Or my brain now decided that item A belongs to place 2 instead of place 1. I need to move it. It keeps telling me to move it. It doesn’t stop bothering me.

And then I go online and people joke about how funny they are because of their ADHD! Haha! This disorder is actually a joke! For fuck’s sake.

I keep thinking: “is everything in its place? I should check. I should move things so that they’re right.”
But I don’t want to do that. *I* don’t care. My brain does. I myself have other things I want to do.
And even if I do it, it’s not enough. I need to check again. What if I displaced something?—

It’s debilitating.

Recently it’s been obsessed with having everything clean and in its place. it keeps telling me to basically empty my whole room and clean everything and it’s so, so annoying.

I can’t sleep because I think about cleaning my room. I draw, I think about cleaning my room—

I am a byproduct that took over, and I wish for them to return.

I, next to them, am I failure.

I often feel like I took this body from them, their chance to live—to be a successful human being unlike me. Because they are so capable, they are so, so strong.
Things fall apart and they just pick up the pieces and keep going until everything is back together.

On par with taking an innocent life.

It’s a faint memory but I remember as the child I used to be wishing that we could be separate people, that I could watch and love them from afar in a reality where they are not bound to me by our minds.

They are someone I could only wish to ever be like and—

It, with the thought in my mind always telling me that I shouldn’t have. That it is something to be fixed, but I don’t want to get rid of it either.
The “other me” formed through this dissociation is dearer to me than my own self. Trying to rid of it would rid of them too and to me that would be—

Other means.

It’s not DID, or any of the sorts. Simply dissociation mutated in a way my brain thought was the most necessary.
But it didn’t disappear. I’ve lived with it for so long I forget that it’s even something I experience.

And I just, don’t know what to do with it. Perhaps I just accept—

Play something, I have to fight myself to double click the desktop shortcut to open it.

I’ve picked up reading fiction, and I find myself questioning why I enjoy it and why do it if it brings me no value of knowledge of any sort?
At least when I doomscroll, the thoughts can’t ever be present.

In any form. Labels of my conditions made me different, so I didn’t accept them. The possibility of having something wrong with me on a mental level too. I hated it, and I still do.

So then, to me it is surprising others can live with such differences in-between them without it bothering them.

Being different is okay.

Most likely, it is the consequence of me being isolated in childhood, leading to being alienated—and thus trying to fit in and failing as my understanding of others was a superficial image made of media I consumed.
From that, I grew to hate the concept of being different—

To envying it.

It is an issue on my end, I know, but I have had cases where I feel inferior to another due to my difference in preference—to the point I try to force said preference onto myself.

It bothers me, that it happens. It bothers me that I cannot seem to comprehend, in some form, that—