I just had the notion that ..
I just had the notion that there's such a big mess inside of me that, if I were to outwardly have a tidy life, with a job I like and an organised room, and then someone was to knock something loose inside of me again, whether another heartbreak or a therapist touching on some key in my mind, that I would again fall apart internally, and I'd react by destroying everything good in my outer world.
As children, we are very sensitive to everything around us, and normal development means we adapt to noise and light and change and physical sensations. Some of us are slower to adapt to the world of sensory input, and never quite manage. We remain children in that regard.
It's not all bad; that sensitivity can make us perceptive in ways other people aren't. I am concerned, however, that part of my mind is stuck as that 7 year-old, silently colouring in a drawing of something she just plays-acted out with her art therapist [IDK why I say her. What's in a pronoun] and feeling some way that was too ??? to put a name to, after she asked that question about worth that I didn't know an answer to.
(I say play-acted, but it was more like me directing. Coz the autism init.)
If I hadn't had all the gold and silver and diamonds to give people, would they like me? I can't remember exactly how she worded a question 21 years later, of course, but why can't I think of my own way to word it in a way that makes sense? I think I must have understood the question. Maybe I pretended not to.
It doesn't make sense for people to like me if I have nothing to give them. Gifts are nice. A good time is nice. Generosity and genuine effort.
It's nearly 6am but I don't really feel like sleeping. I don't know what I feel like doing. I'm comfortably numb in that way that makes existing with my head, bareable.
I'm cuddling with my luxurious new Gloomy Bear plushie. At approx 40cm tall and almost as wide, he fits perfectly into my arms, he's firmly stuffed in a way that's satisfying to squeeze, and his fur is just the right length. The blood splatters add interest, the larger ones made of a matte, felt-like material and the others are shiny red thread. I knew he was a sensory delight, but when I finally took him out of the plastic and truly experienced him, it was a small revelation. Oh. And the hard plastic aspects; his smooth eyes and nose and the subtly rough claws.
There is much more to the design of a good plush than how it looks and it's fur.
I looked at my other Gloomy Bear plushie of similar size, the knock-off with the nose that's too big and the eyes too far apart and the weird brown ears and patchy blood stains and felt a mild kind of disgust. I mean, I think I've felt disgust towards it before. Maybe I was just suspicious of how the tail has been glued back on. Maybe disgust is the wrong word. It was like... There's a similar word. (It'd be so fucked-up right now if they could think and read and feel. My new favorite in my lap, watching me write; the old one, previously discarded, picked up just to be compared and then left to sit and watch us and be ignored.)
But it...he, it, w/e... Used to charm me, with it's pre-loved appearance. Someone loved it, once. It held memories, still had value. Even now I still want to keep it because it's such a funny looking knock-off, with the ears especially. And, because I was even less afraid to destroy it, I drew on him.
I would've tried, as a joke, to copy the legitimate blood splatters, but I went kind of more experimental instead...
It's funny to think that I may have made the plush even more $valuable$ just for being a unique work of art for display now.