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I’m thinking of this picture I drew when I was six of what I thought I’d look like when I was 16. I don’t actually have this picture. I think my parents tossed it out, but I can’t be sure, since they’re still holding on to pictures I drew when I was 16, despite my demands that they trash it right now so that I don’t have to be embarrassed by my questionable grasp of pretty much every artistic concept ever.
I do remember that I thought I’d have hair down to my ankles, despite the fact that there was absolutely never a point in my life when I’d have the patience to take care of that much hair, and I highly doubt there will ever be a point in my entire earthly existence when I will think that’s even a slightly good idea. Like c’mon 6 year old me, did you think that you’d stop hating brushing your hair? That when you reach your 16th birthday, that you’ll suddenly have follicles OF STEEL? No, you will learn that brushing your hair regularly prevents it from becoming a nightmarish tangle that must be chopped out with scissors, but never will brushing your hair be a thing that is anything more than relatively tolerable. The only reason I have long hair right now is because I am literally terrified of going to hairdressers, and short hair requires going to get it cut more than once every few years.
I also recall that I thought I would be okay with contacts, and that I would think that contacts would be preferable to glasses. At the time, I only had my glasses for a year and lost them constantly. Now I still lose them constantly, because I have dark rimmed glasses that I literally cannot see on dark colored surfaces. However, I did not know at the time that contacts were tiny and clear and even more impossible to see. If I put my glasses on a white table, I can see that there is a black thing on the white table, and assume that it is my glasses. Contacts blend in with every surface imaginable. Also, more importantly, contacts are fucking terrifying because I have a perfectly reasonable instinct to blink when things are coming straight towards my eyes, which has aided me and my ancestors quite well in the past, and I am sure will aid me and my descendants in the future.
I do not recall anticipating at the time that Lego shit would be a significant part of my life at 16, much less at a month until I’m 25, but that it’d be significant in a way that has nothing to do with actually building fun stuff with Lego shit, but everything to do with sitting around the computer all day complaining about Lego shit.
Explaining your mental illness to others is a tough balancing act. You want them to believe you, but you also don’t want them to start treating you as subhuman because of it.
I wish it didn’t have to be like that.
See: the pressure to prove you’re disabled, but not too disabled.
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