There’s a theme of “3-maybe-4” which is pervasive in my life.
It started with something I read which said that certain gifted and creative people seem to think in 4’s where the average person, and even other above-average people, think in 3’s. Actually I believe I read this long after I got stuck on the 3-maybe-4 thing. I’m not going to lay them all out here, there are too many now. The one that just started bothering me is, once again, the suicide attempts. For a long time they were a 3-maybe-4; then there’s five, and from there you fall off into infinity, meaninglessness.
And my last suicide attempt was the fifth, if I count the “maybe” one when I took a bunch of pills, just enough to stun me a little, and then sat in my mother’s car in the garage, intending to turn it on, and didn’t.
Five suicide attempts, even 4-maybe-5, are too many. I could take this as a positive, that I’ve learned my lesson and would NEVER do it again; or I could say that in the meaningless of it to me now maybe I would do again carelessly, without even thinking about what I was doing, or over a problem or circumstances I should be able to handle better. I just don’t know whether I would do it again. This is very very scary.
I’m just remembering that I’m brilliant, quite brilliant. I was glad at first that the intelligence testing my neuropsychologist in Florida had me do, did not show this–the fellow wanted it to be a exceptional and I fell short for not answering a question. The next option was “bright”–So he called me “exceptionally bright.” I was so sick of “gifted” “Oh she’s so gifted, what a shame.” It was never anything but a dull burden, I hated the word. Now I’m missing the validation for my brilliance and often think I’m quite dumb. The fellow in Florida was hung up on having not quite exceptional intelligence himself, or having only barely made it. He sure did a dumb thing to me by not looking at the fact that it took me a half hour to complete a test requiring you to match shaped blocks with shaped holes.with a blindfold on. Most people took less than twenty minutes. And that at the same time I got right every one of the barely audible rhythm patterns from ear phones, which he had never seen before. I was a mangled mess. He diagnosed me as schizoid. He just didn’t get it. But he was insistent on his diagnosis, trusted his method, and left me worse off than before, a mixed up mangled mess. He was sweet though, and used to make me feel good anyway.
Is this something to live for? I’m looking for something absolute in myself to hold on to, something Godly, something certain, something God-given that I can’t lose.
I used to love just being really, really smart–like, in high school and college. Then I was glad to break out of that stifling mold when I met my husband and started looking at the world around me and learning my feelings. Now i’m missing the security of the world where I always aced math tests, blowing the curve for everybody else. I was my father’s daughter. Then he sexualized me and it was all trash. In college I learned that I didn’t really know very much, and was humbled. I’m expecting that, like my Dad, I have a touch of Asperger’s syndrome and that getting in touch with my feelings broke me.