Tonight is the Christmas Party organized by my workplace. Last year was a night to remember and we spoke about it for months after. This year, I am not there. 

In fact, I have not been at work for over two months, sick leave being my apparent new employment status and I didn’t feel quite comfortable enough to show up at this party while on sick leave. Not that I can’t party. I’m mentally unwell, but I can still dance around and drink mocktails. 

But it’d be awkward to show up looking relatively well (the way you know I can) while I am fighting for my life four days a week. They may think I’m faking… 

So instead of receiving my secret Santa, I cried my eyes out, alone, while wondering why no one at my work place has sent a single message to ask how I’m doing. I know they know the answer, but come on. They could at least pretend to have the capacity to listen to my despair and fake enthusiasm about the progress I’m making. 

My life used to be about rules and work is no exception. As a lawyer, I enforce rules. I remind people of rules. I know rules. I understand rules. Sometimes they are the literal law which you (normally) shouldn’t break. Sometimes they were rules internal to the company I work at. The process. My colleagues either love or are annoyed by the process. It’s a love hate affair that I am at the center of. 

As a process oriented person (my manager’s words) I can’t tell you how ironic it is to constantly be reminded of rules and process by my programmed parts and to relentlessly try to break programs apart so I can stop following the rules. But I am not one to judge the intensity and dedication of my parts for rules. I have the same bias. I just wish it didn’t make me grind my teeth. 

Work was not spared the programming. From what I gather, my programmers gathered intel during my first work experience (and second, and third, basically up until I was free) to program my little itty bitty brain with enough rules to be a functioning member of society. Can’t possibly be disabled now can we… It might attract attention. 

But as I descend into the darkness of my past, and I realize more and more of myself was taken away from me and replaced with rules, I become messy. 

I am finally extremely messy.

I always should have been, given the extreme nature of my trauma – but work and rules kept me going. 

So tonight, I’m raising my water bottle and toasting (through our tears) with my past self to finally being a complete mess. My life is no longer one of a (pretend) sane adult person. It sucks, but also, I’m kind of relieved.