okay. let us deal with the probable elephant in the room; yes i am misquoting the kitty cat dance dance dance song (that’s definitely, uh, its official name.) i once had a shirt that was based on that video, aptly purchased at hot topic circa 2008 or 2009
i would post the picture right now, but it will take some time. i suppose i will hunt for it anyways. still, my flickr is deleted. my photo folders are unorganized. digging i go!
so now i sit and sip hot (warm) coffee, with milk, because [redacted] was so kind as to buy me some more during this pandemic and drop it off at my apartment, with a mask on, of course.
i’ve been struggling, with a lot of things, of course, one of them being the feeling of being unproductive, though i am depressed and chronically invisibly mentally & physically ill and my creative output is still rather immense, considering all of that.
see, i know this logically, but emotionally, it doesn’t stick. things are always that way in my head. bpd symptom number whatever.
so here are some more photos, old ones, to start (sort of) at the beginning (my beginnings with a basic point-and-shoot camera, anyways), because i have no clue where else i’d start… well, i do, but… unimportant!
in 2008, i believe, possibly late 2008, i deleted my year’s worth of flickr content and “started fresh.” those two photos were two of the first i ever uploaded, following that.
other old pictures are harder to find – this is old, sure, but not the first photo i uploaded during my golden era of flickr dot com, which was titled “godiva had more hair than me” and captioned, ‘cut it all off.”
there are recent images, too.
i must admit, i overlined my lips with a charlotte tilbury lipliner there. (pillow talk, of course!)
yes! i have animal crossing new horizons! have i written about it on here yet? i can’t recall and i don’t have the spoons to check! with that said, i must thank beth for buying me the game and also a coral pink switch lite which i love dearly.
well, that’s all for today. i’m considering substack, but i think i’d have to be dramatic and upheave things by deleting my facebook or something. we’ll see.
i’m here. not extinct. for now.
it was a meme, a cute tidbit from the net
now it lives inside my head forever too
i’m not extinct. see, i like that
to put it obviously: it implies i am endangered
but still alive!
what a joy. what a thing.
something, at least, to be alive still
i can’t talk about how badly i’m doing
without instinctively smiling because
i’m scared someone will put me back.
inside the hospital.
it’s not so much, so little, so anything
that these monsters need to be extinct
extinct unlike me. for now at least.
maybe my rapist needs to be fired from the local psych ward
but i already reported him twice
i remain alive.
i fought on out of spite. i did it.
for six months i swear i didn’t even want to die.
after the second time that i have in my memory
i guess it lasted too long, or i had too many injuries after
or maybe the second rape is just worse, but i didn’t want to die
prove he couldn’t do that to me
nobody can do that to me
i could go through worse. i almost always can.
the only person allowed to hurt me is myself
the only person i let touch my soft core
is the little demon that lives inside me
fills me with self hatred.
cuts me up. inside. where it hurts.
it doesn’t hurt outside like the knives in my stomach do
and brain and heart and being always ache
when i have taken razors or scissors or nail files or needles to my skin
it hasn’t hurt so much as bled. i sit here crying and writing
this is an alternative to the tiny weapons
it’s not uncommon to keep a kit
a little box full of self-harm tools
it’s been written about in comics and essays before
it’s been evident from the tiny metal boxes i hide in my room
i invite too many friends over for my loneliness to choke on
to be visibly this sick.
i haven’t even used the kit in months.
i thought my friend was dead, again, but this time more so
i considered it but honestly
what is the point of a wound when a death will do the job better
and though i stopped caring about living for revenge after some time passed
i still stay alive for my cat and
i guess, i suppose, my new antidepressant is working.
it’s hard to admit when you are attached to your sick girl identity,
but then when i think about attempting with these deadlier pills–
i think about how i’d feel if i survived and they were taken from me
it’d only be my own damn fault. not extinct.
if i died, would that be better?
the slow ache of the invisible prongs
of these ugly murky invisible starfish attaching themselves to my soft skin,
tugging at the edges and eating me from their middle
tearing away at my skin and my muscles
i cannot go there again. i would not, even for death
but death would be so sweet without the means to overdose
is the grass always greener, or whatever
in the sense that if i start to get better it will feel too uncomfortable
and if i start to breathe properly people will expect me to function
so i let myself starve instead. i let myself drown so, so slowly.
a drop of water in my mouth every week
eventually i will choke and drown
that’s the plan, right? that’s the method.
that’s how sometimes eating disorders are actually suicide.
how you can hurt your family less by giving them a disease to blame
rather than themselves
if it was accidental and just got too severe, it won’t hurt them much, right?
neither my mother or i want to outlive each other.
but i am moving tomorrow. today. it’s 2:46am as i write this.
i am not packed and i am running out of hours to keep surviving in a way
that keeps others happy…of course i can’t keep myself happy while not extinct.
but there’s only one me and if i died, i would be. extinct.
no more pink haired sick girl to listen to her friends and cuddle xena
and no chance at some kind of future like i want to want
the message is always positive at the last minute, the paragraph i write before i publish.
so that nobody reads this, calls the authorities on me & causes a panic attack or worse.
and also so that i learn to one day believe my own words. live on and write more of them.
each paragraph here is getting longer, maybe my life will be similar, maybe i’m not so bad
not so doomed, not so destructive. maybe i can get better.
i have to remind myself, but it’s not just words, it’s the truth.
a chance may not be much.
but i am still lucky to have that.
i am still thankful to have that. i think.
i will still keep fighting because truly what else is there to do
besides the obvious. isn’t it too obvious?
wouldn’t it be amazing if i died of old age rather than suicide?
maybe i can
the thing about my cosmic ability to destroy
is that when i leave, something beautiful happens
(from ash sprouts life)
and again, within a short time, they are blossoming
just not ever while i am there.
when i take with my hands and allow
what is worn to crumble away
(suddenly the edges feel new)
i am too much and i burn too much, but i burn off decay
it is only after my hurt that some things can ripen.
i am so very lonely, even as i leave beauty behind me
change is unpleasant and nobody likes my habits
(i learned this at a young age)
so i try to destroy something i was never supposed to
i singe my own self – starting at the corners and joints.
So I blog here primarily about mental illness, including writing about my own experiences. I guess that’s why, on an American holiday, with plans for a meal at a friend’s house that I was invited to later and a beautiful emotional support animal and a patient, supportive boyfriend messaging me from his parents’ house, I am about to tell you all how bad things are right now for me.
Things are very, very bad for me right now.
I’ve been without a therapist since May, on a waitlist and now unable to contact the agency I’m supposed to get outreach therapy from. The one that I was getting outreach therapy from (two times a week) until this May when my truly lovely former therapist had to leave suddenly for health-related reasons.
I have so much psychological trauma to process, new and old, that I am unable to process and learn to live with in a healthy way until I can trust another therapist several months after whenever I am able to start with one again.
I have gone to the hospital twice since May to present for inpatient care. I have had to go home without care as a result of their not providing me services, and in the other case completely turning me away. I have had to go home to the same level of suicidality I had when I decided “hey, maybe I should check myself into the psych ward so I can not die,”
I’m still alive, and I think I probably sound whiny as hell, but ugh, is it hard to live. It’s so hard to exist, to fight. I’m doing it, for several reasons, but it is not something I can say I’ve seen glimmers of enjoyment or happiness in for months.
I maintain my statement that severe mental illness left untreated or not treated properly will take you by the neck with one hand and make you watch as it destroys everything you love and care about with the other hand.
Wish me a therapist.
Things are getting super bad, like way worse than normal-bad, and so I’m not sure how much I’ll blog for a time period of some sort. I really want to be here, to be present, to write regularly. I don’t know how to do that when I am choking on life.