What's wrong with me and who I am; lonely, do you know me?

There'd be nothing wrong with me, I'm not OCD, but somehow I'm so sad. I'm so lonely. There is something different with me; something not normal.

I'm not ADHD at all; I never thought I was. Obsessive compulsive disorder, It's not obsessive, but it's a devotion and focus that comes off as obsessive. It's not compulsive, I'm very self-possessed and self-controlled. But when you have such discomfort and misery in life you gotta think something's wrong. That's how disorders are determined correct? They decrease quality of life. Some characteristic innate within me is decreasing my quality of life.

I'm too passionate; it comes off as obsessive. Too empathic; it makes me so passionate and is precisely like compulsiveness. The one thing I share with OCD is insecurity, it's chronic. The pain I feel from empathy is compulsive and so strong. The fear that drives my being (coming from passion and empathy) is chronic! The way it drives my thoughts wild is compulsive. The speed at which I think is abnormal, I've been trying to solve that for years...

This injury (TBI: Traumatic-Brain-Injury) has exasperated that trait. First I couldn't read, then I could read too fast! I read a saga in a week (Twilight Saga). Now I read terribly slow; I read online even slower because the blue light hurts my eyes. I read slow as a choice offline, but I don't think the speed is a switch I can flip back and forth at will. I don't have that much self-control. I read slow now because the speed of my thinking/processing has gotten faster. I think I'm on a trajectory to go blind in old age because I'm visually inept. It takes much cognition and I don't pay it the time of day! Much as my cousin can recognize birds by song and Mozart composed so intricately. Things I can't do. I am not intelligent by hearing nor seeing. I work with abstract. Much as OCD, I hate everything that I do like an obsession. I hate abstract and I deal with abstract.

I think fast because I do not trust my intellectual capacity enough to go through the whole process. Like in the equation 2+2=4; I could answer 4 before I ever thought 2+2 and as I answered I could hear what I would have thought/processed (2+2). I don't always know why I do things--that's less important--I just come up with the conclusions: 4. 

Then I learned to repeat the last thing a person said back to them exactly without ever having listened to them. I started listening to people more often, but this ability was my joke and I proved it often enough. I don't have to process (listen) to what you say to repeat it back to you just as I don't have to know what I'm saying or your saying. I didn't have to process it!

I think there’s something detrimental about the speed my brain processes; I know others with my processing skills face detriment. I see how it distances someone I’m family with. I also think I’ll go blind with age because I know I become more and more I feed into that processing power at the stake of my other abilities. People in my predicament lose shape, I just never gain it. I am losing touch with my environment; I can’t distinguish varied noise by ear. I’m losing vision because I don’t use it. I’m becoming like a cave creature; tha body will maladapt to what best suits me, conserving energy. I need to quit conserving energy.

I should grow bored with people and normal conversing. I grow bored of TV and music. The annoyance of my brain having more unutilized room to process. Yet the daftness of not having enough sensual orientation to multitask; to keep from the stakes I’m waging. I rarely�"I never grow bored with people because I give them the attention I’m lacking with my senses and TV. People require attention because they are not predictable and because I love them. I will never be able to predict people. When I preplan conversations, I only plan my part, options too, because you can’t predict the counterpart.

But where my brain doesn’t cause problems with boredom, it causes problems with loneliness�"detriment. I am lonely and I suffer because my unusual processing speed. Know one think what, how, or at the speed I think. Then there’s my passion. With my processing speed I can quickly access every time it’s not met. Do they love birds? Nature? Cooking? However it’s not people. So I am alone again. That’s what gets me, it not that I want some Rene DeCartes, someone who thinks with my rapidity either. It’s that no one gives attention where I do, no one shares my passion.

I think Regina Spektor does. People I don’t know. Regina Spektor is not an acquaintance of mine. Fiona Apple’s song, Every Single Night, explains someone understanding my processing speed. But I am alone. 

I do not know why people are my passion, that really should be the sickness of it. My passion is what abuses me so. It’s my compulsion, my OCD. But to love people would be an abuse itself. Not because they’re innately bad, but as an individual, you have predictions and people are unpredictable, innately disagreeing with prediction�"this will always be a point of contention and they can’t sync reading your thoughts.

Yet I have to believe it’s my brain's processing speed that’s the disorder. Because I know love is a normal circumstance. You can’t be sick from empathy. Hypochondriac doesn’t cover my struggle. Processing speed is an abnormality; so is loving people so much.

---

But loving people made me who I am; every advancement stems from that. My fantastic recall; pre-planning conversation; repeating back the last words a person said…There was more that created me. Dissociation, decompartmentilizing�"my strengths, my talents�"those were born separately in teenhood. The fact I can mentally dissect things into their parts, that came from elsewhere. It just fell perfectly with my love.

It’s part of the problem; I’m talking to someone or just walking and everything around me become parts and a process before my eyes. My forte is psychology; chemistry makes me happy. To be able to say the Gros Micheal makes me happy. But I’m walking and I see society and the psychology of the person in front of me become parts brought before me. I’m an efficiency analyst. I can’t put things together so well, but I can see what’s needed or missing; I see the parts. My heart became too big, and that’s why I can’t fit in it. Who ever says it fits inside me? I don’t fit inside it; we’re incompatible.

Author's Note

Comments are appreciated. Any addition to my thoughts or your own unique experience is appreciated.