i am nune.
I kept things pretty simple in my inaugural post. I just wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. Just fucking write anything and put it online, I pleaded with myself. No one will see it anyway, it'll be fine. And so it was.
The relief of acknowledging in some kind of semi-public way that I have found my own name did make it feel more real, and embarrassingly, more empowering. And so here I am.
But who am I? For a vast majority of my life, I've had absolutely no idea.
Raised by self-absorbed, emotionally immature parents (maybe I'll talk more about that another time), my sister and I were shuffled across the Northeastern United States every two or three years. A new neighborhood, a new school, new babysitters, new stepdad, new stepmom. A cycle of birth and death that felt as though it would never end.
Despite that (because of it?), I became a confident, reliable, and pragmatic young woman who was the apple of my narcissistic mother's eye. After all, I had spent my entire life supporting my parents by practically raising my younger siblings, still getting great grades, and taking it upon myself to learn whatever it was I needed to know to get adults to leave me the hell alone. A cycle of birth and death that felt as though it would never end.
It worked. And for a time, it was good.
Until it wasn't. See, once people start believing you're a competent young person, it's difficult to disabuse them of that perception. So if you encounter any problems (and bother to tell anyone), people smile, and with a playful little flap of the hand they'll say, "You've got this" and just fucking leave it at that. If you do fuck up, or shut down, people assume you're having behavioral issues (e.g., temper tantrum) as opposed to emotional issues. Wait, what the fuck is the difference? And if you've ever met a narcissist, you know they can't stand other people's mistakes.
And every once in a while, but infrequently enough to ignore, I would just collapse.
At that time—the Millennium—I was a teenager, and considered myself to be a writer. Writing was one of very few outlets I had, and writing fiction just became second nature to me. It was what I needed, but it wasn't the only thing I needed, and before I knew it, I was a deeply neurotic, traumatized, quivering ball of fear. And no one had any idea. I have mixed feelings about that time in my life, by the way. On the one hand, I wish I had been more assertive. On the other, if I had, no adult would have done anything (self-absorbed, remember). I learned to cope.
...Except, the shutdowns and meltdowns were getting worse and worse. I couldn't finish college (I had to scrape and scrounge to pay what my scholarship didn't cover), couldn't meaningfully start a career (I was a freelance web developer for five years), and my health deteriorated.
Now, seven years after my last web development contract, and with the love and support of my partner, my sister, and my grandmother, I'm beginning to pick up the pieces. The problem is, I don't know how to arrange them. Am I supposed to put myself back together? That's like, looking at your own eyes or something. I have difficulty even finding the pieces. One at my feet, the other a thousand miles away. And you know what they say about a journey of a thousand miles.
It starts here.
i am nune.
#personal #introduction #announcements- 39 toasts