“Is there a manual for existing?”
Unpacking neurodivergence, masking, and grief with Osamu Dazai’s No Longer Human
Last month, I read Usamaru Furuya’s adaptation of Osamu Dazai’s No Longer Human in one sitting. It was a fast read, but a harrowing and deeply relatable one at that. Let me explain why, especially from the lens of neurodivergence.
The story of No Longer Human revolves around Yozo Oba, a young man who is incapable of relating with others and revealing his true self around them. As part of those struggles, he experiences alienation and trauma from others (and himself), fills his existence with vices, and puts the people around him in harm the minute these people show love or genuine connection towards him.
As a high-masking neurodivergent woman, Yozo’s story resonated with me. Growing up, I was always seen as a weirdo, someone “too different,” “too much,” and “too annoying.” I was also constantly underestimated and infantilized. Because of these messages, I struggled to be honest with myself. I had to present a palatable and useful version of Lea at all times. Otherwise, I would be reminded that I was a bad and useless monster. It’s as if I was not allowed to be myself in the spaces that I occupy. During my freshman year of college, I became the object of bullying by the people I once considered friends. One of them told me I had “committed the crime of existing.” Those words reignited wounds from my childhood, where I believed that I was a bad person unworthy of love, community, and belonging.
The traumas from the hurt and rejection that I experienced growing up meant that I had to cope by masking heavily and suppressing different parts of myself in order to survive and succeed. The experience of masking led me to lose myself and struggle with expressing my boundaries and personal needs. I felt like I was existing to prove people wrong all the time, bending over backwards to meet their expectations and proving myself that I am worthy of being a person to them. This meant shoving my needs down to accommodate the needs of others, holding myself back from showing off my full potential, and refusing to trust myself in anything that I do or set my mind to. I developed learned helplessness towards many things and operated from a system built on fear, shame, and guilt.
As I continue to heal myself from these experiences and beliefs, I’ve come to realize that Yozo’s story is also a wake-up call to recognize the work that I do to continuously help myself and love myself in the process. It’s a constant journey. The Lea that I am now has come so far from the Lea from fourteen years ago, whose existence was once perceived as a crime by her “friends” from college. I’m now accessing parts of myself that I once suppressed: I’m slowly accepting and believing that I’m actually capable of writing and ideating, I have a growing creative practice, I’m connecting with my body through long walks and hikes, I’m allowing myself to feel my feelings, I’m telling myself that I’m beautiful and worthy, and I’m constantly working on being honest with myself and my needs. I strive to put myself first day by day, instead of being consumed by the trauma of being guilt-tripped for not being “always on” at work in the past. Not to mention, being emotionally and mentally regulated is becoming a reality for me! Chores and challenging tasks do not actually feel punitive. They help me access a level of belief and trust in myself, as well as safety.
Maybe the real manual for existing is giving yourself the full permission to discover and experience life on your own terms. To celebrate the little wins. To give yourself grace for the setbacks, and to settle into routines that work with my brain. And it’s a decision that I’m going to consciously make, day by day.
Until the next brain dump,
Lea