I am different. Something I have never actually said out loud. And rarely acknowledge even to myself. A planned change in direction and purpose. I have experience to share. It may help. Someone. So, let's begin ...

I was born with a poorly understood, genetically inherited brain disorder. Visual Snow Syndrome with Subjective Tinnitus. I see dots, hear ringing. Not a big deal. To me. But. My brain is wired differently. And always on.

I was 3 years old on that night. And no, I could not sleep. I stayed up all night. My kid world bubble had burst. My father did not have the answers. So my questions stopped. But not my curiosity. I should not still be alive.

To clarify. Not recently. But I've had "those" thoughts. And known plenty of people that acted on them. The sad part is how obvious the signals usually were. But that is us. Too blind. Too busy. Or too not our problem.

I lived with this person for a year. She attempted suicide while I was at work. I left. Got fired. And when I got there and reached for her ... she stabbed me. Paramedics arrived and took us both. She lived. Me? Not so much.

(a) What is suicide? A friend at work one day. Vomited blood. Collapsed. Lived for a few weeks in hospice. Never regained consciousness. He had cancer. But refused treatment. And didn't tell anyone. Is that natural causes?

I had a few more stops scheduled for the oblivion express. But. All poetic notions aside. I can’t move a mountain. Swim an ocean. Or cast a magic spell. What I can do is vomit. Clean it up. And move on.

THIS is the lie I've told myself - all my life. But. I know nobody cares about my thoughts. And that my concept of humor sucks. Unfortunately. This is who I am. So. I've gone to bed many a night. Happy. Not to wake up.

(b) I’m very clear about who I am. How I feel. What I’ve experienced. And? NOTHING pushes me away better than an accusation. Then. Blocking my pathological, OCD-ish need to correct the misunderstanding. As quickly as possible.

(d) I cannot make my struggle. More obvious. So. It is clear … I am. Too stupid. Too immoral. Too old. Too “me”. To ever understand. Or make this work. I hope. For those that have wants. They find. What they need. To be. Content.

(a) Me overwhelmed? Imagine eating an elephantic sized puzzle. Except. Eating. Regurgitating. Eating. Every piece. Over, over, over. Again. Until? I can finally accept it fits. And be at peace. In my brain. In my heart.

On a bad day I can usually flip a switch inside of me to operate as a shell of a human in “safe mode”. But then there are those “other” days. No amount of Wikipedia. No amount of music. No amount of kittens. Will ever work.

Most memories are sensory abstractions – a heavily processed representation of the experience. But smell is from our ancient biology. The olfactory, amygdala, hippocampus path makes the memories raw. And reactions to them visceral. In the end? What we "remember" was not the stop ... but the roses.