neopagan poetry or prose or whatever, maybe both?

is that possible? i’m making it possible. i’m doing it; forging the way, if the way needs forging.

i get sad. i get so so much, so often. why? why do i get so sad and so frequently?

i feel joy often. but unless it’s encouraged immediately, i feel shame right after. because of the joy itself! especially if the joy pertains to doing something that could be construed as silly and/or humorous. the shame is intense! ocd shame? idk.

as many things do, i think it stems from my childhood and especially my dad’s tendency to mock expressive behaviors or in some cases, extreme emotions (he would laugh when my younger brother was a toddler and would throw tantrums and stmp; my father called it dancing and would offer no sympathy only mockery for example)

i know this example wasn’t aimed directly at me, but i still wiotnessed it time and time again and i don’t remember so many things that are, and i am his favorite child? surely he made me ashamed of my feelings, too, at multiple points?

or did my mom?

or someone else?

there exists, of course, the possibility that it is a person i don’t want it to be to blame (probably myself, whether partially or fully and totally!)

i don’t feel comfortable being emotional. i’ve compared my upbringing to a cult within my family members and their enablers. i think in ways, it is very similar. both my parents exhibit narcissistic behaviors, my dad certainly overtly enough so that those who diagnosed tr*mp with narcissistic personality disorder would ber happy to diagnose my dad with the same if they knew a crumb about him and how he’s treated myself, my brother, my mother. things with my mother are difficult. i don’t think she understands bitter clawing to life survival the way i do. as far as i know and have been told, she never attempted on her life. she may have a covert narcissism, but then i fear sometimes that i do too

i also fear that, for a patient, i over-diagnose people, even those i know well.

she had suicidality thoughts, but they came with her depression and other self destructive tendencies, so i don’t know

we had three very big arguments in two days, my mother and i

how embarrassed SHOULD i be of my existence…? the reality is i am, very, very very.

being myself is inherently shameful because i am doing the act of existing. how do i stop existing in an embarrassing way?? you can’t!!! so now i have to deal with it ™ or stop existing altogether, and neitther of those is my first choice for how things should go.

when i was younger, i was once unafraid to be myself. i also wrote, later in my youth, in a notebook, one passed between asia and jenny and myself, in “secret” (it was secret at first), regularly, like a diary, even years after i stopped regularly writing in a diary or journal of my own. even now, for someone who writes so much and so confessionally, i allow few of my writings to be categorized as diary entries. how emotional! see? what’s wrong with “emotional”? nothing, in my heart and in my beliefs, but my actions, my stutter and my brain don’t quite let it happen. what to do? what to do?

bitterness has clawed at me link a demon imp and left me covered in tiny, ugly, long scars along my limbs

i wanted to cut onions so i could remember what it feels like to cry. i’ve even numbed myself out that much for that long. onions! i’m smart, but it will hurt. and oh, i loathe the pain, but i crave it, perhaps because i crave it so…

more coming soon. i’ve been picking up my camera for still photos! wild.


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