I hate the term High functioning.
Like every fucking thing that I have is apparently high functioning.
And you know what?
All that means is that I am masking enough to make sure everybody else is comfortable while I’m sitting and wallowing in my misery about how fucked up my brain is and…
… hoping that the next panic attack is my mild enough that my meds work correctly and no one notices I am scared shitless.
… for my next manic episode to be really tiny and short.
… the next PTSD episode that I have does not involve humans who I have contact with.
… that when I have an autistic meltdown everyone doesn’t assume that I was throwing an adult-sized temper tantrum instead of listening to all of the things that I was staying prior to being overwhelmed.
… that my OCD does not run another person out of my life when they realize that like being active in my life involves a lot of ritual and planning because I have shit and everything scares me.
Being high functioning means you don’t see me.
We always see moments of people’s lives in general, but even if you are my person…
you can’t see me.