Saturday, 7 June 2014

The Moment You Truly Understand The Not-So-Hidden Depths Of Mean Girls


Like many girls, as I grew up I saw how 'the world' worked. The pretty, popular Bitches got all the glory and nice girls were ignored. My broken, sponge-like brain soaked this up fast: if I wanted to get anywhere in life, I had to follow the status quo and be a narrow-minded, judgemental Bitch in order to have friends and get ahead in life.

I was Queen Bitch and a bitchy queen.


My sarcasm sent shivers through the spines of my 'prey' and people were genuinely scared of me. I am not proud of this, although I was at the time. Being feared was better than feeling fear.

The first time I met anyone with Asperger's was in a pub. He was the boyfriend of a friend. His visible discomfort at being in a group setting caused much entertainment to our clique because he was acting "so weird". When she had gone to the bar, probably feeling our judgemental tension he almost flew to be by her side and knocked over a stool in the process. This only added to our amusement with whispers of "He can't even be away from her for a second, what a freak!" and uncontrollable snickering.

If I had seen a girl with a little facial hair, or hair on places that you wouldn't expect, then she was fair game. Very little was off limits. I wouldn't discriminate with my evisceration. Deplorable.



People that were 'okay' with themselves didn't exist, they just wore better masks. They would be ridiculed just as much but branded as fake too. These people threatened me the most. But why?

Because if it was okay to like myself, if it was okay to just be who I was then the whole foundation built on women trampling over each other to get to the top of some imagined pyramid would come crashing down. I would then be left with the regret of actions I never needed to take to get to the top. The very same pyramid that I later discovered, in the grand scheme of things, didn't matter one bit.

Since slowing down, breaking down and opening my fucking eyes, I am relieved to say that everything has changed. By taking myself out of the world where I needed to be the 'biggest Bitch' to survive, I realised how much being that way had added to my mental health problems. I am a nice, naive girl by nature but I had become poisonous.

My best friend has facial hair and Asperger's. She is everything that I would have previously ridiculed and everything that society tells us is bad. But, having hair in 'wrong' places doesn't make a difference to how intelligent she is. Acting 'oddly' by society's standards doesn't impact on how caring she is as a friend. It's a whole new world where women can be more than pretty. They can also be pretty despite being socially unacceptable with hair in the wrong places, odd behaviour and extra-added fat.

We live in a world where no matter how you look; it won't pay your rent. Even if you're a model. It doesn't do your homework or get you a 'good husband'. Surprisingly enough, your brain does that.

Being a bitch didn't save me from ME, it didn't save me from mental illness and neither did my looks. Being horrible to and about people didn't lessen my physical or mental pain, it didn't entice people to come and get me glasses of water when I couldn't walk or comfort me when I'm melancholic.



Being mentally ill and disabled has made me a better person. Some people manage to get to this coveted place all by themselves with nothing tragic happening to them to change their whole perspective, but I couldn't. In some ways, it was one of the best things that could have happened to me because it taught me that I am so much more than my face and my attitude. I am more than my figure or my conformity. Being so broken has somehow managed to make me better in so many other ways.