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Today's cause for mid-morning panic, as well as, distressingly, almost certainly being late for class (am currently on bus): I can't find my damn house keys.
They're somewhere in the house, I know that - I let myself in with them when I came home on Wednesday, and on Thursday I was feeling moderately unwell and I didn't want that to become severely unwell so I stayed home drinking lots of water and juice and keeping warm and resting. (And am feeling much less sick today.) But they're not anywhere I usually leave them, or anywhere I could find, and I ended up leaving the house with Chas's keys in my pocket, because I was already laaaate and my brother-out-law prefers non-panicking Samis who don't miss Important Classes.
I have a bus driver I've had before, today - he's nice enough, but a little weird, but is a good enough driver that, for example, I feel relatively comfortable sitting with laptop on knees typing. I will now, however, return to the on-screen reading that is the reason I'm taking my bus trip with laptop out today.
ETA: Keys found. They were ninjaed by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif) velithya. She says it was an accident.
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New personal rule: Don't try to talk about anything with anyone except close friends while unmedicated, because apparently, a comment I made this morning before I took my meds was really thoroughly upsetting to the person I was addressing.
This... is not a fun feeling.
And the thing is, I can place where I went wrong - because normally I don't have this problem. I communicate clearly enough that it doesn't happen, that I'm capable of conveying what I mean without leaving openings for my words to be so easily misinterpreted. (And looking over what I wrote, I see where, to someone who doesn't know me, it seems the way they took it.)
So where I went wrong was in responding to something when I hadn't taken my medication yet.
Believe me, resisting the urge to say, I'm sorry, I have a disability that caused me to do this wrong thing, please let me try again... was hard. Accepting that this person has asked me to get out of their space and respecting that rather than answering, trying to justify myself... was hard. (I sent a private apology, and didn't try to justify myself in that, I hope. I accept that I communicated badly, because, clearly, my intentions did not match up to the effect of my words.)
Because a disability is not a free pass. My mistake, I think, was one of managing my disability; I'm still adjusting to what it means, to controlling the interplay of my problems that affect the functioning of my mind.
I'm trying to tell myself that sometimes we make mistakes, that mistakes are something to learn from - that's what my psychologist says, and I'm working on learning that it's okay for me to be imperfect.
But that's hard when my mistakes hurt people. And while I want disability to be an excuse, I don't feel comfortable claiming it as one.
Net result of all this: I hate myself and I want to die, basically. Because clearly, fucking up like this means I don't deserve to live, right? (I'm actually not exaggerating, here. Suicidal impulses have not been rare for me in the last couple of weeks.) I am persuading myself to sit and work on my essay and not over-react.
People make mistakes. I am human, I make mistakes, and sometimes I will say things that will be taken the wrong way, and sometimes that will upset people, and if they don't want to let me explain what I meant, then that is their right and choice. It doesn't make me a bad person.
Perhaps if I tell myself that often enough I'll even believe it.
(Note: Not linking, in part, because what I said, and what they said in reply, is not the issue. It's not about whether what I said can be interpreted in a way that doesn't make me look like an asshole; the interpretation that I am an asshole is a valid reading of what I said, and I have no-one but myself to blame for that. This is just a reflection on how recognising that fact still really fucking sucks, how this is a clear sign that today I mismanaged my disabilities, how I was wrong.)Current Mood: self-loathing
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Reading about a somewhat-overwrought 1824 novel. The perfect hero's heroic wife is named Monimia. She's the Irish wife of a Scottish clan-chief who is all kinds of noble and heroic and seriously is this the first blatant Mary Sue ever? Her name is MONIMIA. Note that the author is English and the other protagonists are Scottish.
Monimia.
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