with it. Always have.
If there were an ultra-neurotic Jewish mother, on coke, who was beyond evil and got wet off malevolence, that is that part of my mind. And so I hurl myself at the fucking piano as if my life depends on it. I throw myself into work. And from the outside I look like any other hard-working motherfucker who just wants to do the best job possible and not let people down. But the reality is that if I donât then I will die, I will murder, I will fall apart in the worst possible way. It is incredibly lucky that occasionally the urge for self-preservation looks like you have a decent work ethic. Fear, masquerading as humility and commitment to the job at hand, is enough to pull the wool over anyoneâs eyes.
And thatâs how I got through school. Terror-driven homework, panic-studying for exams, trying as hard as I could to make timeexpand and increase and cocoon things so that there was, at the very least, the illusion of safety there. I was a smart kid, too. The greatest benefit from being serially abused as a kid is the ability it gives you to read situations, minds, energy. Put me in front of an adult and I will know within a few seconds what they need to hear and see in order to feel comfortable and amenable to me. It worked brilliantly with teachers â depending on the kind of person they were, I was either homesick, vulnerable, tough, plucky, cute, flirtatious, needy or independent. And it got me whatever I wanted. Extra time in exams, higher grades, extra chocolate, leave of absence from PE, pocket money. Whatever. The point is that I figured out by the age of ten that I could be in any situation and survive, sometimes even flourish, because I have the manipulative power of a superhero.
Abuse sets you up for life to be a survivor. With that part of me that split off during the rapes running the show, I can exist with no money, no friends, nowhere to live and not only appear to be OK but actually appear to be thriving. During dark times friendships mean nothing; humans are seen only as routes to getting certain things â money, comfort, approval, a job, sex, and once their purpose is served it is on to the next one. The best âfriendsâ are the ones who I can keep coming back to for more and more over years â businesses always value repeat customers the highest, with good reason. Interactions are often simply transactions for victims of abuse. And sociopaths. Thatâs why diagnoses are so fucking difficult â autism, Aspergerâs, PTSD, bipolar, various psychopathologies, narcissism, all share so many core attributes in the diagnostic manual. So I could be generous and say I have Aspergerâs and therefore I am quite manipulative and strugglewith empathy, or I could say Iâm a psychopath who is incapable of empathy. Both fit. Take your pick.
The problem, the great problem, is the following: while it serves a purpose, while you think you can remember all the lies, all the different characters you need to play depending on who youâre with, eventually, after a few years you begin, inevitably, to lose track. It starts to catch up with you. And you start to doubt yourself. And thatâs when the trouble starts. You need to remember everything, and if you canât, or arenât quite sure if youâre âbroken, broke
I wake up with it. Always have.
If there were an ultra-neurotic Jewish mother, on coke, who was beyond evil and got wet off malevolence, that is that part of my mind. And so I hurl myself at the fucking piano as if my life depends on it. I throw myself into work. And from the outside I look like any other hard-working motherfucker who just wants to do the best job possible and not let people down. But the reality is that if I donât then I will die, I will murder, I will fall apart in the worst possible way. It is incredibly lucky that occasionally the urge for self-preservation looks like you have a decent work ethic. Fear, masquerading as humility and commitment to the job at hand, is enough to pull the wool over anyoneâs eyes.
And thatâs how I got through school. Terror-driven homework, panic-studying for exams, trying as hard as I could to make timeexpand and increase and cocoon things so that there was, at the very least, the illusion of safety there. I was a smart kid, too. The greatest benefit from being serially abused as a kid is the ability it gives you to read situations, minds, energy. Put me in front of an adult and I will know within a few seconds what they need to hear and see in order to feel comfortable and amenable to me. It worked brilliantly with teachers â depending on the kind of person they were, I was either homesick, vulnerable, tough, plucky, cute, flirtatious, needy or independent. And it got me whatever I wanted. Extra time in exams, higher grades, extra chocolate, leave of absence from PE, pocket money. Whatever. The point is that I figured out by the age of ten that I could be in any situation and survive, sometimes even flourish, because I have the manipulative power of a superhero.
Abuse sets you up for life to be a survivor. With that part of me that split off during the rapes running the show, I can exist with no money, no friends, nowhere to live and not only appear to be OK but actually appear to be thriving. During dark times friendships mean nothing; humans are seen only as routes to getting certain things â money, comfort, approval, a job, sex, and once their purpose is served it is on to the next one. The best âfriendsâ are the ones who I can keep coming back to for more and more over years â businesses always value repeat customers the highest, with good reason. Interactions are often simply transactions for victims of abuse. And sociopaths. Thatâs why diagnoses are so fucking difficult â autism, Aspergerâs, PTSD, bipolar, various psychopathologies, narcissism, all share so many core attributes in the diagnostic manual. So I could be generous and say I have Aspergerâs and therefore I am quite manipulative and strugglewith empathy, or I could say Iâm a psychopath who is incapable of empathy. Both fit. Take your pick.
The problem, the great problem, is the following: while it serves a purpose, while you think you can remember all the lies, all the different characters you need to play depending on who youâre with, eventually, after a few years you begin, inevitably, to lose track. It starts to catch up with you. And you start to doubt yourself. And thatâs when the trouble starts. You need to remember everything, and if you canât, or arenât quite sure if youâre âbroken, broke
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