Pseudo-Empathy, Pseudo-Pain, Unconditional Love, and Everything Still Screaming It Must Be Hate!

In a world where neurological similarities afford the shared delusions, to arrogantly demand conformity, without it needing to be explained.

Some of the earliest memories I have usually involve a sharp pain, followed by my world verbalizing at me like it should not hurt. As I distill through more memories, I recognize that I always struggled, to have people empathize when I was in pain. No one was hearing it, because I do not feel like I need to scream like others would. Even when my pain forces me into meltdowns and tears, it was hitting a wrong note in what they conceive.

Now that I have the first lab indication of there being a ≥ 90% chance there was an undiagnosed autoimmune involved, when since 2015, I tried to understand why it hurt like hell, when people prefer to keep pointing at my head, that I have to reclaim my right to say, it hurts.

Now that I have comprehensive conformation of there being a ≥ 99% chance it was undiagnosed autism, visual processing learning difference, attention difference, and far more than ample intellectual and creative gifts, wasted to arrogance and ignorance, that I reclaim my right to say, it hurts.

Now that I have confidence of there being a ≥ 99.999% chance I am not alone, defective, or confused, that it was audacity and delusion to decree someone a miscommunicator, to dismiss and excuse having to reciprocate respect and sharing in the burdens, of the mutual struggling it takes, to mind how we communicate, that I reclaim my right to say, it hurts.

Now, I reclaim not just my own rights, but of those sharing in nightmares of this neurotypical audacity, the institutionality, its pandemic narcissism, its displaced mental illnesses, and the delusions it afforded those closest to us, that I reclaim the right to say, it hurts.

Pseudo-pain is when there once was tears, when no one wanted to hear of it, when no one tolerated that I needed to complain. When the rejection was as unilateral and judgemental as it can be. That I must be as deceptive as they preferred to see me, not that I was hurting. That all I have left is empathy in my own tears, when I allowed it for myself, and I cried.

I cried, and in my tears I found sanctuary, to reflect, on empathy and pain, on love, and on hate. I cried, and endured pain, to look fine, as a child, when the adults in my world were not sure why their ego keeps getting in the way.

I cried, and no one dared deny my pain, when they aggressively punished my tears. I cried, and in my mind I had to filter out a lot, to function the way they wanted to see, that they would spare me, more shaming and blame.

I cried, to arrogantly demand humanity, without it needing to be explained.

Pseudo-pain is when the ego I know is reminded that rent is past due. But it is not what is seemingly assumed. It is not not pain. It is far worse. It is the kind of pain I all but believe cannot possibly be.

When all I can is try to accept it cannot be happening. Because everything in my world insists it cannot possibly be real. When family, friends, and doctors, they all nod that they agree, it is not there to feel.

Pseudo-pain is when the ego of others cause cascades to my world, that literally trigger psychosomatic cascades, with everyone convinced it is not possible or real, let alone how it feels. It is not not empathy. It is far worse. It is the kind of empathy I all but believe cannot possibly be.

When days after I am still slowly paying more. When my mood is saying loads. When my joints, muscles, and bones, all fraying stones. When family, friends, and doctors, they all nod that they agree, it is not there to heal.

Pseudo-pain is very real. And its cause is very real. It is not merely the compounding progressive medical and physical decline. Not just the fact that by the time they came around to addressing it, my immunity stuck in overdrive, unlikely to relent, unlikely to rewind.

I suffered when my pain meant nothing. When I was born in a world that does not have empathy to real pain. A world where empathy nurtures only egos. A world where trauma ensures we all look like we feel the same.

I suffered when my pain meant nothing. When I was born in a world that does not have tolerance to real pain. A world where pain is no longer as useful a message, to someone with my kind of brain. A world where I know I am in pain, more than 5 years trying to verbalize my pain, and now my disability leaves me crying most mornings, when I realize I am awake.

I suffered when my pain meant nothing. When they are not willing to turn their head for a second. When they cannot stop watching streams, there to be paused and played. When they cannot drop the controller. When they cannot sacrifice the spoils of those arbitrary moments. Like I was not there.

I suffered when my pain meant nothing. When their ego cannot handle being told it did something, it caused more, it was their fault. When they talk about me behind my back, or to my face. Like I was not there.

I suffered when my pain meant nothing. When they pat each other on the back. When many blissful years trained them to filter. When they blame it on my failure to communicate. When they leak glimpses of lingering hate, passive enough to be convincing. Like it was not there.

I suffered when my pain and theirs meant nothing. When they still don’t mind saying I am delusional and mean. When later they stand their ground, yes, because what I was saying was just insane. Like I was not there.

Pseudo-pain is not likely to relent. Not unless my world allows me to reconnect with it and express, the pain it arrogantly continues to dispute and suppress. Not unless we treat the real psychological cause. Be it things like ABA, skewed labels, misdiagnoses, or plain old abuse, all manifestations of the same egotistical clause. Begging us to take pause.

Now that I am informed, I see it clear. The unwritten clause, of upbringing with neurological trauma and fear. It was as hidden as it was always clear. It is ultimately what you get, where empathy affords venue to egotistical pain, and you are hated or loved based on how you reciprocate the same.

Now that the COVID chapter is not without tenable prediction, I realized how far behind things got. It was not as hidden as it was not clear. I got trapped with those who offered me their unconditional love. I got trapped with those who offered me their undeniable hate. I got trapped with a version of myself that would at times take me over and reciprocate.

Now that I could pause. I could reflect. On what we’d surrendered, what they tried to mask, when instead, they struggled to complain. I got trapped with their egotistical pain, blissfully as pathologically willfully displaced.

Pseudo-pain is not any less, when the masking and egos are growing more firmly set. Not if they are too stubborn to get help. Not if they displace it on ropes that seemingly don’t end. That even later they stand their ground, yes, because what I was saying was just insane. Like they were not there.

I love my family, I hate their drugged and bruised ego. I call it this way, because the two cannot be the same. I call it this way, because I know the love, and, the hate. I call it this way, and they refuse to hear it, when the masking and egos are growing more firmly set, the more they are put to the test.

I love my family, I hate what they do about their kind of pseudo-pain. I call it this way, because I cannot afford to deny and displace my own pseudo-pain. I call it this way, because I cannot endure more hate, when the masking and egos are growing more firmly set, the more they are put to the test.

I love my family, I hate what we do to each other. And the sad thing is that they still insist, after all those years of seeking mental health, that I still need more. That it is me who does not know how to communicate. That it must be that I am delusional and insane. Like they were not there.

Now, I think it is time we tried to confront the real issues. It is time to accept that autism is not some monstrous childhood condition. It is time to accept that there are so many shades of parents, not just refrigerator mum or dad. It is time to accept that autism itself is not the “condition” or “cause”, when it is one of many differences a future parenthood holds.

That those who insist and claim to know best, they lack wisdom to realized they don’t. That they learn as they grow old. That it is not wise, to let others suffer and forget, and simply say, they did their best. That it is rather past and cold, not the time. The condition of this one was the luck of the draw.

That those who insist and claim to still know best. Like it was not their call to invest. To become informed. To ask for help. To admit it was not all for the best. The sacrifice they could not. The hard work. What they must.

That those who insist and fail to accept, that there are so many shades of empathy and pain. That when you don’t align the two, no one gets to decree it overthinking or closure, because they prefer you shut up and make do.

And all they have to say, to keep blaming it away. Like the audacity is mine. To not fall in line. No apologies due. In retroactive excuse.

Now, I think it is time to admit, and I start with myself. I did horrible things, masking or not, that burden, it is mine to work through.

I try and the fact is I should, even if I didn’t know any better. I do not get to displace it, without baring what is owed. Even when I meltdown, I can’t displace my ego, my sense of pride, what is now owed, and what is due.

I try and the more I did, the more I saw them displacing like they always did. The endless weeks I tried to get them to open up and communicate, look at the time, it is getting late, tomorrow, next week, we should be fine.

I try and the more they did, the more meltdowns I had. The endless weeks I tried to get them to coordinate, with their feet firmly pressed on the breaks.

I try and the more I do, the more they refuse to get educated and informed. The endless weeks I had to look like I was sold that they tried, like I was dim and clueless, insulting and controlling, when I was just being kind.

I try and it was all I had left, to spare them and myself, the consequences of being stuck, stimming, across the house, even the street, a monster fleeing, a seemingly victimless crime. The endless times I tried for space to work it through, made cause in one-sided egotistical arguments in dispute.

I try, until it was bad enough, I could not fathom how I could possibly say it any better, and I opted to landed myself in the ER on a Form-1, not for their gratitude. The endless weeks I tried to empathize across the vastness of crowded solitude, but “fine” was their arrogantly demanded attitude.

I try, and when I am about to give up hope. The endless times I tried, until it was bad enough, they finally decided to take the help. To then hit reset, blaming it on the therapists, for not keeping to themselves 😮

I try, but I finally give up. The more I wanted and tried, the more malignant their condition got. Until it was bad enough, that once again, crying, not care, nor love, was the only form of empathy I could afford to befriend, to trust. Until it was clear, that empathy, stoic as I once could, it was my coward’s way, to accept their love, hate what they reject, hate that I’d be.

And all they have to say, it was I who makes them tremble in fear. When they continue to choose ignorance. When I was trapped with those I love.

Now, I think it is time to reconcile, and I start with myself. I have nothing left to give, masking or not, what I have and continue to endure will not suddenly be okay. Not if those around me are convinced they are aware and informed. Not if they continue to dance around seeking help, making amends, and making good on apologies long overdue. Not if they default, then dare anyone to endure, putting it to vote.

I am sorry, I failed you, because I was not born to be the punchline, for your bruised and inflated egos, and all the mistakes you care not admit, and then dare anyone to endure, putting it to vote.

I am sorry, I failed you, because I was not born to be the scapegoat, of your own traumatic pasts, and all the denial you care not admit, and then dare anyone to endure, putting it to vote.

I am sorry, I failed you, because I was not born to be the excuse, of your own failures, and all the apologies are owed, all the amends are sought, and it is on each of you, to act on the love you have, or to insist to hate and refuse.

I am sorry, I failed you, because I was not born to be the pawn, in the very conditional game you call unconditional love, the very conditional hate you have always felt, towards everything ingrained in who I am, and it is on each of you to catch up and learn of the gaps, or to insist to hate and refuse.

I am sorry, I failed you, because I was not born to be the hate, no matter how long you try to deny and refuse, and I know deep down, eventually you will realize it too, I was born to be the love, and so were you, but, it is on each of us, to act on the love we have, or to insist to hate and refuse.

And all they have to say, it is unconditional love. When it is clear they want to continue to choose, to monopolize, on all the trust, all the safety, and all the love. When I was trapped with those I love.

My world is not as lonely as it seems. Not if those around me are able to also realize the differences we must each try to conceive. Not if it is shared burden, to make sure that those we love, are not buried, under very real and displaced burden, to mask and hide their pain, and, all the passive gestures, that scream with unintended hate.

This is a world where mental hygiene was front-and-centre, to embracing the neurodiversity, along with all other differences.

Not indifferent to boundaries and space. Not indifferent to trauma and pain. Not indifferent to the burdens we must share and learn. Where we respect to mind. To be aware, and self-aware. Of the suffering and displacements we are normally encouraged to filter and ignore.

When I continued to need to learn to accept, in my teens, in my twenties, and several times over in the past 6 years.

This new acceptance is what I needed to know and cope with real pain, in my mind, and in my body, with what I was only misguided and presumed to have endured all along.

To validate and realign with the manifestation of my neurological and neuropsychological differences. To validate there being huge gaps, in how well we can each empathize with the real pain, in others. To validate that we were all glossing over, what others may diminish or amplify, what we presumed to be norms, and what we coerce and ascribe.

When I already started to understand in the 3 years leading up to my provisional diagnoses, in 2018.

This new understanding is what I needed to mind and compare with what I was only misguided and presumed to have experienced all along.

Differences I was expected to somehow blindly be able to observe and conform to. Differences I was expected to somehow self-deprecate, on my own. That it is insanity and delusions, that some are superior, and others were never meant to be. That it is mental illness to say this is what it takes to build a society where we can all actually learn to belong. That that was the mental illness itself, rampant, in plain-sight, all along.

When I finally started to appreciate all that, in my seclusion, since my provisional diagnosis, and in the early months of lockdown, in 2020.

This new appreciation is what I needed to defragment and process my present and past with what I was only misguided and presumed to have sustained all along.

To reconcile with the past. To reconcile with repressed traumas. The ones I caused, and, the ones I had to endure. To reconcile with genuine emotions. Ones I felt, ones I still feel, and, ones I was arrogantly forced to diffuse.

When I could finally arrive to the sensibility I need, to push past the negligent psychiatry, and I finally landed on Quora, in the tail-end of 2019.

This new sensibility is what I needed to predict and plan a tenable future with what I was only misguided and presumed to have endeavoured all along.

This is a future that is only as unpredictable as the unfolding unknowns. That I can reasonably predict what it takes to know and have gleaned. That I can reasonably contribute what it takes to belong and have dreamed. And, that I can reasonably sustain what it takes to love and have achieved.

When now I am finally ready to embrace the reality I see. Not the pseudotypical one I was loved when I could oblige or have it perceived.

This new reality is where my future is, and where the happiness is, for myself and for my family, and for those who care to walk through this trying path.

This new reality is what everyone needed to love and dream of what they were only misguided and presumed to have suppressed all along.

Not the pseudotypical one that we are when we ignorantly and egotistically argue that neurotypicality was ever a way for our society to be. That we are all neurodiversity, some naïvely more neurotypical, some naïvely more neurodivergent, everyday begging acceptance of who we discover to be.

That those I care about and love, they may or may not know it yet. That they will have to make their own choice. That they must decide, when it is time to cross the divide. That now we need distance and time, the mindfulness and healing, along with faith. And in the end, no one will be left behind, no one will be left in pain, and, no one will be with hate.