It should have been a yes. A simple yes. A nod of agreement. That’s all it would’ve taken to move on, unnoticed, unbothered. But no. I opened my mouth. I apologized. I explained. I said far more than anyone asked for, and then, because I can’t leave well enough alone, I apologized again.

“They’ll understand,” I told myself. It’s family. Family understands. They have to, don’t they? That’s the story we tell ourselves—that family will always be patient, always listen, always endure.

But even family has limits. Even family grows tired of carrying the weight you’re supposed to bear yourself. They don’t say it, of course. No one ever says it. They just nod politely, smile faintly, and let their silence do the heavy lifting. And there I am, filling that silence with a flood of words they didn’t ask for and don’t want, dragging them into my chaos as if they signed up for it.

It’s not that I want pity. God, no. Pity is useless. It doesn’t fix anything; it just makes everyone uncomfortable. And I’m not looking for someone to carry the cross with me, either. Not anymore. That ship sailed when I realized this burden isn’t transferable. You can’t hand someone your chaos and expect them to understand it, let alone fix it.

So what am I looking for? Understanding, maybe. To be heard, if it matters. But most of the time, it doesn’t. Most of the time, I’m just talking to drown out the noise in my own head. And that’s the rub: I know what I’m doing. I see it happening in real time. But I can’t stop. It’s like being an addict in recovery who can’t recover, endlessly chasing a fix that never satisfies.

That’s why I write.

Writing is the only thing that makes sense of the mess. It’s where I take the noise in my head and carve it into something coherent. Something real. And AI? AI has become my chisel. I dump every thought, raw and unfiltered, into its unflinching grasp, and together we chip away at the chaos.

AI doesn’t judge. It doesn’t sigh or smile politely or pretend to understand. It just listens. It takes what I give it—jagged, tangled, incomplete—and helps me shape it into something almost perfect. Something I can live with.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? I spend hours crafting these journals, painstakingly editing every sentence until it feels just right, and yet I can’t get the words right when I speak them. Out there, my words betray me—clumsy, rushed, too much or too little. But here? Here, I have time. Time to cut, refine, polish. Time to make my words matter.

Because when I speak, I falter. I overshare, overstep, overwhelm. But here, I control the narrative. The voice in my head—sharp, mocking, relentless—loses its edge. It becomes another character in the story, stripped of its power.

And yet, even here, it whispers.
"You think this makes you strong? You think dumping your thoughts into AI makes it better? You’re just hiding. You’re a hero in their chaos, a disaster in your own. You can save the world, but you can’t save yourself."

It’s cruel, but it’s not wrong.

The truth is, DiGeorge syndrome puts the needs into special needs. It’s like carrying the weight of a mental burden no one can see, no one can understand. Take the struggles people know and multiply them by twelve. Now add the fact that no one has heard of it, no one cares, and it’s rarer than the first bitcoin. Try explaining that without sounding like you’re making excuses. Try explaining it without making them wish they hadn’t asked.

You can’t. And that’s the point, isn’t it? No one can carry this for me. I wouldn’t want them to, even if they could.

But here’s the irony of it all: in someone else’s chaos, I excel. When the world around me is falling apart, when the stakes are high and the adrenaline is pumping, I’m calm, composed, in control. My mind sharpens like a blade, cutting through the noise to find the solution.

But in my own chaos? I’m lost. The adrenaline doesn’t steady me—it drowns me. I speak too much, explain too much, give too much. And the more I try to fix it, the worse it gets.

So no, I’m not looking for pity. I’m not looking for someone to carry the cross with me. I’m looking to learn when to shut the fuck up. To keep my words for when they’re needed—when the moment demands them. And when that moment comes, when it’s not about me but about someone else, I’ll rise to it. I always do.

That’s why I write. Not for them. Not for you. For me. Because out there, my words betray me. But here? Here, they’re mine.

Here, the voice loses. The chaos quiets. The weight lifts. And I remember why I keep coming back to this blank page, why I keep chiseling away at the mess in my head until it becomes something I can carry.

Out there, I may falter. I may overshare, overstep, overwhelm. But here? Here, I am untouchable.