#juligush

[waitingforyou21]

3/3/2021 11:47 A.M.

I love being in bed so damn much, sometimes I think it’s my favorite place to be in the world.....No obligations, nobody to answer to—just comfort and softness and releasing tension <3 I think about my dream bed all the time: it would be an Alaska-sized mattress with a tempurpedic topper (and if I really got to dream, it would be remote controlled like Syd’s brother’s so that you could sit up 90 degrees if you wanted to. This is such a useful feature because you never have to fuss with the pillows when you need to sit up), the sheets would be made of something that gets cold and stays cold easily (because I am chronically overheated) and the duvet would be big and puffy (and also cold). There would be a couple other blankets on there—maybe some for sentimental value—but my weighted blanket would be on top of everything else. I would have my perfectly-fluffed pregnancy pillow and my heating pad always nearby, and of course Muffin, my stuffed animal I was given before I was born and will never let go. Also, I’d have a bunch of pillows (none of the decorative ones) around me even if I wasn’t using them, because I love to be securely surrounded when I sleep. As a kid, I would set up all my stuffed animals around me in a circle at night when I was scared, and then I moved on to only putting a pillow on my back for a sense of protection. I don’t care much about the colors of my bed or anything, but I’d want it to look as sentimental and comfy as possible—shitty handmade pillow-cases, maybe some old quilts.

I have had such an awful relationship with sleep for most of my life, and only recently (after getting on mirtazapine) have I stopped dreading bedtime and started loving the comfort and safety of being in my own bed. At age 12-13 I had panic attacks (with at least weekly episodes of sleep paralysis) every night without fail for about 7 months straight. It only happened at night when I got in bed—I would suddenly not be able to get a deep breath and it wouldn’t go away until I passed out from exhaustion. I would just pace back and forth throughout the house while my mom stayed nearby because I didn’t really know what anxiety or panic attacks were and I just thought I was gonna die. My mom couldn’t keep doing this with me every night, so I would often just be up on Minecraft playing on the Hypixel server until I couldn’t physically keep my eyes open anymore, would sleep for a couple hours, then pop a Vyvanse and be a robot for 9 hrs at school. Or I would just completely cry myself to sleep. I dreaded bedtime because I knew I’d just be laying there for hours without knowing how to shut my mind off at best, being unable to get a deep breath for hours or have horrible sleep paralysis at worst. I really wish my ADHD was approached/handled with more care and compassion, because being on Vyvanse at that age really fucked me up. I wish my parents would have believed me when I complained about feeling completely numb and having no personality at school when I was on Vyvanse (and even Ritalin). Or they didn’t seem to care when I would complain about how much pain I was in, or how little I ate. I could never sing properly in choir and I had tics like my dad—needing to stretch or swallow repeatedly and freaking out when I couldn’t. I remember kids getting excited when I didn’t take my meds because I was so much more fun and outgoing. I hated taking them but I was so productive when I was on them, and that’s all that mattered to my teachers and parents. It all started when I began to not turn in any assignments and to get bad grades on everything in 4th-5th grade, because I never studied and never knew when anything was due.

I was publicly humiliated for the first time by a teacher in 4th grade, Ms. Franks. It was grandparents day, and we were doing some busy work and finishing up little assignments, making arts and crafts with our parents/grandparents, etc. Those who finished early got to leave class to be a guide for the grandparents in the front office. I don’t remember why exactly I lied, but I was almost done with my work anyways and didn’t see a point to finishing it right away, so I told a little white lie and said I was finished so I could get out of class. I got down to the office with my friends and was there for only a few minutes before I hear my name on the intercom asking me to go back to class. My heart instantly sank as I knew I was in trouble and I was so scared. I walked back and immediately, in front of the whole class and multiple parents, Ms. Franks screamed at me for being a liar and said it was so unfair of me to get to go have fun. I bawled my eyes out and was so humiliated, I still don’t know how a grown woman could do that to a 9yr old who never misbehaved. Then I got yelled at again in 6th grade in front of the whole class by my English teacher, because I lied and said I was done with my work when really I was very behind. I knew I had to ask her a question about the assignment for weeks, and I procrastinated doing it because I was scared of being yelled at and humiliated. And rightfully so. And then I would go home and get in even more trouble from my mom (and my dad but he has never really been a parent to me, I just can’t make myself attach that concept to him) I had to lie to her all the time and she really made middle school a living hell for me. I would always have to tell my friends at school in advance that I was about to get my phone taken up for awhile. My mom would always threaten me and I dreaded coming home as much as I dreaded going to school. But school was better because at least I had some friends that would make me laugh and be kind to me. But that was only in public school, because once I got to Oakridge everything really got miserable for me. Girls were so damn mean. I wasn’t safe at school, and I wasn’t safe at home. I was such an easy target because I never defended myself, I just wanted to be treated kindly or left alone. I wish I would’ve gotten a little violent; I wish I would’ve known I deserved to be respected instead of just taking the abuse. I still love my Mom and my dad, and I don’t have high standards for parents of that generation. I love me so I can love them—I love them so I can love me