some drafts later, in march of 2021

i have, as the title suggests, drafts between my last published posts and now. there is a gap in time where only i get to know what might have gone on this blog but never did in those days.

people around me are slamming doors and being loud in cars… is that what a pandemic will do? the screaming at 3am has stopped, mostly, from my upstairs neighbors. i have an audio recording.

here are some cute instaxes of me, wearing a mask, and it goes over your nose!!!

also, i have youtube videos, but for mostly aesthetic reasons i must put a nice wordy paragraph (at least one!) between so many images and then probably multiple videos. yes, despite my memory failing me, i am quite certain that i have posted multiple videos since i last shared an update of them. does it matter? no. perhaps? perhaps not.

i have such a complicated relationship with certain things, like uhhh, relationships, and that has been fucking up my life. for over 28 years! i cope in unhealthy ways and let that be, most of the time. i don’t even know. was it better to be manic off a prozac overdose attempt, drawing with cray pas all night in the psych ward dining area, a day or two before i was kicked out while not only not having had my suicide attempt treated in terms of lingering depression BUT also! they didn’t even treat my chemically induced mania! how irresponsible, and you know who you are. i have talked in more detail about it on this blog before. this blog.

this blog that my ex read years’ archives from, which really doesn’t matter, except i involuntarily dream about him every night, and what’s up with that? he sexually assaulted me, no worse than some other things but far worse than others, and i don’t wish to date him again. so i wish i’d stop dreaming about him. it’s so silly. every fucking night. most people don’t even talk to me any more who knew him, like the girl in his irc he cheated on me with. oh, it doesn’t matter. i don’t know.

i listened to songs, and learned their meanings, months too late.

not every button is there to be pushed, and madno may never know that, and i have learned it too late, also.

and there you have it, every video i’ve posted on youtube since my last blog update regarding youtube.

everything is hazy, and confusing, and that’s no way to live life! but neither is dying, so i’m still trying (hey, that rhymed.) my mental health feels unsalvageable, but i know i am not alone in that. leave a comment below if you, too, feel like there is no getting better! we are not alone! everything sucks, hey!

i will figure out a way to end this on a lighter note now, because the bulk of what had to be said has been, and what should have been said never will be.

is there even a lighter note?

xxoo
zélie

breathing and accidentally something happens

I wrote a poem, I guess. I’ll share it today.

TW SUICIDE, DEATH, MEDS, SUFFOCATION, MEDICAL STUFF KINDA

when i take a breath in
specifically in, not out, because in is easier
physically that is
my ocd is like, oh, in addition to the gunk in everyone’s eyes
“did you know that there are particles in the air?
skin and bacteria float around everywhere”
i push the thought away reminding myself simply that
that not breathing hurts more.

and i would know how not breathing hurts
how a noose choking you feels until
the bar the rope is tied to snaps and you fall
how an oxygen tube down your throat
feels when you wake up and were unconscious when they put it in,
rendering you helpless as you were never taught
how properly to imbibe your oxygen
when you just woke from a state of unconscious

i have been there because of my brain
and mostly the 55+ 50mg amitriptyline pills
that did not succeed in killing me
i made sure to take more than nick drake,
with whom i shared an age in that he died at 26
and i was 26 when i, you know, did it
but i failed at the one thing i have so much practice in
everyone is uncomfortable when you bring up death

death and suicide, thanks ocd, nothing i’d love more
than to have thoughts on the hour like clockwork
that rise intrusively to the surface of my thoughts
as if it were a pool and they float, lighter than the water
less dense and heavy. they sit on top like a thin layer of oil
they do not mesh and they never will
with the rest of my thinking, at least in the sense that
they are not allowed near each other, they simply
coexist in my brain in different places

i lock the thoughts up in a room when this happens. scoop the oil.
i place the oil and a slight amount of what should not be there
but is because i am not perfect at removing oil on a surface
inside a container, and another, larger container, or several
contain the rest of my thoughts.
someone once told me not to look at the ground
i’m too pretty to have such low self esteem, she said
i smiled, not even a façade yet, you know, it was real
though temporary

so now i take my separated mental illnesses after leaving them
to sit around and fester but only because
i simply did not have the energy or ability to do anything else
and now they have not been checked on in weeks, months, years,
but when i feel an unfamiliar pain and check every corner
it is one of the last on my list but i look nonetheless
it was my doing. the mold spills out of the containers now
mold that once didn’t even exist

there is an unknown liquid on the bottom of the container
and where it was sitting, too, and, oh, no,
it drips on the floor so i quickly take it out to the trash.
milky moldy liquid is spilling everywhere and it disgusts me
i try, half-assed, to clean up my mess, which is actually the best i can do
so really i am doing my very best; but i digress
i try not to breathe in this time and hold my oxygen captive in my lungs
until carbon dioxide is all i can taste and i can bear it no longer,

inhale, inhale the fumes, the stench
of your own mistakes. i once made a good man hate me and for no good reason.
that is not my typical behavior but it is the bed i made for that situation
i breathe in, imagining a clear unpolluted breeze on my face
into my lungs, one by one, until both are full of- air— oxygen—- NO
the stench of the fumes is still there!
i breathed in as much as i could. might as well have lapped it up like a
little kitten drinking milk to grow stronger and because it tastes so unique
in a sweet way

but here we are, and i am unsatisfied at best. the good days are boring.
i have no complaints outside of myself that are not universal
but i mostly don’t have those boring days
mostly it’s just…pain…pain…pain. an overwhelming sense of suffering
the self-pity is almost as strong in me as it is in the girl my ex fucks now
the one who told me things nobody should say- is that
was that where the noxious fumes came from? spilling milky liquid?
was it you who stole my petals?
i was keeping them safe in a box but it is nowhere to be found.

and now as in my mind the thick white barium-drink-like substance
that fills my whole being turns a darker shade of bitter
i am puffy, full of fluids and infection
you are there, only a little bit away, passionately hating things that are, well,
technically my fault at one point but now i’m not to blame!
have you seen mad no take her shorter fingers and feel them try to act
as if there is love in the bones. there is… a devotion. an obsession.
much like mine, only more so & with more bile mixed in.
she doesn’t just smell like my sour milky bitterness
she has the smile of a creature who doesn’t know its blood is greenish white

a new post on a new blog for a new day, or something

gosh, that sounds terribly optimistic, doesn’t it? that’s kind of gross.

it’s not that optimism is inherently gross by any logic, but anything other than pessimistic realism resulted in something bad when i was a child. i don’t know what, but i know i’m deeply uncomfortable admitting i feel optimism, in a similar way to my difficulty expressing affection physically or even verbally, because it’s weakness or whatever.

so i can sit here, and vape cherry pie thc (or either of two other cartridges i have), and blog, on neon cherry dot pink. i have turned off the auto renew on everything; even domain name sugarette.net

my “fresh and popping” discord server includes dialogue like:

reminder that access is $1/month at my patreon, but i also don’t expect many of you to want to join. if enough people contribute to my patreon funds, i can subscribe to k+k loveline’s hour long guidance reading each month instead of a half hour tarot and astrology blend reading! perhaps with more guidance i will fuck up less! not that my fucking up is on you!!! unless you are one of a select few people who contributed directly to my decline…

and do i have a decline? for i am where i’ve always been, just shed of some parasites. lonely, in a pandemic, but not as weighed down. overwhelmed, frustrated, but not as willing to end my own life. that one’s important right there; my suicidality and self harm have been decreasing, and as much as i’d adore for my ex to think i died, it’s alright if he doesn’t and he continues to stalk this blog like so many others do.

so my mental health is better, and worse, at the same time. my physical health… is worse, and my spiritual health is telling me it’ll thrive if i buy candlemaking supplies, with some help from my materialistic shopping addict almost-not-quite-a-hoarder tendencies. that’s just that, i suppose. i am trying to nip the hoarder thing in the bud! i’ve seen it play out over my mom’s life, and i don’t want that for myself!!!

(and still, i hoard footage)

so i don’t think i’ve published a video since my last blog post, in fact i know i haven’t, but i am working on editing not one but several videos (i am a strong and capable woman when it comes to not leaving my apartment or talking to strangers or…)

terabytes upon terabytes, that i cannot wait to upload and then offload, but here we are, in a place where i haven’t edited much of anything yet. haven’t even organized, i have barely even peeked.

should there be a song for every one of the blog posts from now on? perhaps there should be, every time. this is a tradition i may soon forget.

i wish i had things to say, to contribute, to improve things. is it more important that i remember quality over quantity, dear (and sometimes creepy) readers?

if you subscribed via email to my blog recently, it is not because of you that i moved, and you are welcome here… give me your opinion! in the comments! or don’t, i have too many lurkers.

from my 2020 birthday

and so i keep moving forward. what else is there to do? we are floating in space, on a rock. keep living. keep doing. it is repetetive, and i hate it some days, but often it is rewarding, not to be the cornball i am so desperately afraid of being thanks to my father and his complete invalidation of myself or my brother feeling any emotion (see: him laughing and calling it dancing when my brother would cry and throw a tantrum at an age where that was normal.)

this was just supposed to be a post, you know? not one of the long, long ones. a casual one. not that it’s long enough to warrant two descriptive longs with a comma in between (yet?) but i still feel perplexed about how i ended up here. my brain is a puddle, these days. by these days, i mean years. years have gone by.

most of my media didn’t transfer to my blog posts here during the import… i’ll see what that means shortly, i suppose.

it’s come to my attention recently that i look young for 28. i wasn’t aware that 28 was an age you normally need botox and anti aging dermatologist and aesthetician treatments by, but here we are. my skin has gained texture, during the last two years, mostly due to my dermatillomania. i’m somewhat of a dermatillomania queen over on tiktok. i don’t think that that’s a good thing.

this is enough for now? we’ll catch up eventually…i love you

xoxo
zélie