The Ink Chapel

Growing up, I was never “normal” enough for people.

Too emotional.
Too sensitive.
Too loud.
Too quiet.
Too obsessed with things.
Too awkward.
Too intense.
Too honest.
Too much.

And because people love giving names to things they don’t understand, eventually the word became bipolar.

Everybody said it.
Family. Partners. Friends. Random people who got their psychology degree from TikTok University and one Facebook infographic. 💀

Apparently if a girl cries hard, cares deeply, gets overwhelmed, struggles socially, hyperfixates, shuts down, overexplains, feels rejection intensely, or reacts emotionally after years of stress and trauma… she must be “crazy.”

Nobody stopped to ask why I was the way I was.

Nobody asked why sounds overwhelmed me.
Why certain textures made me irrationally angry.
Why I could memorize tiny details but forget simple instructions.
Why I replayed conversations for literal years afterward like a cursed director’s commentary.
Why eye contact sometimes felt like staring directly into the sun.
Why I could feel everybody’s emotions in a room like a damn emotional support bloodhound. 🐕

Nope.
Much easier to just call me difficult.

And honestly, there’s something deeply infuriating about realizing people would rather label you as unstable than admit they never took the time to understand you.

Especially as a woman.

Because women are allowed to be quirky only as long as they remain convenient.
The second your differences become messy or uncomfortable?
Suddenly everybody’s an armchair psychiatrist.

“She’s bipolar.”
“She’s dramatic.”
“She’s insane.”
“She just wants attention.”

Meanwhile I was over here unknowingly raw-dogging autism for 37 years with no instruction manual and a nervous system held together by caffeine, sarcasm, and the grace of God. 😭

And the wild part?

When I finally realized it was autism, my entire life suddenly made sense in the most devastating way possible.

Every social struggle.
Every shutdown.
Every sensory issue.
Every moment of feeling fundamentally “other.”
Every time I thought I was broken because I couldn’t seem to exist as effortlessly as everyone else appeared to.

I wasn’t broken.

I was just never built to fit into the tiny little boxes people kept trying to force me into.

That Dr. Seuss quote sounds cute and inspirational on Pinterest until you realize standing out often gets you punished first.

People say they celebrate differences.
What they actually celebrate are differences that are aesthetically pleasing and easy to digest.

Not the kind that make people uncomfortable.
Not the kind that interrupt social expectations.
Not the kind that come with meltdowns, overwhelm, blunt honesty, burnout, or needing extra understanding.

But here’s the thing I know now:

I spent so much of my life trying to become smaller, quieter, easier, softer, more acceptable.

And it nearly destroyed me.

Now?
I’d rather be misunderstood than spend another decade pretending to be someone I’m not just to make other people comfortable.

If I seem intense, fine.
If I overexplain, fine.
If I care too deeply, love too loudly, hyperfixate on weird things, cry during folk songs, and spiral over human behavior like a detective solving an emotional cold case? Fine. 😌

At least it’s real.

Because maybe the goal was never fitting in.

Maybe surviving while staying soft in a world that kept trying to harden me was the real accomplishment all along.

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