sucker clown

the joke is on you; the joker’s on you? he’s a canonical rapist, so maybe. maybe i look just enough like harley quinn that i’ll suffer through another rape or several in my lifetime. i think about that, statistically. i think about anorexia mortality statistics, and bpd mortality ones.

the joke is definitely on me. i am a harlequin, and i am but a statistic, yet i sit here, recently diagnosed at the gi specialist with anorexia nervosa.

when i was young, my cousin oa was anorexic. i love her very much to this day. it didn’t scare me then because i didn’t realize how sick she was or how miserable she was or the hell she was putting her fragile body through. i now know these things. i kind of wish i didn’t.

oh, to think about rape! what hate fills my mind; what anger i start to know; what bitterness is forced upon me like a net around a fish being caught! too much trauma – i become the bitter borderline bitch (bbb)… i get flashbacks, but not nearly like i get ptsd from my suicide attempts. or intrusive thoughts of suicide related to attempts i’ve made and attempts i haven’t made (yet? hopefully never i make them?) that is definitely, most definitely related to my ocd. i have obsessive thoughts about suicide & death, i know this now.

funny how the passage of time changes things so. you realize this more and more as you get older. hopefully it stops at 27 or 28, because i can’t take too much more.

listening to charli xcx, again to mention it as if i were on livejournal. again. still my theme does not reflect this, or my last.fm, not that that would be a thing! it of course is not even scrobbling my plays – do i know this? – no, i assume this. – okay, i’ll check. – – – yes, i was right, at least the ones i am mostly playing, on my amazon music player. i signed up for a 90 day trial, and now i am listening to charli xcx sing “i got my friends by my side and that’s all that matters to me” […] “aWOOO”

those capital letters were a typo, but i cannot do anything but love them and keep them there, in what feels like their rightful place within this blog post.

my harley quinn bleach bleach bleached blonde bleachy baby hair is of course, bleached, though not recently. soon i will tone my extensions! for now, here is a deceitfully lit and filtered picture that appears to show my extensions matching my hair, though they are far more yellow:

i’m known to be quite vexing

lol.

okay, that’s plenty for now. i’m filming everything anyways. are you following me on youtube yet?

youtube dot neoncherry dot pink

that above url goes to my youtube page! so. there. enjoy?

xoxo

PS i’m having an involuntary clown moment. leave me alone re: this!!! and that.

out of the ash box

i am more, so much more than just a plath wannabe in life
you are here, fighting for every second with my body and my being
i want them with you too but i don’t think you understand me or my strife
i came out of the ash box, i came out of somewhere that left me screaming

started something trivial, now i’d be crying if my body would allow
let me for months past over anything other than a stung eye like an onion
i remember years ago, sitting by the ash, i don’t really know how
but i remember the sketches and burning them in the fire that burned running

i remember the princess and how her love was tortured and then how i was scarred
i remember scoffing because what else can you do when your fairytale is the old kind
the kind that teaches you a lesson! the kind that disney had in their future but so far
i reject love because then you never hurt when you are hurt, when you are left behind

is it normal to tell your child you will leave them? is it normal to do it?
i don’t remember much but i remember enough to be sad
and i remember sketching torture like i’d seen, like you’d showed me, like i knew fit
my life in the ash box when i crawled back in with my skinny short limbs, bad

i am less, so much less than you taught me i am, which is nothing
i am free, never free, because i have complex damn ptsd…well who cares
another victim is just another victim even when their martyr complex is strong
and i am here, but i don’t know if i want to be, but i don’t dare

i remember burning up, watching the flames lick my fingertips as i numbed myself to heat
i remember throwing the evidence of my thoughts and anything i dared be away
i remember keeping the rest in notebooks too miniature to read
i don’t remember much but i sure remember hurt, even as the edges fray

oh! how dare you train me to be so afraid of being critical even to this day
even after my brain has finished developing and my body has hurt for many years
oh! how dare i be critical of you after all you have done for me, after all i have stayed
i suppose i’m awful and i should be punished for my ways and for my tears

am i a demon? no. yes. no. you used to love me, i think. i don’t remember very well.
how could someone do so much damage to family, i thought
and then, ten years ago to the month, i went into the psych ward and learned their spell
they pretend to listen but their words show they never learned anything they didn’t want

i’m okay but i am also never and i am also holding onto the knife’s edge with my fingertips
as they bleed i continue because how else could i behave in this almost 2019 moment
i’m dying and i am feverish and i tell lies because feelings are real monsters made out of shit
hallucinations that were never there become real distressing excuses for being spent

what do you do when your brain falls apart and they threaten to take everything you want away
when do you give in when you know that you need to be sliced open soon
for your own good of course, take the teeth out, remove the rot, let the others stay
a little bit rotten and drilled and filled and buffed and obviously not a boon

that is me, i am my own teeth, and every cell in my body! they fight, except when they don’t
i wonder often if that is your fault, it would help if i had my memories
so i cling to the ones i have: in the ash box again, burning paper just to stay warm, i can’t
holding fingers to moments to see if i turn to ash too, of this i will never be free

wishlist

buy me a pink low pile rug and pink furniture paint with primer mixed in and
a new tall cat tower for my babygirl xena
and some 35mm film for my camera

pay off all of my debt and
help my mom repair her house and cover medical appointment copays
and ensure that my checking can always pay the vet bills

give me a place to live where i feel safe and free and
i want to walk outside again and feel fresh air
and i wish the most for a life with good mental/physical health for myself, for those i love

sexual abuse

“Have you ever been sexually abused?”

Silence. Absolute lack of conversation, or “I don’t know.” At this point, I am 16 years old, and usually pouty and angsty enough that nobody really feels sorry for the suicidal pink haired girl, maybe. I don’t know, I’m biased, I was the suicidal 16 year old. I was the one answering every single question from mental health professionals with “I don’t know,” only not to be difficult, just because I didn’t know.

Fast forward for now.

I have one memory.

It shuts off part way through, like a corrupted video file. It shuts off like most of my childhood memories are shut off from the start, from before that. They all were really, until this February, now just most of them are.

I was 23 years old this February.

Another day, another month maybe, another mental health professional. “Your symptoms seem consistent with physical or sexual abuse, have you ever been abused by anyone as a child?” They eye my mom as an afterthought, “we can have this conversation alone, if you’d like.”

“I don’t know.”

So next we fast forward, I’m 17, older but still a teenager, losing mental functioning already but still hopeful that this brutally suicidal depressive episode will end soon – it has to, right? When the memories start, at age 13, when I moved to the USA. Well, technically six months or so before. When my dad moved out. When we started planning the move to another continent, setting up our dual citizenship, myself, my brother and my mother. When my dad wasn’t really around. When things were quieter.

My memory starts and stops. It’s hard to stay on task. To be “together”.

But there’s that question, “have you ever been sexually abused?” and that year, late 2009, when I was 17 and being asked that question and being asked that question and being asked that question.

Let’s write it out three times, for the three psychiatric hospitalizations within days of each other that I had where they asked it upon admission each time, for accuracy. I had to write a list of coping techniques 100 items long to be allowed home after that third hospitalization.

“Have you ever been physically or sexually abused?”

I don’t know. I don’t know.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer. I need to put yes or no.”

“I don’t know. No.”

“Have you ever been sexually abused?”

“I don’t know. No. I don’t think so.”

“Okay…” then they move onto the next question on the computer. “have you had thoughts of harming others, or only yourself?”

“Have you ever been sexually abused?”

“I…. no.”

So now it’s almost November 2016, and my memory has slipped into a state of “it probably has to be there a little bit still for me to even be alive, right?” but not caring at all about any effects ECT could have on me if they ever get around to that treatment, because memory loss doesn’t scare someone with little to no short term memory already.

I have this one memory. Big windows. My childhood home. Curtains? Embroidered darker green curtains. It comes and goes. Something happened, maybe. I shouldn’t have seen that. Then it cuts off. Why are his pants off? Why can’t I remember his face? Why is he approaching me like that, when I remember being young, too young for a memory like that. Is it even real? It shuts off.

I told my mom about it on the phone while in an ER earlier this year, after February. Her first reaction was that the brain can fabricate and alter memories, which while true, is the most invalidating thing you can say to someone who just told you they might have been sexually abused.

I dissociate a lot. I am hypersexual at times. You can trace my cPTSD easily to other abuse, to being raped, more than once. Of course I am a mess. I am such a mess my symptoms and traumas are hard to untangle. I have self harmed by having sex with people I knew I would hate myself for doing it with. I have self harmed in other ways. I have a brain that I can barely keep afloat on a day to day basis, I have monsters to slay every second of the day, but it plagues me in a different way that I don’t know.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I remember too much, I know things I shouldn’t, but there are other explanations for that. I don’t know. He would leave the tv on late and fall asleep with porn on in the bedroom we shared, that doesn’t mean he did anything.

I also can’t say nobody didn’t.

I guess this is less valid than a solid, real trauma I could pinpoint and take all the way to the legal system, if I wanted to. I have traumas I can pinpoint but this is not one of them. However, this also isn’t “was I touched in ways I shouldn’t have been?”

Instead it’s, “How inappropriately young was I when I was first touched in this one way? What about in this other way, without consent, a way that nobody should ever touch someone? How old was I the first time that happened?”

My lack of memories that are of my abuse aren’t evidence that it didn’t happen, I remember other things very clearly that are mostly gone but that I know happened enough times, and probably many more.

Trauma being “blacked out” in memory is a common response.

Why does this one memory start out this way? Why does it shut off?

Why does it shut off? I don’t know. I don’t know. It makes me angry, hurts, I stop thinking about it.

Usually, and in about five minutes, at least.

“Have you ever been sexually abused?” Nobody is asking me any more, partly because I am avoiding care, due to a mistrust of the system built on its deep flaws and glaringly bad history of taking care of me within the past few years. Nobody is asking, but I am asking myself in this blog post. Because:

I don’t know.

unhelpful blogging and how to keep doing it

I feel like my blog has been a bizarre mixture of not-posting-ever-at-all (for months), and spewing out word jumble onto here, possibly too often. I want to make something clear: this is me getting better, for me, and for you, and in healing through writing. I enjoy documenting my lows (although not experiencing them), even when I am being a “bad unhelpful blogger” about it.

At the end of the day, I know I try to contribute more good than negative stuff into the world. I try to provide resources for those who are struggling with mental health issues that I feel educated enough to speak on. Usually educated enough. Incomplete sentences are definitely going to be a thing for a while while my PTSD is severe.
I do know that focusing on my health improves my general state, including my writing. If you want to take the title of this post seriously, the answer for how to keep blogging “badly” is to not focus on healing yourself and your mental health. However, I am not currently interested in regressing but also not currently doing that well with writing coherently and concisely recently, so here is a photo post for today:
Chauncey

All for now. Notice I didn’t say today – we’ll see.
xoxo
Z