She was the only actual grandmother I had. I barely remember her, but I remember her love.
My name is not Viridimere Alijah. In fact, it’s nothing close to that. It’s quite a different name, just as unique though. But I like Viridimere. It suits my current sense of self. This about me will seem so confusing but as there are more posts, everything will start to make much more sense. I just hate to bog you down with everything all at once.
Viridi-, from viridian Hex Code #002313. It’s the color that I, Blxck, and Grays became. Before we fused (DID system, btw) I called myself Green. It’s been a nickname for some time, and I love it. It still is my nickname, but it was also the name I used in the system as an identifier. Once I fused with Blxck and Grays, we decided viridian was the shade of green we created together as a whole.
-Mere, from grandmeres, it means grandmother in French. It was also my great grandmother’s name. She was the only actual grandmother I had. I barely remember her, but I remember her love. I remember how much she loved me and smiled when I came to see her the very few times I did. I had always wanted to be grandmeres if I were to become a grandmother. I figured since I gained the two other alters into my host self, that’s kind of like leveling up in life, almost like a crone status in some respects, so giving myself a mere (mother) status was long overdue.
Mental illness is no fucking joke.
Let me tell you the fuck what. Mental illness is no fucking joke. It’s a fucking bitch that takes over every single inch of your existence. Yeah, you have meds and therapy and whatever the fuck they want to sell you. But nothing fixes shit. It just all covers it with a band-aid. Trust me when I say I have a thick ass 4-inch binder full of coping techniques, mindset helpers, and all kinds of other shit that’s supposed to help me. Newsflash, it does nothing. I know I’m Autistic, which makes that recovery so much worse. I need someone to show me how to ‘process and let it go’ or I don’t get it. Like it’s still there. I talked, I cried, I re-experienced the bullshit, why the fuck am I still so goddamned torn up about it? Why does it still haunt me? Why can’t I change the behaviors it instilled in me?? FUCKING WHY?
If you trip over something you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life screaming at the rock that you tripped over. Nor would you pick it up and carry it with you to show everyone it tripped you, but you’d likely glance down and keep walking on your way.
But like how the fuck do I do that when I was raped? How do I just go ‘oops I tripped over that traumatic event, time to keep going because I have places to be, teehee.’ That shit doesn’t work when it’s bigger than a fucking mountain, dude. At this point, I feel like Sisyphus, forever pushing this stupid boulder up a stupid hill. There is no reason for it other than I have to do it.
When I was younger, no one gave a fuck. They just saw me out of breath and asked me why I would rather run instead of walk, then complain that I couldn’t keep up. I remember seeing a TikTok of someone, forgive me I’m horrid at remembering names, but she was comparing late diagnosis of ADHD to owning an old manual shift 1950’s some type of car as being the one with ADHD, constantly changing tires and having a hard time turning it on and constantly taking it into the shop, versus someone else driving one of those futuristic self-driving cars that have the maintenance crew come pick up your vehicle and have another for you to use in the spare time while yours is worked on. (And no, I won’t say that company because fuck him.)
At this point, I feel like Sisyphus, forever pushing this stupid boulder up a stupid hill.
That’s how it felt, that’s how it still feels. It was like everyone was having a leisurely stroll and meanwhile I’m sprinting uphill with this cursed boulder. No one would even look back at me to see it either. It went completely ignored, all of it, every single mental and physical illness, completely ignored, until I turned 30 and got actual healthcare insurance for the first time in my life. It was like winning the fucking lotto. Now I can go to all these doctors and fix all these things.
But then that anxiety hit me. That anxiety that started when I was told these shots in my leg ‘weren’t that bad’ when they had 5 or 6 nurses holding me down instead of talking to me like a human and discussing what was going on. The anxiety that set in when I was taken to get a tooth pulled and when I told him I still felt it, he did it anyways. My mom was nowhere to be found, and I heard the dentist tell her I was really dramatic.
I’ll give you a hint, I have a fucking hyperactive nerve disorder. I have woken up out of anesthesia multiple times, even kicked a doctor while under during a routine ingrown toenail removal surgery that happens IN OFFICE.
I am not a typical person, but I sure as fuck wasn’t treated like one either. I was treated like I was supposed to blend in with the furniture. But I was supposed to be seen as the magnificent living piece of art that I was, and I needed to be experienced, exploded, fueled, witnessed, mourned, loved, adored, and so much more. Without witness, I grew hollow. I wasn’t able to be me and therefore I have very few ideas of who I am. I was an incredible work of art with paint remover splashed haphazardly all over it.
But with an empty canvas an artist can fill it with whatever she may like. She can fill it with loathing, malice, horror, anger, rage, strength, perseverance, selfishness, self-confidence, self-love, attentiveness. I was raised to be furniture, and I became a human. For some reason, they just weren’t expecting that at all. What a plot twist, huh?
I was an incredible work of art with paint remover splashed haphazardly all over it.
Traumatized Viridimere 