My Abyss

My father lived in a dark place most of the time. It was deeply uncomfortable to be around. He’d rant and spiral, consumed by things that felt wrong to him, things he couldn’t let go of. The world became an enemy in his eyes. He raged outward, with a kind of schizophrenic intensity. The air was thick with it.

He would obsess over some perceived injustice or corruption and inflate it beyond recognition. He’d talk about it for weeks. He couldn’t stop. And what might have started from something real would get buried under the weight of his fury. It got ugly. He was ugly. In the end, it looked like nothing but rage…a need to be right.

That’s probably me now.

I feel the same storm building. The same fixation. The same alienation. I walk around already knowing the look people get when they start to back away. I see it. And when I get “like this,” the only thing that’s ever let me forgive myself for being so awful to be around is the belief that what I’m working on matters. That it has to be done. But on the days when I lose hold of that belief, days like today, I just feel monstrous. And ridiculous. A negative force, making everything I touch worse.

What if I’m not fighting the madness I think I am? What if I am the madness? What if this moment, the one where I think I’m beginning to understand, is actually the total loss of my grip on what’s real?

I truly met my father when he was already twenty years older than I am now. I don’t know what he was like at my age. Maybe he was nothing like how I knew him. He might’ve been more functional than I am now. More self-aware. Maybe I’m falling faster. I always have this version of him in my mind…unhinged, over-the-top, shouting…and I swore I wouldn’t become that. But that wasn’t who he always was, was it? Nobody is born like that. He was like me once, believing he still had all the time in the world.

Sometimes I think I’m running the same race he lost.

I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for someone to really see what’s inside me. Not in a vague “I believe in you” kind of way, but someone with the understanding and the means to give me time. Breathing room. A protected space to develop the thing that keeps flickering inside me. Not a free ride. Not praise. Just time. Space. It’s a childish fantasy. I know that. But I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for those people anyway.

And some days I’m sure there is no such person. That I’m in a world of one, like my father, and that my ideas only make sense there. Only make sense to me.

Today, I feel rage. Toward myself. Toward the world. I’m disgusted with how seriously I take myself. But I’m still angry at everyone else for not taking seriously the things I see. People mowing 40 million acres of lawn, stupid or demented…I honestly don’t know which. As if nothing ever gets through. A mirror has been held up a million times, a much better mirror than I could ever hold up, and they just keep brushing their hair in front of it.

Confusingly, I feel a lot of rage toward autistic people online. I’m ashamed and embarrassed to admit this, but I feel abandoned. I pour myself into something, try to name what I think we‘re really feeling…something deeper than just day-to-day frustration or sensory overload…and I watch it get buried. No replies. No spark of recognition. Just more talk about dating and work anxiety and video games. Or I get torn apart. “So you’re saying [strawman argument]” (followed by 37 replies equally outraged by that particular false interpretation of my thoughts). I feel rage, not because I don’t care about them, but because I need someone to say, this is it. This is what I’ve been trying to say, too.

Instead, I feel like a freak. Screaming into a void.

It makes me feel ridiculous. Like maybe this is just a blown-out-of-proportion hyperfixation, after all. Like maybe all of this…the thinking, the writing, the physical stress…is just some “autistic loop” with an inflated sense of importance. And I feel so, so ugly. For my parents. For my partner. For anyone close. And I wonder, no I scream…WHAT IS IT ALL FOR?! What exactly do I think I’ve earned? What exactly do I think I deserve?

Because by society’s standards, I’ve gotten exactly what I deserve. Nothing more. Nothing less. And everything I gave…every piece of myself I tore out and offered…it looks like less than nothing. Just another strange, intense person with grandiose ideas and no ground beneath them.

Sometimes I think I’m brilliant. But I also think I’m trivial. Laughable. I don’t trust my reality. Not at all. I keep waiting for confirmation. Not from a crowd. Just from someone. Someone who can say, without hesitation, you’re not insane.

Because I’m fucking terrified.

Not that I’ll fail, but that I’ll become twisted beyond recognition long before I can save myself. That I’ll lose the thread entirely and end up in some permanent shape the world finds repulsive or sad or best hidden. And that the world will come for me. That it will come for my masks. For debts owed. What will those people find? Something unable to defend itself. Unable to explain itself.

I don’t want to be that.
I don’t want to be alone in that.
I want someone to see me, not as a burden, not as a cautionary tale like my father, but as someone worth helping before it’s too late.
And I don’t even know if that’s possible.