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

i used to scream, ferociously, any time i wanted

well, i made another video for youtube, so here’s the obligatory sharing of it:

i shared this one much faster than normal! be proud! no, really. i’m doing terribly.

today i medically withdrew from college for the 2nd time and i also texted my therapist for a referral to an online (thanks covid-19?) partial hospitalization course that i kind of, uh, need, to survive. but i am safe. i am doing it. things might be okay.

so i guess this is where avoiding the hospital has left me.

i don’t know! things are just so hard; i swear i’m trying.

i have good news, too. x2. i can’t share the latter, but the first part is that i am going to be in kitty‘s music video for her song afterglow, on her charm & mirror ep. kit has been one of my favs since like, 2011.

there will be a sfw and nsfw version; both coming out on 8/26/20. i am in both.

the sfw one will be available to view for free on kitty’s youtube, and the nsfw one will be available to view for free on her onlyfans page! also free! so check out those links; i’m super excited.

still struggling with pictures. perhaps i should edit some, soon? it might make me feel better.

smoking weed (oui’d) is keeping me sane, ish. it medicates my pain. when the available alternative that’d work is opioids/opiates, you really can’t complain about me being an embarrassing stoner.

the title of this post, is, of course, lyrics from taylor swift’s song seven. in case you needed to be told. oh! here is a picture:

my art wall
and here is me in kitty’s upcoming afterglow video, which i will of course share when it comes out!

that’s all for now.

xoxo

possibly non-formulaic youtube videos, big confessions, and updates, baby

i’m…still quarantining, because the usa is wild and scary and handling this pandemic terribly. i’m still terrified!

i am also however making many a youtube video. why, in only the last two or three days i finished editing & posted not one, not two, but THREE youtube videos. too much too soon? maybe. not formulaic enough for youtube? probably.

here they are:

i’ve been into art deco as an art form, in addition to as a lana del rey song. speaking of lana, what’s up with that instagram essay? um, anyways. i love her; i will not condemn her too much (except fot dating a cop*)

*cops are part of a corrupt system that they opted to join therefore while they can be well-intentioned on an individual level, they are all actively doing harm within a toxic racist system.

okay. is that enough? is that a post? i love to blog, but i enjoy a short post, often, i suppose. i find myself questioning whether my word count in particular is high enough to hit publish, often, when writing blog posts.

if you choose to watch only one of the videos above, but to watch one, choose perhaps the middle one, if you have nostalgia for 1990s tomb raider lara croft and/or enjoy cosplay, and if you are okay with fake guns/gunshot sounds and blood imagery.

i actually put a medium to medium-high amount of effort and TIME into editing that video in particular. however, each of the three is edited in its own charming manner – the first being the most “formulaic youtube video”, if that is what ye seek. hah. who talks like that. but who seeks formulaic youtube? …many more individuals, i think.

xena is getting increasingly frustrated that her adorable efforts to be even more cute than usual are failing her in luring me in for much attention and/or pets. her favorite way to be pet is cheek rubs, cheek rubs against her cheek glands, like the shy but territorial weirdo that she is. she wishes to mark you as her own (by rubbing her face on you; cute!)

i’m on my laptop, not desktop; and so i do not have the best selection of recent images to choose from to “flesh out” this post (why reveal so much of the process today? i do not get myself sometimes)

i do, however, have a few photos & my twitter account to save from in reduced quality for reuploading to here.

tw rape; pedophilia; suicide; overdosing; medical malpractice:

i wish i could access a skype account that would in fact straight up prove that the male half of a decently well known traveling artist couple (open; i think) hit on me hard when i was 16. he wanted to talk to me. he wanted to skype with me. not with his wife around, who i admired more, though. he wanted to meet… to photograph me. he wanted to see me topless. he was maybe 30 or 31 at the time. i was 16. he knew this. i would, perhaps should, share, but with no receipts, what good is the word of a crazy girl?

i already learned the hard way that you cannot be taken seriously if you wish to be your crazy girl self or especially if you are so very crazy girl that you in fact have 0% choice at least at times – this leads to out of control behavior, so whatever. just because once i might obsess over a cute hospital counselor i had known for years beforehand through okcupid conversations, who was good at his job, so good at his job that i fell for him (hard) while chemically manic from a prozac overdose of 2000mg.

perhaps, if you fell for a figure caring for you who was good at being empathetic and who confessed to YOU that they knew you from the online dating site, and you remembered them immediately, perhaps later after calming you from a panic attack you might find yourself confessing – technically reporting for the first time – that another counselor did in fact rape you once after meeting you at a psych ward as a patient.

you might feel trust, and be met with affirming words.

then they might stop scheduling this counselor you have a fondness for; and within days, they might discharge you unexpectedly, still manic from your suicide attempt, and you might go home, still manic, and confused and rejected, with diagnosed BPD; and message – who else? this man you had once liked, and now loved, in a truly symptomatic way. you might get desperate as time passes and message him more; obsessively; to get a response. by the time the chemically induced mania passes you’re back to stage 1: the depression that put you in the state to overdose and die and go to the hospital. in fact, i don’t know if anyone at a hospital Franklin medical center in Greenfield MA owned by Bay State hospital/medical center that i went to that might have discharged me while manic at one point….possibly maybe…would even be aware of this, since i was blacklisted from that facility that i mentioned earlier after, as i discovered when i ironically enough i overdosed again (this time on 200mg of klonopin; it did worse than mania, but i was not discharged rapidly following a suicide attempt) in less than a month’s time after that and was told by crisis that the hospital that had discharged me (far) too soon would not accept me as a patient again. i was not told why; but i am not stupid. he told them about my flirting, but probably not that we knew each other for literal years before i fell so hard i hit my head and acted stupid and inappropriately. i am not saying i am not at fault here!

but perhaps, though my crazy girl words do not matter, that reporting of a rape was genuine and spurred on through a feeling of intimacy and trust, rather than a desire to lure that counselor into a similar situation, like i suspect is the hospital’s terrible impression of me. i would of course not expect a good impression when i was so manic! i know, i KNOW i was an annoying patient, but discharging someone with a history of attempts over an attempt with an antidepressant followed by mania while they’re still manic let alone not over the severe depression that put them there is not ok! or maybe all of the time! it makes me angry; it is unjust. i was symptomatic, they were unprofessional to the point of endangering my life multiple ways, as well as discrediting my reporting a likely serial rapist who keeps me from going to my local psych facility since he still works there in spite of my having reported him a grand total of two more times since then! so i just tell crisis that i can’t go there because my rapist works there and they send me elsewhere, but perhaps not during a pandemic! so i am afraid.

i’ve left that man i loved passionately but briefly alone, except for a couple of apologies, since before even my mania was fully subsisded. i’m truly sorry if this ost impacts his life negatively, but i believe it would only do so if he failed to report that he knew me irl before i was a patient there and that that contributed to my behavior, and they see this, and then i am taken seriously for once. lol! that won’t happen; i am a crazy girl.

anyways, my hospital options are limited, so i’ve been avoiding reaching out for help during this time…also ironic.

this rapist of mine is i’m sure not only a man who has targeted me. he groomed me so expertly, brought up such oddly specific questions and topics beforehand, got me so inebriated, and more, that there is simply no way i am his only victim. he is charming, tall, spanish by blood, and has a loud laugh. i dislike tall men now, after him, and my abusive father, who i believe is 6’4″, and ironically also named anthony. instead of working at cooley dickinson hospital, though, he resides in my hometown in england, rarely going out as far as i know, now.

i don’t know whether i was ever raped by my father, since i can’t remember my childhood, and i have written about that before. i will talk about it too, possibly, one day, when we both can stomach it.

anyways. nobody takes the blog posts of a crazy girl seriously, of course, but this crazy girl wants to be heard, so she’s making a last attempt at explaining how she became so desperate – tooth and claw; blood and bone. bitter to the taste, but sweet looking so as to lure in people. no. not at all. not her intention. her eating disorder got worse, so that she could stop having boobs and an ass! she hated her body. it led to more unwanted attention. sick girl, thin girl, right? that’s the stereotype, and i suppose equally or maybe less importantly, the ocd-powered fixation. yes, she, or i, got an ocd diagnosis.

anyways i realize that making these accusations, even as legally unbinding “maybes” that are still obvious, is a serious thing.

tooth.

and.

claw.

blood.

and.

bone.

i love you all, even the counselor who was too afraid to face the consequences of his having had an online dating profile who got me blacklisted from a local hospital, limiting my options. i don’t love my rapist anthony whose old phone number i still have in my contacts though.

nails and tooth enamel cracking as it bites down on sinew and harder things, cutting the way a sharp tooth can, like a tooth filed down with acid wear from years of bulimia followed by years of chronic gi disease like i’ve had.

i did a quarantine hair change, again

you are a treasure, and you need to take care of yourself so that you may take care of others and do your work in the world. your best work.

xoxo
z

trying, writing, breathing

I am trying and writing and trying and writing. I am breathing and breathing and bored.
I am dissatisfied with almost everything, from the downright insufferable
To those who are in pain, maybe the worst they’ve known, as it gnawed
At their bones and their joints and their blood cells, plasma running full

Bleeding and getting back up and being full of life, but perhaps too much so
Trying and trying and trying. Am I still writing? I’m not sure.
Running as fast as I can from a past that I miss and I go and I go
Repeating words like it makes me some kind of linguistics connoisseur

Writing and breathing and slowing my heart rate, no longer a wild horse
Hooves on the dry mud and grass as it races alongside its kind
Passion hurts, so we avoid it. We get bored faster and faster of course
Your phone is smart but you won’t be if you never pick up a book, feel its spine

Read the words inside. Kiss the ground and thank it for your pain.
Stop numbing yourself just because it feels better that way
Take small measures to improve your life, every day, work hard to stay sane
Avoid the hospital but avoid harming yourself too, find a method to being okay

I am writing and I am trying and I am writing and I am breathing. I am breathing and I am safe.
The bones of my body are covered in layers of flesh that decays slower than I could ever breathe
Oxygen keeps me alive and it ruins me, my love, my life, not my reason but something to chafe
Did you know there is no point? Yet there is so much to do, so much to see!

Find the good and the bad, one cannot exist without the other. If you can only see one,
Well then hopefully it’s not the bad (hopefully you aren’t teenaged me),
(early-twenties me, current me, me’s in between, oh such fun!)
They delivered the paper parcels and I lied, again, you see.