Unfortunately Not a Real Pony

[Image description: a Bingo card titled "I made a blorbo..."

Row 1: wacky found family, always well-dressed, supernatural powers, knowledgeable in the most unusual subjects, always about half a second from a nervous breakdown.

Row 2: addict, sesquipidalian loquaciousness, large eccentric collection, unusual philosophical/religious views, left home under unpleasant circumstances.

Row 3: lost loved one too soon in horrible way, has both ability and desire to beat you up but chooses not to, FREE space: disabled queer ethnic/species minority, takes any excuse to happily infodump, most competent person in the room at any given moment.

Row 4: normal social rules = does not compute, nice hair, desperate for attention/affection/affirmation, tries to be better than upbringing/past, unusual nonhuman companion.

Row 5: exaggerated emotional affect, awful family of origin, violent tendencies, tends to ramble, suicide attempt.

End ID.]

I categorized the most common characteristics of my OCs and then my hand slipped (repeatedly).

I'm trying to think of the most damaging fact about me that my father knows and could use to ruin my life... and it's kind of sad that despite how many reputation-destroying identities and behaviors I've had in my life, the only ones that he knows (that I abused drugs and was hospitalized for suicide attempts) are things that I've outright told many people, and which plenty more can easily guess.

You spend five years recovering from disordered eating and exercise and FINALLY learn to be okay with your body, nourish it, take care of it, to look at yourself in the mirror without wanting to claw your face off.

And all people can focus on is that you're now a great big thirty year old fatty instead of the svelte (and suicidally miserable) teen you used to be.

I'm not entirely sure what kind of benefit I (a survivor of multiple suicide attempts) am supposed to be getting when people censor it to s*****e or whatever, but I am definitely not getting it.

My suicide hospitalizations (yeah, that's plural) cost more than three years of therapy and antipsychotics.

I am incandescent with rage. Just. Friggin. Could have avoided the trauma and saved money by getting me mental healthcare before my life totally imploded!

I don't know why, but I really love the "soldier keeps throwing themself into deadly situations in war because they want to die but instead they keep surviving and getting more and more honors" trope.

...it's a really specific but also really common one.

My mother was insistent that, if I was staying home from school because I was sick, then I was not allowed to do anything fun, her thinking being that if I was well enough to sit up and play Age of Empires on the computer, then clearly I was well enough to get on the bus, walk around the school, pay attention in class, and not get the rest of the students sick.

She bragged to her friends about how she let her kids have mental health days, but the only time I got one of those was when the school sent me home and said I couldn't come back until I got a doctor's note saying I was better.

Having to hear that my mental health problems make me an inherent danger to children is really awful, considering that I'd straight-up rather slit my own wrists than abuse a kid.

And then when you consider that my mental health problems happened because I was abused as a kid...