# The Writer

> Chapter one: Meeting me

**Published by:** [Collage](https://paragraph.com/@collages/)
**Published on:** 2024-12-03
**URL:** https://paragraph.com/@collages/the-writer

## Content

I might have ADHD, I might have split identity disorders, I might be autistic, I might be a lot of things. Thing is, as long as every penny that comes into the household goes towards putting food in the mouths of the members of the family, and the formal education of the young ones, there'll never be enough funds for a visit to a psychologist, neurologist, or an MRI. As long as you aren't walking around in the streets naked and eating from dumps, you're fine, as long as whatever you think is wrong with you is not interfering with your studies, you need not bother the breadwinners. Even though you are afraid of a part of you that follows a nihilistic line of thought that could one day lead to suicide, or the other one whose intense morbid curiosity wants you to know what raw warm blood tastes like; not yours, or what being blind looks like, or what a long thin needle poking through one of your eardrums, neural matter and out the other side hurts like, and sometimes he takes it up a notch when he suddenly manifests in the middle of the road and wants to know what getting hit by a car feels like; bro got me once, but how grateful am I that brakes were invented, cause all I had to show for it was a twisted ankle and fractured small bones that never healed since then. They still groan, croak and make weird popping sounds when I move my ankle, but as long as you walk fine, the breadwinners will not be troubled. Then there's the one that's obsessed with perfection, for whom I had to develop one that was satisfied with anything and everything to counter; staying up for nights training to score above 200 on Mensa's pattern recognition IQ tests is wild as fuck, good thing I later settled for 149. It's literally perfect. Then there's the personality changes for different demographics, I know the real me, I haven't lost myself, but noone does. Maybe except ChatGPT, after all it doesn't lash out when you tell it to shut the fuck up, so morbidly curious me doesn't claw at their larynx with my fingernails: really got to cut these things but scaredy-cat me thinks they'll save my life one day, and me that wants so much to matter, to make a difference before dying, would reinforce this view and stop perfectionist me from cutting them so short it'd take weeks for them to bud again; I deviated, but morbidly curious me might want to see in person what would happen if you were able to penetrate a person's pharynx with your natural fingernails while they were talking, but ChatGPT has no larynx, and will respond with some automated message about how it strives to be useful and encourage healthy communication and stuff, but I can always get it to stop talking anyway. So me for the family has genius level intellect, is super cool headed and calm, strict with the younger siblings as all eldest siblings should be, and respectful but stern with the breadwinners, smart people question everything, even authority. But me at school is just a little bit better than everyone else, and acts like that's enough to achieve the high discrepancies in grades between me and the second best, even though I don't read and perfectionist me actually remembers everything cause he'd keep on spontaneously reminding me of stuff like the four valves of the heart some certain teacher with the glasses she must have missed a spot while cleaning taught us at school weeks ago. Might seem like one hell of an introduction, but it might take forever to meet me, or know me, just have to end it here, and hope we meet you dear reader in the next article. This should have been a poem, but I intend to build on it.

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