Sorry for the graphic phrase in the title, but I thought that it was more defining putting it in those terms.
It’s true though. We’re all fucked up in some way, be it having a disorder or ailment, having a disablitiy, having a speech ipediment, having a fetish, owning something like a furby, or a tamagotchi, enjoying neopets…
So admit it, how is it that you are fucked up?
Me, I’ve got Bipolar disorder, a touch of schizophrenia and I like very cruel riddles/jokes.
I am *extremely * sensitive, to everything. Hunger, cold, heat, medications, other people’s moods and feelings, you name it, I feel it more than most. It has it’s good points, too, but it also can make me very very uncomfortable at times. I wouldn’t want to be “normal”, though, I kind of like being like this.
Also, I’m almost obsessive about doing things right, and it really REALLY irritates me when others are sloppy or unthoughtful of others. I find myself wanting to chastise people who drive like maniacs, or park haphazardly, or stand in doorways, things like that. I really need to work on that, or I’m gonna have a stroke one of these days.
I used to have delusions due to schizophrenic (they are gone now). I am also prone to depression. I am willing to joke about and laugh at anything no matter how vulgar or inappropriate. I think I come across as very annoying when I let free and ‘be myself’ (I make stupid jokes and things like that).
I have epilepsy, though it’s more or less controlled now.
I had an eating disorder in high school and part of college and still occasionally freak out, start measuring my food and exercise obsessively. I’m not scrawny anymore like I used to be - I used to look like a toothpick with blobs of muscle attached. Still, I can’t eat in a group if I’m the only one eating, and I often make sure I’m eating less than anyone around me, unless I’m training for a marathon. I’ve just finally gotten used to eating in front of my husband if he’s not eating.
I’m sometimes emotionally hyper-sensitive. Though that seems to be getting better (knocks on wood, or head, whichever’s closest).
I feel like a freak because I cry at the drop of a hat. I think I hide it pretty well, but I still feel freaky nonetheless. I don’t hold back much when I’m alone.
The other weird thing I do (which I’ve mentioned elsewhere) is get crushes on men I would like to be my father. I don’t act on them unless I feel we can make a friendship out of it.
I have a gimp ear. My right ear is slightly deformed. No one ever notices it though, unless I tell them that it’s messed up. I guess I’m pretty normal.
I’m not fucked up, everyone else is because they can’t feel what I feel, hear what I hear or reason the way I do. This makes me different, but not fucked up. OK, I’m not ok with it 100% of the time, but I’ve recently made a decision to “come out.” A lot of people are diagnosed, medicated and given a rubber chicken to play with, others shun the doctors–afraid of the stigma they’ll bear for the rest of the world to see. I was completely ashamed of it and it was almost the end of me. Like masturbateurs, they believe they are unique and alone–that’s just not the case, and it’s time the crazies learned how numerous they (we) are.
Like a lot of schizos, I find cruel & unusual humor irresistable; and cruelty absoloutely repugnant in real life. Unusual, however, is still pretty facinating.
OMG. I missed this. This is the one thing that can make me go back on my previous statement about cruety.
I’ve got social anxiety and depression. I’m the benchmark for all loners.
Oh, I also had my gall bladder removed at the tender age of 25. For those non doctors, it’s a simple procedure, I’m just awefully young to have needed it.
I have a pretty severe case of Bipolar Type I disorder. The episodes over the last couple of years almost destroyed me and those close to me. I am effectively treated now though and I am pretty much back to normal so there is hope.
I worry far more than is healthy about whether anyone really likes me, yet at the same time I much prefer that almost everyone keep a certain distance. Not just figuratively but literally; I absolutely despise being touched without warning or permission. My mother is particularly diffcult to deal with in this regard, as she insists on hugs when I am arriving or leaving, and is by turns amused, baffled and offended by my obvious discomfort. I don’t dislike her in any way, and I understand perfectly why she might find my behavior off-putting, to say the least, but that insistence on hugging gives me the willies and I can’t seem to help it.
I suffered much abuse as a child, and I still don’t trust anybody except my wife. I have good reason not to, too. Almost everybody I have ever known has fucked me over in some way - stolen my possessions and/or money, gotten me fired, used information I gave them against me, told me one thing to my face and did the opposite behind my back, physically attacked me…you name it. That kind of stuff can really damage a person. I could be a very angry man, but I won’t let myself be one. I have angry thoughts, but no angry actions.
I try not to appear to be fucked up, so I can have a good life and a good marriage and be the kind of man my wife wants to stay married to. I desperately needed the kind of nice my wife brought into my life, and I’m enjoying every minute of it. But my experiences make me who I am, and if people perceive me to be closed or aloof or defensive it’s because I am terrified to get screwed over again by somebody who is pretending to be my friend. It just happened to me again a couple of months ago. I’m completely aware of the ramifications of my losing my temper, if it ever happens. It hasn’t happened yet. I can’t let it happen. I just can’t. Fortunately, I have a lot of common sense and a rational mind, and no desire for trouble.
My father spent all the years of his life angry. My goal in life is not to be like him, because he did this to me. I can’t do it to somebody else.
My goodness, there certainly are a lot of us bipolars here!
It certainly does wonders in terms of eliminating one’s sense of tragic isolation and terminal uniqueness. And thank (insert deity here) for that! 
I have sensory issues. The sound of chalk on a blackboard, for example (not even the squeaky sound, just the normal sound) drives me absolutely nuts. I can’t concentrate at all when I hear it, which makes some classes hard. I can’t stand the sounds of people eating, even if they aren’t being really gross about it. I really can’t stand some materials–my nylon gloves in marching band in high school drove me crazy. If something’s moving in my peripheral vision (the person sitting next to me is twitching or waving a fan or something), I can’t stand that either. And I’m just about the pickiest eater in the entire world. I basically eat bread, cereal, and sugar. This makes social situations even more awkward than they already are due to my ridiculous social ineptitude, because it’s rude to refuse food but I do it anyway.
If I end up homeless in a box on the street (a very real possibility, since I want to be a composer), I am so screwed.
I’m lazy, underachieving, and whiny. I badger people for advice and don’t take it. I’m afraid of many things but take stupid chances. I hold sanctimonious opinions about almost everyone else but take offense if others do so about me. I want other people’s approval desperately but don’t think I should have to do anything to earn it.
[ul][li]I don’t like to be touched. Like, at all – unless I initiate it. [/li][li]I’m terrified of being alone, but I seem to do everything in my power to drive people away. I can’t stand being around a lot of people, but I also long desperately for a large social circle.[/li][li]I’m among the most neurotic and overly analytical people I know. Daily, something from my past (2nd grade, last week, a couple years ago) will pop up into my head and I will agonize on how I handled it. The memories tend toward embarrassing situations in my past, and they tend to cause me physical pain when they surface. My near-photographic memory doesn’t help me here.[/li][li]I’m any of several different people to different groups. Work people would find me largely unrecognizable in my private life – ditto for the school people.[/li][li]I’m constantly in fear of being uncovered as a fraud, even though I’m quite good at and comfortable with my job and my studies. I have no logical reason for this fear, but it’s there.[/li][li]And what Harimad-Sol said, more or less exactly.[/ul][/li]
Sure there’s more, but there you go. I tell you people stuff I’d never say to anyone else. Except the 2 I know closely IRL who read here.
I can’t take anything anyone says at face value. I have to second guess them, and third guess them, and so on, until I get tired of asking (I don’t know that I really believe them; I just get tired of asking, or they ask me to stop). “Do you REALLY mean that?” “Are you sure?” “You know, if you don’t want to ______, you don’t have to…” From what I’m told, it gets damned annoying after a while.
Also, if my husband and I are a little upset–not fighting, really, but tense–I will go absolutely batshit nuts if he starts cleaning or straightening things or putting things away or even rearranging things while looking for something. When I was living at home, that was a sure sign that my dad was about to blow his top. I don’t know that I’ll ever lose the learned reaction.
I suspect that I have a touch of schizophrenia. Doesn’t bother me, though, so I don’t do anything about it.
I’m extremely emotionally closed off and selfish. There are exactly two people in the world I care about more than myself, and there are some days that I totally forget I care about them. Then I remember I do love them, feel it intensely for a few days, and then just forget again. Everybody else in the world? Eh, fuck 'em. Occasionally I also feel intense loneliness, but like the intense feelings of love, that goes away. I’ve been going to school for four years now, working closely with the same people every day, and sometimes I can’t even remember their names. Oddly, I don’t consider myself anti-social. I can easily and gladly interact with people, I just don’t really care about them in any meaningful way.
Some days, I seriously consider getting out of bed. I think about all the things that can go horribly wrong–and once you start thinking about it, there are many. I could get in a car accident, I could get hit by a train, somebody I love could die, I could accidently kill somebody…other times, it’s not so dramatic. I’ll fail at school, I’ll fail at m dreams, I’ll fail everything I ever cared about, I’ll fail my husband, I’ll fuck something, everything, up beyond repair. So it’s easier to just stay in bed. It scares me that I consider that a valid and viable option, and a part of me suspects that one day, that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll just give up on life and live in my relatively safe bedroom.
So what, does that make me a sociopath with anxiety disorder?
A few days out of every month I get shockingly depressed and can’t stop crying and suddenly life goes all wrong. At least one episode is due to PMS. Part of me says, “You have a disorder, maybe there’s a pill for this,” the other part says, “It’s your effing period, suck it up!”
So you think I’m a loser? Just because I have a stinkin’ job that I hate? A
family that doesn’t respect me? A whole city that curses the day I was born?
Well, that may mean “loser” to you, but let me tell you something. Every
morning when I wake up I know it’s not going to be any better until I go back
to sleep again. So I get up, have my watered down Tang and still-frozen
pop tart, get in my car with no upholstery, no gas and six more payments, to
fight traffic just for the privilege of putting cheap shoes on the cloven
hooves of people like you. I’ll never play football like I thought I would.
I’ll never know the touch of a beautiful woman. And I’ll never again know the
joy of driving without a bag on my head. But I’m not a loser. 'Cause despite it
all, me and every other guy who will never be what he wanted to be, are still
out there being what we don’t wanna be, forty hours a week for life. And the
fact that I haven’t put a gun in my mouth, you pudding of a woman… makes me
a winner!