One thing I've noticed about myself recently is I'm a lot more reluctant to touch people. It's strange. A lot of the time I need physical contact. Hugs. Mental bridges. And so forth. But more and more I've been dwelling over the notion that people don't want to be touched. Another case of me being afraid to put myself forward for stupid reasons. A bit of affection shouldn't be asking a lot... but sadly, I've just forgotten how to ask. I guess it's not really fair to expect people to help me when I won't express any need for it.
I need to hear that everything's going to be okay. I need to be comforted. I need to learn to cry again.
Of course, I wouldn't dream of asking for anything. No matter how much I trusted the person, no matter how much I needed it. It's not in my nature. I just give of myself, as best I can... of course, good intentions count for nothing. And there's always the fear of being called selfish, or an attention whore. No. Never ask for anything. Just give, and hope, perhaps, to be repaid in kind. That's my philosophy so far as this sort of thing goes. Never ask. Never complain.
I am so sick of my self-depreciating bullshit. I almost wish I wasn't able to tell when I'm lying to myself.
I've been dreaming of the Defender again. That strange fusion of Skeleton and the haich. The dreams are fewer and fewer, but growing stronger. I hope nothing... regrettable happens.
Jan 29, 2009
Jan 28, 2009
How many sheep are there?
I've been feeling the alienation a lot recently. More than usual. I find it hard to talk about. I keep seeing myself as that annoying guy, the one who keeps bringing up that one thing long after everyone else has stopped talking about it, the subject that we'd all rather forget and move on from, and we just don't want to hear about it any more, please, shut up! You know, all that. I've felt that way when speaking to people my whole life; topics of conversation change long before I'm finished with them. That sums up a lot of my communication problems, actually.
From what I've read, one of the biggest frustrations for multiples is that no one can accept that it doesn't stop. I look normal, I sound normal, and for the most part I act relatively normal, so people see me as normal. Even when they know why I'm different, they still see me as normal most of the time. They see Alex, who from time to time has depression. Or they see Alex, who has these other people who come out sometimes. What singletons have difficulty grasping is this: I'm like this all the time. Curing depression isn't as easy as curing the blues. Switching out alters is neither voluntary nor predictable. And my problems don't go away just because you're not comfortable dealing with them.
Ironically, I'm not alone on this. Other alters have reported the same feelings - that people ignore or reject them because they're sick of hearing about their issues. One of the most common annoying things they hear are "Aren't you over that yet?" or "What, you're still in therapy?" and similar. A lot of the reason Tasha left me is because I wouldn't (couldn't) stop being depressed for her. My parents are convinced that this is something that will go away, despite the fact that virtually all multiples I've heard of are at least twice my age. The people I open up to gradually talk to me less and less until I'm absent from their lives. No one wants to have to deal with something like this constantly.
Anyway, that's the reason I guilt-trip myself so much about talking about myself. I even worry about it on my Own Personal Blog, which is supposed to be about me in the first place. It was actually just the other day I realized how absurd that is... well, Lank finally snapped and told me. So, really the point I'm trying to make is this. I hurt. I believe I've stated that. But it doesn't stop there - I am still hurting. Always. There is always another bout of depression to somehow hurdle, another spring-loaded trap in the crevasse of my mind, another monster in the darkness looking to convert or torture me. It. Never. Stops.
Do you see why I see myself as a burden? It just keeps piling on, far more than anyone is prepared to deal with. And it doesn't stop. I've managed to keep myself afloat by becoming, as previously mentioned, one tough son of a bitch. (The cockroach; easy to crush, damn near impossible to kill.) Add this to the fact that I'm a master of manipulation, able to slip under peoples' defenses, and it's little wonder people aren't prepared to get involved with me.
It's not right, really. I've always developed early. I started talking at five months, and was able to recognize symbols by six. I could write my name before most children could recognize the letter A. I guess this follows suit. Depression is one thing, but I shouldn't have started really cracking up for another ten years at the very least. Instead it showed up at an age when developmental angst is supposed to occur anyway, which really hasn't helped. At all.
This may sound like I'm boasting, in some sick way. I guess I am... but really, everything I might have to be proud of has gone wrong. Every strength I have is also a weakness. My self-awareness and mental prowess only turned me into this long before I was ready to deal with it. My toughness has kept me alive (barely), but it's also kept me from seeking much-needed help. My intelligence and artistic flair have been used against me, weaving me deeper and deeper into my own internal world. My morality and desire to do good is twisted and warped by my own systems and Other forces. My big heart lacks the ability to self-repair, and thus remains broken. My gifts are curses. I suppose by some inversion logic my curses are also gifts, but I don't much see how at the moment.
Although, the fact that I complain so little outside the Internets is a source of personal pride for me. I see people every day complaining about their lives; school, relationships, family, etc. I have something that can't be fixed with assertion and a positive attitude. Not that I'm saying no one else has it bad, of course. That would be terribly insensitive. But I'm what other people pretend to be: someone different. Someone with issues. And you don't hear me complaining. Do you notice the more superficial a problem is, the louder a person will talk about it?
So yes. I am still going on about this. I am still not over myself. I am still hurting. I don't say it because I'm full of myself, or because I want attention. I say it because it's true.
Once, my mother tells me, a bee was trapped in my grandfather's house. He spent a good long time chasing it about before catching it in a cup. He brought it to the window and, tenderly saying "There you go!" let it go... where it flew directly into a spider's web.
That doesn't have anything to do with this. I don't know why I brought it up.
From what I've read, one of the biggest frustrations for multiples is that no one can accept that it doesn't stop. I look normal, I sound normal, and for the most part I act relatively normal, so people see me as normal. Even when they know why I'm different, they still see me as normal most of the time. They see Alex, who from time to time has depression. Or they see Alex, who has these other people who come out sometimes. What singletons have difficulty grasping is this: I'm like this all the time. Curing depression isn't as easy as curing the blues. Switching out alters is neither voluntary nor predictable. And my problems don't go away just because you're not comfortable dealing with them.
Ironically, I'm not alone on this. Other alters have reported the same feelings - that people ignore or reject them because they're sick of hearing about their issues. One of the most common annoying things they hear are "Aren't you over that yet?" or "What, you're still in therapy?" and similar. A lot of the reason Tasha left me is because I wouldn't (couldn't) stop being depressed for her. My parents are convinced that this is something that will go away, despite the fact that virtually all multiples I've heard of are at least twice my age. The people I open up to gradually talk to me less and less until I'm absent from their lives. No one wants to have to deal with something like this constantly.
Anyway, that's the reason I guilt-trip myself so much about talking about myself. I even worry about it on my Own Personal Blog, which is supposed to be about me in the first place. It was actually just the other day I realized how absurd that is... well, Lank finally snapped and told me. So, really the point I'm trying to make is this. I hurt. I believe I've stated that. But it doesn't stop there - I am still hurting. Always. There is always another bout of depression to somehow hurdle, another spring-loaded trap in the crevasse of my mind, another monster in the darkness looking to convert or torture me. It. Never. Stops.
Do you see why I see myself as a burden? It just keeps piling on, far more than anyone is prepared to deal with. And it doesn't stop. I've managed to keep myself afloat by becoming, as previously mentioned, one tough son of a bitch. (The cockroach; easy to crush, damn near impossible to kill.) Add this to the fact that I'm a master of manipulation, able to slip under peoples' defenses, and it's little wonder people aren't prepared to get involved with me.
It's not right, really. I've always developed early. I started talking at five months, and was able to recognize symbols by six. I could write my name before most children could recognize the letter A. I guess this follows suit. Depression is one thing, but I shouldn't have started really cracking up for another ten years at the very least. Instead it showed up at an age when developmental angst is supposed to occur anyway, which really hasn't helped. At all.
This may sound like I'm boasting, in some sick way. I guess I am... but really, everything I might have to be proud of has gone wrong. Every strength I have is also a weakness. My self-awareness and mental prowess only turned me into this long before I was ready to deal with it. My toughness has kept me alive (barely), but it's also kept me from seeking much-needed help. My intelligence and artistic flair have been used against me, weaving me deeper and deeper into my own internal world. My morality and desire to do good is twisted and warped by my own systems and Other forces. My big heart lacks the ability to self-repair, and thus remains broken. My gifts are curses. I suppose by some inversion logic my curses are also gifts, but I don't much see how at the moment.
Although, the fact that I complain so little outside the Internets is a source of personal pride for me. I see people every day complaining about their lives; school, relationships, family, etc. I have something that can't be fixed with assertion and a positive attitude. Not that I'm saying no one else has it bad, of course. That would be terribly insensitive. But I'm what other people pretend to be: someone different. Someone with issues. And you don't hear me complaining. Do you notice the more superficial a problem is, the louder a person will talk about it?
So yes. I am still going on about this. I am still not over myself. I am still hurting. I don't say it because I'm full of myself, or because I want attention. I say it because it's true.
Once, my mother tells me, a bee was trapped in my grandfather's house. He spent a good long time chasing it about before catching it in a cup. He brought it to the window and, tenderly saying "There you go!" let it go... where it flew directly into a spider's web.
That doesn't have anything to do with this. I don't know why I brought it up.
Jan 25, 2009
Vomit sweep
Lank and Prophet hurtled through the door, the hissing of the Serpent just behind them. They slammed it closed and hurled themselves against it as a ferocious pounding began outside. Rocks began to fall from above. They jumped back and ran down the stairs just as the entrance caved in.
"Well," said Prophet, "this isn't looking too good, really."
They continued down the stairs, entering a large circular chamber. A curious sight met their eyes. Filling most of the room was an enormous circular table, upon which was a thick slab of dark meat; flat on one end and tapering to a point, covered in glossy black scales. It was the bottom half of the dark Serpent outside. Across the chamber and on both sides were small tunnels leading to different rooms. "What is this," muttered Lank, "a dungeon crawler?"
The pair stared at the tail for a full minute, baffled. Then from somewhere else came a high-pitched shriek. Whisk tore out of the opposite entrance, screaming her head off, and ran down the path to the right. She was followed a few seconds later by a dark Centipede with evil-looking eyes. Lank started after her.
"Wait," said Prophet. "She's been here awhile, so she's probably used to outrunning those things by now. Let's look around."
"But she screamed," insisted Lank. "So either this is the first time this has happened or she knows we're here and needs help. I mean, is she really the sort of person who'll scream like that for no reason?" They considered this for a second and silently agreed. Yes. Yes she was. They crossed the chamber and set off down the opposite tunnel.
They entered a second chamber of similar size and stopped short. A single tunnel led off to the right. Directly facing them was the grinning skull of a Serpent, its skeleton laid out in pieces behind it. Both gulped quietly. "What is this place?" asked Lank, quieter than he intended. "Some kind of Serpent Cathedral?" Before Prophet could answer a Centipede crawled out of the other tunnel. "We can outrun that," said Lank. "Like Whisk did. Right?"
Prophet said nothing.
Today was the second of two sessions of first aid training. Cuts and burns and all kinds of illness. They told me my seizure impression was very realistic. I thought it best not to mention I'd gone through these exact motions many times before.
Two things bothered me. One was the plastic shed in the corner of the room, used to store supplies. Somehow I got a bad vibe from it. I remembered a similar shed, a long time ago... it was so warm outside, the plastic was sticky to the touch... the memory stops. Something in my past involved a Rubbermaid shed, just like this. You know the door in your mind, the one that all your secrets lie behind? I think mine looks like this. The implications are worrisome.
The second was on the way out. It was dark outside by the time we left. I worry enough about going outside during the day, so even with family I was scared stiff to be walking about at night. When we finally reached the car, I looked back at the building we'd just left. (The wave pool, or KLC. Did I mention that?) As I looked at it in the dark, viewing the squat side from the parking lot, the red eyes staring down at me, I remembered. We'd come here before, when I was very small. Only once, though; I didn't like the waves. I remember I dreamed of it, once or twice. I remember it being darker. I remember it being emptier. I told myself it couldn't be the same place, because it was taller than I'd remembered. I'd just been looking at it from the wrong side. And there... the dream flooded back into me. The memories. There. On the roof.
Those eyes.
That face.
The dragon.
Could this be, I thought, shaking, the very first- but we drove away. The eyes followed us.
"Well," said Prophet, "this isn't looking too good, really."
They continued down the stairs, entering a large circular chamber. A curious sight met their eyes. Filling most of the room was an enormous circular table, upon which was a thick slab of dark meat; flat on one end and tapering to a point, covered in glossy black scales. It was the bottom half of the dark Serpent outside. Across the chamber and on both sides were small tunnels leading to different rooms. "What is this," muttered Lank, "a dungeon crawler?"
The pair stared at the tail for a full minute, baffled. Then from somewhere else came a high-pitched shriek. Whisk tore out of the opposite entrance, screaming her head off, and ran down the path to the right. She was followed a few seconds later by a dark Centipede with evil-looking eyes. Lank started after her.
"Wait," said Prophet. "She's been here awhile, so she's probably used to outrunning those things by now. Let's look around."
"But she screamed," insisted Lank. "So either this is the first time this has happened or she knows we're here and needs help. I mean, is she really the sort of person who'll scream like that for no reason?" They considered this for a second and silently agreed. Yes. Yes she was. They crossed the chamber and set off down the opposite tunnel.
They entered a second chamber of similar size and stopped short. A single tunnel led off to the right. Directly facing them was the grinning skull of a Serpent, its skeleton laid out in pieces behind it. Both gulped quietly. "What is this place?" asked Lank, quieter than he intended. "Some kind of Serpent Cathedral?" Before Prophet could answer a Centipede crawled out of the other tunnel. "We can outrun that," said Lank. "Like Whisk did. Right?"
Prophet said nothing.
Today was the second of two sessions of first aid training. Cuts and burns and all kinds of illness. They told me my seizure impression was very realistic. I thought it best not to mention I'd gone through these exact motions many times before.
Two things bothered me. One was the plastic shed in the corner of the room, used to store supplies. Somehow I got a bad vibe from it. I remembered a similar shed, a long time ago... it was so warm outside, the plastic was sticky to the touch... the memory stops. Something in my past involved a Rubbermaid shed, just like this. You know the door in your mind, the one that all your secrets lie behind? I think mine looks like this. The implications are worrisome.
The second was on the way out. It was dark outside by the time we left. I worry enough about going outside during the day, so even with family I was scared stiff to be walking about at night. When we finally reached the car, I looked back at the building we'd just left. (The wave pool, or KLC. Did I mention that?) As I looked at it in the dark, viewing the squat side from the parking lot, the red eyes staring down at me, I remembered. We'd come here before, when I was very small. Only once, though; I didn't like the waves. I remember I dreamed of it, once or twice. I remember it being darker. I remember it being emptier. I told myself it couldn't be the same place, because it was taller than I'd remembered. I'd just been looking at it from the wrong side. And there... the dream flooded back into me. The memories. There. On the roof.
Those eyes.
That face.
The dragon.
Could this be, I thought, shaking, the very first- but we drove away. The eyes followed us.
Jan 24, 2009
Choking on headphones
You know what bothers me? The phrase "I'm proud to be [race/nationality]." There's this whole "proud to be an American" thing, and "proud to be a Canadian" - which means, as I understand it, "proud not to be an American." Canadians on the whole really don't like Americans, or at least, their perceived attitude of supremacy. Honestly, this lot is just as smug. And the other day on the radio during President Obama's inauguration (still waiting to be impressed) I heard some woman (an important woman?) pronounce that she was proud to be black.
Facepalm. I'm sick of it.
You're proud of your race/nationality? As in, from the moment you were born, just because of your colour or location, you already had something that made you better than everyone else? Simply by existing, you have a reason to be proud of yourself?
"I'm proud of my country" is generally better. It's saying "I'm proud that the people who originated in this area have done some good things." Yet at the same time, it can carry some supremacist undertones: "My country has done some pretty good things. What's your country done, huh?"
And then there's this whole "gay pride" thing. I've got nothing against homosexuals myself, mind. It'd be hard to, since I know a fair number of them myself. Yet... "I display a characteristic that causes others to stereotype and discriminate against me!" Seriously, throughout the whole of history the gays have been beaten down just for being who they are. And for what? So this will sound harsh, but can you tell me a single way the world would be worse off if homosexuality just didn't exist? (Granted, there's a couple, but nothing that compares to centuries upon centuries of hatred.) But, much like albinism and other ways in which people are born different, they are here. So give them equal rights, and everything. But it's nothing to be proud of.
You know what's something to be proud of? Walking across a continent. Writing a novel. Going where no man has gone before. Saving a life. Winning a competition. Making a contribution or doing something noteworthy. People don't know what's really important any more. If at the end of your life all you can say is "I'm proud of who I am" then you've failed. Acceptance isn't the same as achievement. Existence isn't the same as action. And just being what you are isn't something to be proud of.
I'm satisfied with my race, my nationality, and the country that I live in. Now I'm going to go out and do something to be proud of.
Speaking of doing things, I need to be studying... exams... sigh...
Facepalm. I'm sick of it.
You're proud of your race/nationality? As in, from the moment you were born, just because of your colour or location, you already had something that made you better than everyone else? Simply by existing, you have a reason to be proud of yourself?
"I'm proud of my country" is generally better. It's saying "I'm proud that the people who originated in this area have done some good things." Yet at the same time, it can carry some supremacist undertones: "My country has done some pretty good things. What's your country done, huh?"
And then there's this whole "gay pride" thing. I've got nothing against homosexuals myself, mind. It'd be hard to, since I know a fair number of them myself. Yet... "I display a characteristic that causes others to stereotype and discriminate against me!" Seriously, throughout the whole of history the gays have been beaten down just for being who they are. And for what? So this will sound harsh, but can you tell me a single way the world would be worse off if homosexuality just didn't exist? (Granted, there's a couple, but nothing that compares to centuries upon centuries of hatred.) But, much like albinism and other ways in which people are born different, they are here. So give them equal rights, and everything. But it's nothing to be proud of.
You know what's something to be proud of? Walking across a continent. Writing a novel. Going where no man has gone before. Saving a life. Winning a competition. Making a contribution or doing something noteworthy. People don't know what's really important any more. If at the end of your life all you can say is "I'm proud of who I am" then you've failed. Acceptance isn't the same as achievement. Existence isn't the same as action. And just being what you are isn't something to be proud of.
I'm satisfied with my race, my nationality, and the country that I live in. Now I'm going to go out and do something to be proud of.
Speaking of doing things, I need to be studying... exams... sigh...
Jan 23, 2009
The good place
I wish I could have some alone time.
Most of the reason I haven't gone completely mad (although come to think of it that's debatable) is because I have other versions of myself to talk to. Even when our friends ignore us, even when we can't bear to speak to our loved ones, we are always there for each other. We get along as well as any siblings can. We love each other really, on the rare occasions when we're not at each others' throats. We can always talk to each other. Always provide advice and reassurance. Always there. I am never alone.
That's... really a terrible thing.
I want to be left alone. Completely alone. I want a minute when these tiny, whispering, singing voices will cease, when I don't constantly feel as though I'm being watched, when I'm actually free within my own mind. I want the nagging doubts to disappear. I want the Chaos to be still. I want a few moments of sweet, total silence. I want cold emptiness. I want isolation. What others fear the most is the thing I treasure the most in the world.
Of course, I would soon become lonely. I'm too used to being in good company. Solitary confinement is used to break people, after all. Honestly I wonder sometimes how singletons can survive on their own. But it is important, isn't it? It's been proven that all creatures, including vultures, need their personal space. Time alone is really important to me. I covet it, I envy it, I feel awful when I interrupt it, I'd do damn near anything to find it...
I am never alone, yet lonely. The worst of both worlds.
Oh, the things I want.
I want to get married some day, but can't see it happening. I guess I can't see why anyone would want to put up with me for the rest of their life.
I want to sleep and feel rested. My body rises and falls, but I always feel dead inside.
I want a more athletic body. The kind that can actually do push-ups. Unfortunately the only way to get such a body is to do push-ups. Which, as you may have inferred, I cannot actually do. I have skinny arms.
I want a loud, confident voice. I can't talk over anything. If there's another noise in the room, it will drown me out. I only raise my voice when I'm angry, and even then only for a second before I put myself back in check. I want to not have to repeat most of everything I say.
I want some positive self-esteem beyond begrudging acceptance.
I want to create something beautiful. My works are unique. That does not make them beautiful. I want to make an impact on people for the right reasons.
I want to be tortured. I want to push myself to my limits and see how much I can really withstand.
I want to be able to express my feelings to someone without having to constantly explain myself.
I want to do anything without having to explain myself.
I want longer fingers (see above).
I want adequate facial recognition skills so I can know what I look like.
I want to remember things.
I want to want to be right.
I want to stop denying myself things that I want.
I want to be happy. I want to make other people happy. I'm always torn between the two and end up achieving neither.
I want to know what I'm thinking and feeling instead of lying to myself and having to guess.
I want to cry. I want to let it all out but I never do.
I want to watch the world burn... but I'd rather not get into that.
I want all parts of me to be in agreement about our religion, our sexuality, and our attitude towards the world. As if we could agree on anything.
I want my personal demons to come out into the light so I can deal with them.
I want someone to call me a freak, just so I can validate my insecurities.
I want the dark king and his minions to leave me the hell alone.
I want to build up my immunity to cold so that I will never feel cold again. I can live freely in the ice.
I want to have a daughter, and for her to be a lot like me.
I want people to be less stupid and just fix the world already. It's not like it can't be done.
I want people to recognize the hardships I've endured so I don't feel bad about dwelling on them. Of course, a trial is worth nothing unless you've got something to show for it. All I have are my stories.
I want the people I love to stop hurting me, and for it to stop being my fault when they do.
What do I want? I want to be loved.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was I AM. This has echoed throughout the whole of Creation. Everyone that lives has been born with nothing but the Word in their minds, and they go to enormous lengths to live by it. That's why people need other people. We need to have an impact on others. We need to have a place in the Universe. We need to prove to ourselves that we exist.
Most of the reason I haven't gone completely mad (although come to think of it that's debatable) is because I have other versions of myself to talk to. Even when our friends ignore us, even when we can't bear to speak to our loved ones, we are always there for each other. We get along as well as any siblings can. We love each other really, on the rare occasions when we're not at each others' throats. We can always talk to each other. Always provide advice and reassurance. Always there. I am never alone.
That's... really a terrible thing.
I want to be left alone. Completely alone. I want a minute when these tiny, whispering, singing voices will cease, when I don't constantly feel as though I'm being watched, when I'm actually free within my own mind. I want the nagging doubts to disappear. I want the Chaos to be still. I want a few moments of sweet, total silence. I want cold emptiness. I want isolation. What others fear the most is the thing I treasure the most in the world.
Of course, I would soon become lonely. I'm too used to being in good company. Solitary confinement is used to break people, after all. Honestly I wonder sometimes how singletons can survive on their own. But it is important, isn't it? It's been proven that all creatures, including vultures, need their personal space. Time alone is really important to me. I covet it, I envy it, I feel awful when I interrupt it, I'd do damn near anything to find it...
I am never alone, yet lonely. The worst of both worlds.
Oh, the things I want.
I want to get married some day, but can't see it happening. I guess I can't see why anyone would want to put up with me for the rest of their life.
I want to sleep and feel rested. My body rises and falls, but I always feel dead inside.
I want a more athletic body. The kind that can actually do push-ups. Unfortunately the only way to get such a body is to do push-ups. Which, as you may have inferred, I cannot actually do. I have skinny arms.
I want a loud, confident voice. I can't talk over anything. If there's another noise in the room, it will drown me out. I only raise my voice when I'm angry, and even then only for a second before I put myself back in check. I want to not have to repeat most of everything I say.
I want some positive self-esteem beyond begrudging acceptance.
I want to create something beautiful. My works are unique. That does not make them beautiful. I want to make an impact on people for the right reasons.
I want to be tortured. I want to push myself to my limits and see how much I can really withstand.
I want to be able to express my feelings to someone without having to constantly explain myself.
I want to do anything without having to explain myself.
I want longer fingers (see above).
I want adequate facial recognition skills so I can know what I look like.
I want to remember things.
I want to want to be right.
I want to stop denying myself things that I want.
I want to be happy. I want to make other people happy. I'm always torn between the two and end up achieving neither.
I want to know what I'm thinking and feeling instead of lying to myself and having to guess.
I want to cry. I want to let it all out but I never do.
I want to watch the world burn... but I'd rather not get into that.
I want all parts of me to be in agreement about our religion, our sexuality, and our attitude towards the world. As if we could agree on anything.
I want my personal demons to come out into the light so I can deal with them.
I want someone to call me a freak, just so I can validate my insecurities.
I want the dark king and his minions to leave me the hell alone.
I want to build up my immunity to cold so that I will never feel cold again. I can live freely in the ice.
I want to have a daughter, and for her to be a lot like me.
I want people to be less stupid and just fix the world already. It's not like it can't be done.
I want people to recognize the hardships I've endured so I don't feel bad about dwelling on them. Of course, a trial is worth nothing unless you've got something to show for it. All I have are my stories.
I want the people I love to stop hurting me, and for it to stop being my fault when they do.
What do I want? I want to be loved.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was I AM. This has echoed throughout the whole of Creation. Everyone that lives has been born with nothing but the Word in their minds, and they go to enormous lengths to live by it. That's why people need other people. We need to have an impact on others. We need to have a place in the Universe. We need to prove to ourselves that we exist.
Jan 21, 2009
The Adventure Continues
The excavation was complete.
Styx nodded grimly, a peculiar smile on his face. He was deep inside the blue mountain, very nearly at the center. Wraith was here, somewhere. He could sense her somewhere within. With unusual determination he broke through the final wall into the central cavern.
All was dark. There was a chamber, disproportionately large compared to the exterior of the mountain. It curved up, overhead to a shallow pointed dome. From the very center of the ceiling hung a tiny figure from a silvery strand, wrapped in what appeared to be a cocoon.
Then, suddenly, there was light.
A gargantuan spiderlike creature stared down at Styx with hungry eyes. He backed against the wall nervously. The creature took a step forward. It smiled wickedly and growled.
Meanwhile,
Far to the south, Prophet and Lank stood before the Chasm, staring across to the other side. "Is there a way around it?" asked Lank. Without waiting for an answer (he already knew there was none) he looked around for a means of crossing it. Nearby were several trees. Lazily he plucked one from the ground. An extensive root system blossomed beneath it, stretching longer and longer as he pulled. At last he brought it to the edge of the Chasm and laid it across. Instantly the roots contracted and the tree zipped back across the ground and into its hole, as though it had never moved. Then it shot out again, bounding to the edge of the Chasm and hurling itself across, before moving back again. This repeated again and again.
"Well," said Prophet, "that is interesting." He pulled a comically large nail from his pocket and placed it on the ground before the Chasm, securing it with a large black magnet. The tree threw itself down on the nail, shuddered, then pulled itself off as before, spraying a stream of watery sap. "Well, that didn't work," Prophet muttered, slipping the nail into the magnet and back into his pocket.
Lank stared. "Do you seriously have a nail that fits inside a magnet?"
Prophet looked down and shrugged. "Yeah."
"How do you get it back out again?"
"It's not easy."
"Anyway." Lank looked back at the tree falling across the Chasm again. "I'm sure we can still use this to get across. Ought to be fun."
Meanwhile,
Styx hung from the ceiling, suspended by a strand of webbing. Wraith dangled beside him. "It's a velocarachnid, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Shit. I had no idea they got so big..." He shook his head and watched the behemoth pacing below. "Well... I guess this is it, then."
There was a bright flash and a rumble. Seconds later Skeleton screamed out of the tunnel in full battle armor. The velocarachnid rumbled around to face him. They stared each other down. "This creature may not be defeated [by ordinary means]," said Skeleton. "I will [attempt to] rescue you." Then he charged, striking the beast on the head with his hammer. The crash reverberated throughout the cavern, but the monster did not appear to feel it. It laughed. Skeleton flew up and slashed at the strings holding up Wraith. When they snapped she dropped like a stone... straight into the mouth of the velocarachnid.
"No!" whispered Styx. He dared not say it any louder.
But Skeleton was underneath, slicing carefully through the skin on the creature's belly. After several long, agonizing seconds of cutting Wraith fell out, coughing, crying and slime-covered. Again, the creature did not appear to notice. It stretched up its neck and swallowed Styx, who promptly fell out of the same hole into Skeleton's arms. Skeleton held the two siblings and rocketed back out the tunnel, spinning through the air as the delighted Wraith laughed.
The three landed near Styx's home in the forest. Skeleton turned to Wraith. "Where will you go? [You may not stay here.]"
Wraith sniffed, wiping the last of the tears from her face. "Maybe I'll go west. Find a home there. The Hanging Forests sound nice."
Skeleton nodded. He turned and raised himself off the ground. "Thank you," said Styx.
The pale alter looked back. "[Do not expect me to help you again.]" Then he left.
(Note: This final message translates badly to written word. A more accurate representation of its meaning could be written as: "Expect nothing." This corresponds to an wordless saying we have, meaning "Anything might happen, or then again it might not." This is why most of the Nine have decided to retain the English language for narrative sessions, as it is easier to communicate to outsiders than Skeleton's brand of thought/speech.)
The two siblings watched Skeleton leave. Then Wraith hurled herself at Styx and embraced him, whispering happy nothings into his ear. She kissed him softly then scampered away, up the mountain. After a minute of climbing she found an alcove just wide enough to curl up in. She clambered in to test for size, then sat cheerily on the ledge with her legs swinging before falling asleep against the wall. Styx watched her warily for a minute before returing to his own bed for a rest.
Meanwhile,
Across the Chasm, the rocks Lank and Prophet marched across gradually faded from a deep red to a dirty brown. There was silence for awhile. Suddenly Lank pointed. "There, you see that?" he yelled excitedly. In the distance lay a small, crumbling castle. The pair hurried towards it. Suddenly from the ground in front of them burst a dark, round head. They stopped short, then leaped to the side. The Dark Serpent licked the air, then lifted up and plunged into the earth a short distance away. Its body stretched out behind it, growing wider and thinner like a flatworm before suddenly disappearing, as though it had been cut in half.
There was silence for a moment. Prophet lifted his head. "Do you suppose-"
"The only person who's ever killed a Mindworm," Lank inturrupted, "was God Himself. We don't stand a chance." The pair looked up and gulped. They turned back to the castle. All across the plain were long, thin holes not unlike the one the Serpent had just made. They looked at each other. "Come on," said Lank. "Our sister needs us." They set off.
Sometimes I have waking dreames that Skeleton fuses with the haich. Sometimes they turn into a wise and powerful Defender. Other times they turn into a rampaging monster. I wonder if these are really dreams, or if we're picking up images of Skeleton's experiments. It's fair to say we don't know what the two of them are doing up there. If they are trying to merge, the results in either case will be... spectacular.
Tomorrow is the last day of classes. Then, exams. Two on monday, one on tuesday (and then half a day of waiting because there's no way to get home). I need to study. Math and Anthro shouldn't be too bad, but a lot of Biology went right over my head these past months.
It turns out I can't go to Danica's baptism. We have a first aid course all day on sunday. I feel horrible. Bitter. Cheated. It reminds me of when they handed back the forms for the New York trip, cheques attached, no explanation given. Another once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, gone forever. This time hurts more, somehow. I guess it was more important to me than any silly school trip. And I won't be there.
It's strange, though. Here's a terrible event that I can in no way twist around to somehow be my fault. I don't really know how to deal with it. It's just sitting there, a deep pocket of loss and regret.
I... I feel awful about it. I said I wouldn't miss it. I'm so sorry...
Mandy
A script interlude from the latest Lit project.
Scene Zero
Scene: Warm, comfortable office. There are large shelves stacked with books and a desk with a computer. Center stage is a table with comfortable chairs on either side. There is a door to the right and a closet to the left. The lights are dim, virtually twilight. MANDY is curled up on one of the chairs, weeping softly to herself. BETH enters from the right.
BETH: Mandy? MANDY sits up, drawing breath, hastily wiping tears from her eyes. Oh... are you all right?
MANDY: I'm fine, Beth, I'm fine. Sniffs.
BETH: Oh... well, I just came to tell you Moe's here. We've been looking for you for awhile. Didn't expect to find you here. Pause. I brought coffee. If you're interested.
MANDY: Oh... Thank you.
BETH: Are you sure you're fine?
Lights up.
MANDY: No, not really.
BETH: What? Why?
MANDY: It's... well, I'm worried about Moe. I'm not sure I'm comfortable talking to him.
BETH: Don't be silly. You've been seeing him for months, how can he possibly scare you now?
MANDY: I’ve never felt safe around him. He’s big, and he acts threatening. He’s frightening…
BETH: Don’t be silly. You’re a big girl. You’re supposed to be able to deal with people like this all the time. Come on, what's the real reason?
MANDY: Well... it's also David. Pause. Everything's... Everything's not all right.
BETH: Are you having problems? It's not that uncommon among recent couples. I'm sure you'll get over it soon enough.
MANDY: It's not... well... last night, we got into an argument, and… he hit me. Lightly touches shoulder. I don't know...
BETH: Mandy, listen to yourself.
MANDY: What?
BETH: I've known David for just as long as you, and he's not the abusive type, okay?
MANDY: But... but he hit me. That's bad, isn't it?
BETH: Look. I know you're upset at the moment, but it's just a phase. You two are going to live long and happy lives together, okay? And in the meantime you've got a responsibility to take care of your patients. Responsibility, Mandy, remember what that means? Moe’s waiting outside for you. Isn't he more important than this?
MANDY: I... I guess so, Beth. I'm sorry.
Lights dim.
MANDY: I'm sure, Beth. I'm sure.
BETH: Well... if you're sure. Pause Shall I send him in?
MANDY: Moe? Oh, yes, yes, please. Thank you.
BETH: Starts to leave. You’re not overworking yourself again, are you?
MANDY: Not at all. I’m perfectly all right. Besides, I have patients to look after.
BETH: I just think maybe you should take some time-
MANDY: I said I’m fine!
BETH exits, casting worried looks back at MANDY. MANDY brushes hair out of her eyes, takes deep breaths. Sighs softly.
Styx nodded grimly, a peculiar smile on his face. He was deep inside the blue mountain, very nearly at the center. Wraith was here, somewhere. He could sense her somewhere within. With unusual determination he broke through the final wall into the central cavern.
All was dark. There was a chamber, disproportionately large compared to the exterior of the mountain. It curved up, overhead to a shallow pointed dome. From the very center of the ceiling hung a tiny figure from a silvery strand, wrapped in what appeared to be a cocoon.
Then, suddenly, there was light.
A gargantuan spiderlike creature stared down at Styx with hungry eyes. He backed against the wall nervously. The creature took a step forward. It smiled wickedly and growled.
Meanwhile,
Far to the south, Prophet and Lank stood before the Chasm, staring across to the other side. "Is there a way around it?" asked Lank. Without waiting for an answer (he already knew there was none) he looked around for a means of crossing it. Nearby were several trees. Lazily he plucked one from the ground. An extensive root system blossomed beneath it, stretching longer and longer as he pulled. At last he brought it to the edge of the Chasm and laid it across. Instantly the roots contracted and the tree zipped back across the ground and into its hole, as though it had never moved. Then it shot out again, bounding to the edge of the Chasm and hurling itself across, before moving back again. This repeated again and again.
"Well," said Prophet, "that is interesting." He pulled a comically large nail from his pocket and placed it on the ground before the Chasm, securing it with a large black magnet. The tree threw itself down on the nail, shuddered, then pulled itself off as before, spraying a stream of watery sap. "Well, that didn't work," Prophet muttered, slipping the nail into the magnet and back into his pocket.
Lank stared. "Do you seriously have a nail that fits inside a magnet?"
Prophet looked down and shrugged. "Yeah."
"How do you get it back out again?"
"It's not easy."
"Anyway." Lank looked back at the tree falling across the Chasm again. "I'm sure we can still use this to get across. Ought to be fun."
Meanwhile,
Styx hung from the ceiling, suspended by a strand of webbing. Wraith dangled beside him. "It's a velocarachnid, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Shit. I had no idea they got so big..." He shook his head and watched the behemoth pacing below. "Well... I guess this is it, then."
There was a bright flash and a rumble. Seconds later Skeleton screamed out of the tunnel in full battle armor. The velocarachnid rumbled around to face him. They stared each other down. "This creature may not be defeated [by ordinary means]
"No!" whispered Styx. He dared not say it any louder.
But Skeleton was underneath, slicing carefully through the skin on the creature's belly. After several long, agonizing seconds of cutting Wraith fell out, coughing, crying and slime-covered. Again, the creature did not appear to notice. It stretched up its neck and swallowed Styx, who promptly fell out of the same hole into Skeleton's arms. Skeleton held the two siblings and rocketed back out the tunnel, spinning through the air as the delighted Wraith laughed.
The three landed near Styx's home in the forest. Skeleton turned to Wraith. "Where will you go? [You may not stay here.]
Wraith sniffed, wiping the last of the tears from her face. "Maybe I'll go west. Find a home there. The Hanging Forests sound nice."
Skeleton nodded. He turned and raised himself off the ground. "Thank you," said Styx.
The pale alter looked back. "[Do not expect me to help you again.]
(Note: This final message translates badly to written word. A more accurate representation of its meaning could be written as: "Expect nothing." This corresponds to an wordless saying we have, meaning "Anything might happen, or then again it might not." This is why most of the Nine have decided to retain the English language for narrative sessions, as it is easier to communicate to outsiders than Skeleton's brand of thought/speech.)
The two siblings watched Skeleton leave. Then Wraith hurled herself at Styx and embraced him, whispering happy nothings into his ear. She kissed him softly then scampered away, up the mountain. After a minute of climbing she found an alcove just wide enough to curl up in. She clambered in to test for size, then sat cheerily on the ledge with her legs swinging before falling asleep against the wall. Styx watched her warily for a minute before returing to his own bed for a rest.
Meanwhile,
Across the Chasm, the rocks Lank and Prophet marched across gradually faded from a deep red to a dirty brown. There was silence for awhile. Suddenly Lank pointed. "There, you see that?" he yelled excitedly. In the distance lay a small, crumbling castle. The pair hurried towards it. Suddenly from the ground in front of them burst a dark, round head. They stopped short, then leaped to the side. The Dark Serpent licked the air, then lifted up and plunged into the earth a short distance away. Its body stretched out behind it, growing wider and thinner like a flatworm before suddenly disappearing, as though it had been cut in half.
There was silence for a moment. Prophet lifted his head. "Do you suppose-"
"The only person who's ever killed a Mindworm," Lank inturrupted, "was God Himself. We don't stand a chance." The pair looked up and gulped. They turned back to the castle. All across the plain were long, thin holes not unlike the one the Serpent had just made. They looked at each other. "Come on," said Lank. "Our sister needs us." They set off.
Sometimes I have waking dreames that Skeleton fuses with the haich. Sometimes they turn into a wise and powerful Defender. Other times they turn into a rampaging monster. I wonder if these are really dreams, or if we're picking up images of Skeleton's experiments. It's fair to say we don't know what the two of them are doing up there. If they are trying to merge, the results in either case will be... spectacular.
Tomorrow is the last day of classes. Then, exams. Two on monday, one on tuesday (and then half a day of waiting because there's no way to get home). I need to study. Math and Anthro shouldn't be too bad, but a lot of Biology went right over my head these past months.
It turns out I can't go to Danica's baptism. We have a first aid course all day on sunday. I feel horrible. Bitter. Cheated. It reminds me of when they handed back the forms for the New York trip, cheques attached, no explanation given. Another once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, gone forever. This time hurts more, somehow. I guess it was more important to me than any silly school trip. And I won't be there.
It's strange, though. Here's a terrible event that I can in no way twist around to somehow be my fault. I don't really know how to deal with it. It's just sitting there, a deep pocket of loss and regret.
I... I feel awful about it. I said I wouldn't miss it. I'm so sorry...
Mandy
A script interlude from the latest Lit project.
Scene Zero
Scene: Warm, comfortable office. There are large shelves stacked with books and a desk with a computer. Center stage is a table with comfortable chairs on either side. There is a door to the right and a closet to the left. The lights are dim, virtually twilight. MANDY is curled up on one of the chairs, weeping softly to herself. BETH enters from the right.
BETH: Mandy? MANDY sits up, drawing breath, hastily wiping tears from her eyes. Oh... are you all right?
MANDY: I'm fine, Beth, I'm fine. Sniffs.
BETH: Oh... well, I just came to tell you Moe's here. We've been looking for you for awhile. Didn't expect to find you here. Pause. I brought coffee. If you're interested.
MANDY: Oh... Thank you.
BETH: Are you sure you're fine?
Lights up.
MANDY: No, not really.
BETH: What? Why?
MANDY: It's... well, I'm worried about Moe. I'm not sure I'm comfortable talking to him.
BETH: Don't be silly. You've been seeing him for months, how can he possibly scare you now?
MANDY: I’ve never felt safe around him. He’s big, and he acts threatening. He’s frightening…
BETH: Don’t be silly. You’re a big girl. You’re supposed to be able to deal with people like this all the time. Come on, what's the real reason?
MANDY: Well... it's also David. Pause. Everything's... Everything's not all right.
BETH: Are you having problems? It's not that uncommon among recent couples. I'm sure you'll get over it soon enough.
MANDY: It's not... well... last night, we got into an argument, and… he hit me. Lightly touches shoulder. I don't know...
BETH: Mandy, listen to yourself.
MANDY: What?
BETH: I've known David for just as long as you, and he's not the abusive type, okay?
MANDY: But... but he hit me. That's bad, isn't it?
BETH: Look. I know you're upset at the moment, but it's just a phase. You two are going to live long and happy lives together, okay? And in the meantime you've got a responsibility to take care of your patients. Responsibility, Mandy, remember what that means? Moe’s waiting outside for you. Isn't he more important than this?
MANDY: I... I guess so, Beth. I'm sorry.
Lights dim.
MANDY: I'm sure, Beth. I'm sure.
BETH: Well... if you're sure. Pause Shall I send him in?
MANDY: Moe? Oh, yes, yes, please. Thank you.
BETH: Starts to leave. You’re not overworking yourself again, are you?
MANDY: Not at all. I’m perfectly all right. Besides, I have patients to look after.
BETH: I just think maybe you should take some time-
MANDY: I said I’m fine!
BETH exits, casting worried looks back at MANDY. MANDY brushes hair out of her eyes, takes deep breaths. Sighs softly.
Jan 19, 2009
Bloodfeathers Retrospect
The snow was beautiful today. Just as well, because nothing else was.
Last night I made an official visit to the infamous 4chan, just to see. After browsing and finding new and exciting ways to make pieces of my soul shrivel up and die, I've vowed never to touch that infernal place again. I did not sleep well.
Today I woke up too late, feeling unwell and unrested. Breakfast had far too much paper stuck to it. Traffic was endless and infuriating. The visit to the good doctor was uncomfortable and pointless. School was depressing. Anthro was a discussion of Scientology, money and energy flow. Bio was a disastrous plant lab with a whiny, alleged perfectionist partner. During lunch I watched my friends laughing and hugging while I stood by, head bowed. It sometimes really bothers me when they get physical. It's not as if they don't know how I feel. I wanted to lash out, push them down the stairs, scream. I went walking out side, crushing the perfect snow in my palms. Math, forced group work. I ignored the other three for the most part and was the only one who did anything decently productive, though I did have trouble concentrating. It's so difficult to concentrate lately. Lit was bearable, thankfully. Outside. I'm half-convinced Tasha was glaring at me. Long, lonely bus ride home.
I feel awful. Sick to my stomach, almost, halfway between the kind you get when important work is overdue and the one when unexpectedly viewing an unnecessarily graphic image of torn-up human bodies or a disgusting sex act. There probably isn't a word for that. (If there is I'll be very impressed.) I feel exhausted, not the 3-hour-sleep tiredness I sometimes get but the long-awaited average-6-hours-sleep-for-the-past-three-weeks tiredness that echoes inside your skull. I have a headache that feels like a large spike being carefully positioned, driven into my head with some force, then withdrawn and repositioned somewhere else. Tastes in my mouth range from blood to onions(?). There's a fog that keeps me from thinking clearly. A blanket over my limbs. I want to cry, scream, break down and die, fall asleep in a nest of bones. This is bad.
"No!" screamed a little voice in my head. "You can't break down now. People need you. Everyone is stressed and tired. They need a helping hand, a good word in the right place, a friend to keep them going. They're worried about you, and that's one more worry they shouldn't have. What about Danica? You know she's been depressed lately. She needs a strong Alex now, not another needy face to drag her down. Do you want to put that extra strain on your relationship? Do you- urk!"
"Got you, fucker!" I screamed into the face of the squirming Doubt as my hand clenched tighter around its spindly neck. "Do you know the hell I've been through because of you?! I can't feel anything any more!" In maddening, wonderful rage I swung the creature against the nearest wall. Of course it passed straight through and I scratched up my fist, but for the first time in a long time I began to feel better.
"What are you going to do to me?" stammered the Doubt, pawing at my hand with rubbery fingers.
"I don't know," I said. "What am I going to do with you?" I sat down to think. But while I was thinking it slipped from my grasp and bounded off into the darkness. In frustration I threw the chair after it. It hit something, but I haven't found the motivation to go and see what.
Last night I made an official visit to the infamous 4chan, just to see. After browsing and finding new and exciting ways to make pieces of my soul shrivel up and die, I've vowed never to touch that infernal place again. I did not sleep well.
Today I woke up too late, feeling unwell and unrested. Breakfast had far too much paper stuck to it. Traffic was endless and infuriating. The visit to the good doctor was uncomfortable and pointless. School was depressing. Anthro was a discussion of Scientology, money and energy flow. Bio was a disastrous plant lab with a whiny, alleged perfectionist partner. During lunch I watched my friends laughing and hugging while I stood by, head bowed. It sometimes really bothers me when they get physical. It's not as if they don't know how I feel. I wanted to lash out, push them down the stairs, scream. I went walking out side, crushing the perfect snow in my palms. Math, forced group work. I ignored the other three for the most part and was the only one who did anything decently productive, though I did have trouble concentrating. It's so difficult to concentrate lately. Lit was bearable, thankfully. Outside. I'm half-convinced Tasha was glaring at me. Long, lonely bus ride home.
I feel awful. Sick to my stomach, almost, halfway between the kind you get when important work is overdue and the one when unexpectedly viewing an unnecessarily graphic image of torn-up human bodies or a disgusting sex act. There probably isn't a word for that. (If there is I'll be very impressed.) I feel exhausted, not the 3-hour-sleep tiredness I sometimes get but the long-awaited average-6-hours-sleep-for-the-past-three-weeks tiredness that echoes inside your skull. I have a headache that feels like a large spike being carefully positioned, driven into my head with some force, then withdrawn and repositioned somewhere else. Tastes in my mouth range from blood to onions(?). There's a fog that keeps me from thinking clearly. A blanket over my limbs. I want to cry, scream, break down and die, fall asleep in a nest of bones. This is bad.
"No!" screamed a little voice in my head. "You can't break down now. People need you. Everyone is stressed and tired. They need a helping hand, a good word in the right place, a friend to keep them going. They're worried about you, and that's one more worry they shouldn't have. What about Danica? You know she's been depressed lately. She needs a strong Alex now, not another needy face to drag her down. Do you want to put that extra strain on your relationship? Do you- urk!"
"Got you, fucker!" I screamed into the face of the squirming Doubt as my hand clenched tighter around its spindly neck. "Do you know the hell I've been through because of you?! I can't feel anything any more!" In maddening, wonderful rage I swung the creature against the nearest wall. Of course it passed straight through and I scratched up my fist, but for the first time in a long time I began to feel better.
"What are you going to do to me?" stammered the Doubt, pawing at my hand with rubbery fingers.
"I don't know," I said. "What am I going to do with you?" I sat down to think. But while I was thinking it slipped from my grasp and bounded off into the darkness. In frustration I threw the chair after it. It hit something, but I haven't found the motivation to go and see what.
Jan 18, 2009
Bubbles
In my opinion,
- The bottom fell out of the entertainment business when people started tearing the world apart just for the sake of something original.
- "One in a million" and "one of a million" are now synonymous.
- The people who lived a hundred or a thousand years ago would call our society dystopian, because our people have no idea when they're being oppressed. In fact, they find the idea laughable.
- The most successful artists are the ones who create not just their own work, but their own worlds for it to exist in. This is because no one ever became great by comparing themselves to other people.
- Those who dig up old graves are doomed to fall into them.
- The only times when the world has been at peace were when literally everyone else was dead.
- No one should have power over you except for parents and teachers. If you are working beneath someone who has nothing to teach you, there is a problem.
- Happiness has nothing to do with anything on this earth. It is yours and yours alone.
- In love, everything seems like a good idea at the time. Including love itself.
- The truth, despite popular opinion, is not subjective.
- Being open-minded is not claiming to be open-minded. It is not listening to the other person's opinion. It is being ready to accept the consequences if you are wrong.
- There are things in life you will never understand. Ever. Get over it.
- One of the biggest problems in modern thought is that we value human life more than we value humans.
- Fame is when someone you've never met writes an article about you on Wikipedia. And other people read it.
- Character is measured mostly by flaws. A human isn't made up of all the things that they are so much as what's left when you subtract everything they should have been.
- In order for something new to grow, something smaller has to break down. It's a shame that the world loves growth, but fears destruction.
- Online, the only thing that impresses anyone is kind words.
Jan 17, 2009
Gifts
Apologies for my attitude lately. Sometimes I wish I was female so I would have a biological reason to be bitchy once a month instead of just doing it anyway.
My ego grows and shrinks like an iris. Lately I've been thinking about my life, and all the crazy things that have happened - and some crazy things indeed, I'd say. I believe that age should not be measured through time, but through experience; in that sense, I am both unique and quite old. Sometimes I think about the crushing depression of having seen and done all these things, and that none of it matters or ever will. Sometimes I think that it does matter, and about the injustice that the world will never know or care. Fortunately I've been dropping out of this vicious cycle and back into my old nonchalance. At the same time there's the desire to get out and tell people about my life... Hm. I don't know. To me I'm still nothing special. Whatever.
I think it says a lot about my life that the only people I can easily talk to are Wiccans, the only people I really feel comfortable around are Christians, and most of my friends are girls (and Nikki, who's as good as) who say more in a day than I do in a month.
We found Wraith, the other night. Sort of. It was last night, when by chance we were listening to Half Jack, her favorite song. At least, the only piece of music she'd ever shown any fondness for. I think it's like her connection to the haich, that's why she likes it. Anyway, we heard a stirring. For a minute or so we were connected to her again, but then she vanished. We think she's actually underneath the blue mountain. A crevasse on the northeast face may lead to the interior. Excavations are underway.
We've been experimenting with a new type of shield. It cuts us off from the world, preventing us from feeling the minds of others. It should work the other way as well. We call it the Durian because of its shape. Of course, being cut off from others for long can be distressing, but we hope it will help in the angry times when we need to be alone.
The other day Skeleton invited Styx up to his lair. Later he went down into the depths of the Chasm. He still hasn't told us exactly what happened either time. Honestly, I know he's the main but he's kind of insensitive about us sometimes. But then, maybe it's supposed to be a secret.
I need a hug... but I'm not exactly going out of my way to get one. I need to spend more time with people. I should take Danica out somewhere. I've decided I'm not feeling sore at her. Whatever else you say, she makes us happy... and when not screwing things up we seem to do the same for her. Maybe we'll be okay after all.
Tomorrow, a first-aid class from nine-thirty to six. I know it's important and valuble and things, but grumble grumble grumble... It's just an aside that I have a veritable ton of writing to do.
My ego grows and shrinks like an iris. Lately I've been thinking about my life, and all the crazy things that have happened - and some crazy things indeed, I'd say. I believe that age should not be measured through time, but through experience; in that sense, I am both unique and quite old. Sometimes I think about the crushing depression of having seen and done all these things, and that none of it matters or ever will. Sometimes I think that it does matter, and about the injustice that the world will never know or care. Fortunately I've been dropping out of this vicious cycle and back into my old nonchalance. At the same time there's the desire to get out and tell people about my life... Hm. I don't know. To me I'm still nothing special. Whatever.
I think it says a lot about my life that the only people I can easily talk to are Wiccans, the only people I really feel comfortable around are Christians, and most of my friends are girls (and Nikki, who's as good as) who say more in a day than I do in a month.
We found Wraith, the other night. Sort of. It was last night, when by chance we were listening to Half Jack, her favorite song. At least, the only piece of music she'd ever shown any fondness for. I think it's like her connection to the haich, that's why she likes it. Anyway, we heard a stirring. For a minute or so we were connected to her again, but then she vanished. We think she's actually underneath the blue mountain. A crevasse on the northeast face may lead to the interior. Excavations are underway.
We've been experimenting with a new type of shield. It cuts us off from the world, preventing us from feeling the minds of others. It should work the other way as well. We call it the Durian because of its shape. Of course, being cut off from others for long can be distressing, but we hope it will help in the angry times when we need to be alone.
The other day Skeleton invited Styx up to his lair. Later he went down into the depths of the Chasm. He still hasn't told us exactly what happened either time. Honestly, I know he's the main but he's kind of insensitive about us sometimes. But then, maybe it's supposed to be a secret.
I need a hug... but I'm not exactly going out of my way to get one. I need to spend more time with people. I should take Danica out somewhere. I've decided I'm not feeling sore at her. Whatever else you say, she makes us happy... and when not screwing things up we seem to do the same for her. Maybe we'll be okay after all.
Tomorrow, a first-aid class from nine-thirty to six. I know it's important and valuble and things, but grumble grumble grumble... It's just an aside that I have a veritable ton of writing to do.
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| lab.drwicked.com | |
Jan 14, 2009
I, baked potato person
We are physically and mentally exhausted. This is how we know.
Most people that I've seen have a Concrete Wall defense system. They put up barriers to keep themselves safe. Nothing gets in that they don't want to know about. Of course, no one is completely impenetrable, though some are pretty impressive. Everyone has cracks. Everyone has weaknesses. A few people that I've seen, maybe two or three, have a Smoke and Mirror defense system. They surround themselves with clouds and illusions, creating a barrier that even I am very rarely able to penetrate. It appears to take a very special kind of mind to sustain this.
I'm different.
I live in the Dream Jar. It's not meant to keep things out. It absorbs them, draws them in... then attacks them. It is broken and unbreakable, made of both dead and living tissue. Picture a sphere of metal, broken into many razor-sharp shards, held loosely together by strands of scar tissue. When it moves the blades dig into me, drawing blood. I feel it constantly. And yet it keeps us safe. But at what cost?
Maybe I'm not meant to be the happy, lighthearted person I think I have to be to make people happy. Honestly I don't see how I could be. I'm broken, I'm disturbed, I've lived through hell, dammit. The only reason I've come up with why I'm still alive at all is that I am, if you'll pardon the term, one tough son of a bitch. I've known all along I'm not like other people, but I've never claimed to be special. If I had a wish, it would be to be loved, but I'd give that up in a second to make another happy.
So where am I going with all this? I don't know. See the aforementioned.
The problem, see, is I think I'm dangerous. I hurt people. I blame it on the Dream Jar when I can, but honestly I have to shoulder much of the responsibility. Look at the people I've touched over the years. How many have I eaten away at? Broken, scarred, crippled in some way? To me, I'm a monster. Good intentions count for nothing next to that. What's worse is the unshakable feeling that some part of me enjoys this. Sadist. Must I give up everything to save the ones I love from myself?
Of course I'm in love. Why else would I shave?
Fait n Kaus. I keep seeing that in my head. Must be important.
- Instead of rational thoughts or conversations, we go over the same phrase or information countless times in our head. In this manner we manage about one new thought every twenty minutes (when putting the effort in).
- Headaches feel different, and as such are more noticeable.
- Loss of motivation, willpower, and creative juices. This makes it difficult to get work done.
- Alters switch out rapidly, and mood swings within alters occur frequently.
- Jumping schizophrenically back and forth from one side of an argument to the other, making it impossible to make decisions.
- A fog of mind that makes thoughts and feelings blurred and indistinct.
- Less control over "hidden" emotions and Chaos.
- Crushing loneliness, even when surrounded by people.
Most people that I've seen have a Concrete Wall defense system. They put up barriers to keep themselves safe. Nothing gets in that they don't want to know about. Of course, no one is completely impenetrable, though some are pretty impressive. Everyone has cracks. Everyone has weaknesses. A few people that I've seen, maybe two or three, have a Smoke and Mirror defense system. They surround themselves with clouds and illusions, creating a barrier that even I am very rarely able to penetrate. It appears to take a very special kind of mind to sustain this.
I'm different.
I live in the Dream Jar. It's not meant to keep things out. It absorbs them, draws them in... then attacks them. It is broken and unbreakable, made of both dead and living tissue. Picture a sphere of metal, broken into many razor-sharp shards, held loosely together by strands of scar tissue. When it moves the blades dig into me, drawing blood. I feel it constantly. And yet it keeps us safe. But at what cost?
Maybe I'm not meant to be the happy, lighthearted person I think I have to be to make people happy. Honestly I don't see how I could be. I'm broken, I'm disturbed, I've lived through hell, dammit. The only reason I've come up with why I'm still alive at all is that I am, if you'll pardon the term, one tough son of a bitch. I've known all along I'm not like other people, but I've never claimed to be special. If I had a wish, it would be to be loved, but I'd give that up in a second to make another happy.
So where am I going with all this? I don't know. See the aforementioned.
The problem, see, is I think I'm dangerous. I hurt people. I blame it on the Dream Jar when I can, but honestly I have to shoulder much of the responsibility. Look at the people I've touched over the years. How many have I eaten away at? Broken, scarred, crippled in some way? To me, I'm a monster. Good intentions count for nothing next to that. What's worse is the unshakable feeling that some part of me enjoys this. Sadist. Must I give up everything to save the ones I love from myself?
Of course I'm in love. Why else would I shave?
Fait n Kaus. I keep seeing that in my head. Must be important.
Jan 12, 2009
150
I saw Requiem for a Dream last night. Life goal achieved. Woo. And it was incredible. Almost (almost) to the point where I wished it wasn't quite so intense to watch, because of the things it does to you. Beautiful.
I'm on the waiting list for a hospital bed. We don't know when it's going to happen, if at all. People keep going over what to do if I have to be taken to the hospital. I think they expect me to break down soon. They say they can't treat me for dissociation and other things until they've got the depression and mood swings under control. I'm sorry, but to me that's like saying you can't take out the bullet until the wound has been sealed shut. The process is supposed to be all about opening old injuries and taking the pain, so why am I the only one who seems willing to accept this? It also bothers me that people keep referring to my experiences as "visions" or "seeing things that aren't there." Clearly I'm not expressing enough that it's real to me. But then, my trying to express things often ends badly.
I can taste blood again. Bad sign.
"So, about this young lady you're interested in."
"Yes?"
"Well, I'm curious about the kinds of relationships you have that work. What is it about her that's allowed you to stay together?"
Silence.
"Does she give you positive reinforcement?"
Silence.
"When you see her at school, is she happy to see you? Does she smile, wave, or say hello?"
"...we don't go to the same school."
"Oh, of course, yes! So you see each other, socially, then?"
"...yes."
"So... does she help you when you're feeling down? Can you talk to her about these things?"
"She's not really a talky person... in that way."
"Oh... so how is she good for you, then? How does she help you?"
Long pause. "She keeps me sane."
"I see. How, exactly?"
Silence.
"If you can't tell me right now that's okay."
I can't bring myself to think such things. How can I? How could I speak a word against the one person who's kept us safe and healthy for so long? It must be me that's wrong here. It must. Have I been selfish again? Have I asked for too much? After all that she's done for us, how can we be so ungrateful? After she's been there for us? Helped us through the hard times? Comforted us?
She must have comforted us. She must have. It's not fair to accuse her of doing anything less than that. I've been the hypocrite. Again. What have I done for her? I've tried to make her happy, but always gotten it wrong. Always thought too much about myself. I tried to be a better person for her. I've failed, again. I'm still lost.
But why can I not hear her telling me it's going to be okay?
Again, it's all going wrong. I'm being silly. Of course. Yes.
I just don't know if I believe in love any more. And I don't know if anything is worth that.
I'm on the waiting list for a hospital bed. We don't know when it's going to happen, if at all. People keep going over what to do if I have to be taken to the hospital. I think they expect me to break down soon. They say they can't treat me for dissociation and other things until they've got the depression and mood swings under control. I'm sorry, but to me that's like saying you can't take out the bullet until the wound has been sealed shut. The process is supposed to be all about opening old injuries and taking the pain, so why am I the only one who seems willing to accept this? It also bothers me that people keep referring to my experiences as "visions" or "seeing things that aren't there." Clearly I'm not expressing enough that it's real to me. But then, my trying to express things often ends badly.
I can taste blood again. Bad sign.
"So, about this young lady you're interested in."
"Yes?"
"Well, I'm curious about the kinds of relationships you have that work. What is it about her that's allowed you to stay together?"
Silence.
"Does she give you positive reinforcement?"
Silence.
"When you see her at school, is she happy to see you? Does she smile, wave, or say hello?"
"...we don't go to the same school."
"Oh, of course, yes! So you see each other, socially, then?"
"...yes."
"So... does she help you when you're feeling down? Can you talk to her about these things?"
"She's not really a talky person... in that way."
"Oh... so how is she good for you, then? How does she help you?"
Long pause. "She keeps me sane."
"I see. How, exactly?"
Silence.
"If you can't tell me right now that's okay."
I can't bring myself to think such things. How can I? How could I speak a word against the one person who's kept us safe and healthy for so long? It must be me that's wrong here. It must. Have I been selfish again? Have I asked for too much? After all that she's done for us, how can we be so ungrateful? After she's been there for us? Helped us through the hard times? Comforted us?
She must have comforted us. She must have. It's not fair to accuse her of doing anything less than that. I've been the hypocrite. Again. What have I done for her? I've tried to make her happy, but always gotten it wrong. Always thought too much about myself. I tried to be a better person for her. I've failed, again. I'm still lost.
But why can I not hear her telling me it's going to be okay?
Again, it's all going wrong. I'm being silly. Of course. Yes.
I just don't know if I believe in love any more. And I don't know if anything is worth that.
Jan 10, 2009
Life, book 1
I'm feeling pretty okay.
I wouldn't say happiness is shining out of my every orifice but I've got my vim back, if not my vigor. Dawn has finally broken over the new world.
Psalm 42:
1 As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, O God.
Of course, the Chaos is still there. The tide is still there, seeking to devour me. I'm feeling very alone. But at least we're stronger now.
This is my dream:
I graduate high school and spend a few years at university. I get a job at a local hospital with good career opportunities. At 25 I marry a strong, caring woman who looks after me in the bad times and thinks I'm beautiful. At 28 we have a daughter with her hair and my eyes. She will grow up into a brilliant but troubled young woman who will seek love and find happiness. She will almost certainly go through a lesbian experimentation stage, which I will fret over but ultimately come to accept. I write two books, one on philosophy which will win an award and sell about six copies and a sci-fi novel that will do moderately well. There will be much potential for sequels but I never write them. My midlife crisis lasts twenty minutes, after which my wife throws a glass of water in my face. This calms me down. We visit Australia and much of the icy North. After my retirement I do very little to keep myself busy and die comparatively young.
At least, that's my dream. It won't come true.
I wouldn't say happiness is shining out of my every orifice but I've got my vim back, if not my vigor. Dawn has finally broken over the new world.
Psalm 42:
1 As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, O God.
2 My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?
3 My tears have been my food
day and night,
while men say to me all day long,
"Where is your God?"
4 These things I remember
as I pour out my soul:
how I used to go with the multitude,
leading the procession to the house of God,
with shouts of joy and thanksgiving
among the festive throng.
5 Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and 6 my God.
My soul is downcast within me;
therefore I will remember you
from the land of the Jordan,
the heights of Hermon—from Mount Mizar.
7 Deep calls to deep
in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
have swept over me.
8 By day the LORD directs his love,
at night his song is with me—
a prayer to the God of my life.
9 I say to God my Rock,
"Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I go about mourning,
oppressed by the enemy?"
10 My bones suffer mortal agony
as my foes taunt me,
saying to me all day long,
"Where is your God?"
11 Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.
Of course, the Chaos is still there. The tide is still there, seeking to devour me. I'm feeling very alone. But at least we're stronger now.
This is my dream:
I graduate high school and spend a few years at university. I get a job at a local hospital with good career opportunities. At 25 I marry a strong, caring woman who looks after me in the bad times and thinks I'm beautiful. At 28 we have a daughter with her hair and my eyes. She will grow up into a brilliant but troubled young woman who will seek love and find happiness. She will almost certainly go through a lesbian experimentation stage, which I will fret over but ultimately come to accept. I write two books, one on philosophy which will win an award and sell about six copies and a sci-fi novel that will do moderately well. There will be much potential for sequels but I never write them. My midlife crisis lasts twenty minutes, after which my wife throws a glass of water in my face. This calms me down. We visit Australia and much of the icy North. After my retirement I do very little to keep myself busy and die comparatively young.
At least, that's my dream. It won't come true.
Jan 8, 2009
Death, book 1
I'm weak. Tired. I'm so tired.
Things are changing. I feel as though I'm becoming more aware of the world at the cost of my sanity. That's the one thing I've always protected and cherished. If I lose myself I don't know if I can go on. Battles can be won or lost, lives changed, the most beautiful things written in my memory, but I've always kept my soul safe in my back pocket. And now it's dying.
I'm falling. The ground has been ripped out from under my feet.
Two worlds are colliding. The visions are coming more and more often, and on larger and larger scales. Not a day goes by when the Chaos does not touch me. It's not an altogether unpleasant experience, although it does leave me somewhat shaken. When we look to the future now, instead of seeing the battle of December we see only the storm. Normal now is falling in public and having no one catch me or help me stand; it is beating my head against walls to keep myself in line; it is tasting blood and then having people make remarks about my breath. I'd say that I was afraid but I've passed the point where it becomes impossible to feel anything. I'm only aware of the light and the darkness and the ever-present cold that has long since consumed me.
I have a heart of ice.
I will endure. It's what I've always done, and thus far it's kept me alive. But I don't know. I'm breaking. The Dream Jar is starting to crack.
I will endure.
I will endure.
Maybe if I keep saying it I'll start to believe it.
<3
Things are changing. I feel as though I'm becoming more aware of the world at the cost of my sanity. That's the one thing I've always protected and cherished. If I lose myself I don't know if I can go on. Battles can be won or lost, lives changed, the most beautiful things written in my memory, but I've always kept my soul safe in my back pocket. And now it's dying.
I'm falling. The ground has been ripped out from under my feet.
Two worlds are colliding. The visions are coming more and more often, and on larger and larger scales. Not a day goes by when the Chaos does not touch me. It's not an altogether unpleasant experience, although it does leave me somewhat shaken. When we look to the future now, instead of seeing the battle of December we see only the storm. Normal now is falling in public and having no one catch me or help me stand; it is beating my head against walls to keep myself in line; it is tasting blood and then having people make remarks about my breath. I'd say that I was afraid but I've passed the point where it becomes impossible to feel anything. I'm only aware of the light and the darkness and the ever-present cold that has long since consumed me.
I have a heart of ice.
I will endure. It's what I've always done, and thus far it's kept me alive. But I don't know. I'm breaking. The Dream Jar is starting to crack.
I will endure.
I will endure.
Maybe if I keep saying it I'll start to believe it.
<3
Jan 6, 2009
Now is not the time to be dwelling on the past
The mood swings are getting worse. Chaos is descending.
I'm afraid.
I felt a summoning today. At lunch. A call to go outside. I shivered, not from the cold. I knew I had to go. This was a school, not a place of worship. Nowhere to hide here.
Out I went. I began to calm. I felt much more comfortable out there in the cold. Around the corner was a patch, just as I had pictured it, where for no discernible reason there was no snow. Of course, I thought, though I didn't know why. There has to be a boundary. I understood this in a way I don't understand.
I stood a fair distance away on the snow. "What?" I asked.
YOU.
The dark king towered over me. He seemed to fade and crackle in and out of existence, sometimes appearing only as static. I shifted nervously and stared at the ground on which he stood. It wasn't even wet. "No," I said. "I will not join you."
YOU CANNOT RESIST FOREVER. YOU ARE WEAK.
For a minute the Chaos was upon me. I shook violently, my head bowed, and could not speak. At last it ended. "No," I said again.
Am image of sameness was impressed upon me. He called up my fears about my heritage, my doubts about my morality, my loathing of my very nature. WE ARE THE SAME. I LIVE IN YOU.
I shook my head, panic rising. "No. Don't try to fool me with your illusions. Smoke and mirrors. I'm not like you."
He grinned wickedly. COME. CALL ME FATHER.
My eyes narrowed. "No." I shook my head. My hands curled into fists.
Something shot out and grabbed me by the neck. I gasped. CALL ME FATHER.
"I will not say it," I choked out. My arms were shaking.
Another shape crushed my torso. CALL ME FATHER.
"I will not say it."
A third wrapped itself around me, almost lifting me off the ground. CALL ME FATHER!
My eyes closed. For a split second I blacked out. Then, stillness.
"No."
The shapes released me and coiled back into the king. He shimmered angrily. I opened my eyes. "I am not like you. I'm not a monster. At least, I wasn't meant to be." I shifted again. "There's still time for me. There's still hope."
HOPE! His mouth opened in a silent, hideous laugh. HOPE HAS BROUGHT YOU NOTHING. YOU CANNOT SAVE YOURSELF. I felt the Chaos beginning to descend again. LOOK AT YOURSELF. WEAK. PATHETIC. BROKEN. THERE IS NO HOPE FOR YOU.
Flicker.
A friend of mine walked by. There's stillness. The dark king disappeared. I glanced at her, begging from behind my eyes for her to say something, pull me out of the king's nightmare world. She gave me a puzzled look and walked on.
I turned back to the bare ground. "They will save me. My friends will save me. This world will save me."
YOUR FRIENDS ARE NOTHING. YOU ARE ALONE. YOU CANNOT SAVE YOURSELF. He reached out to me. Something like a bullet thudded into my chest. I looked down. I'm bleeding.
"Ouch." I almost fell again. My limbs shook. My whole body began to tremble.
A bird chirped. Sound. I'm grounded again. Stillness.
I felt another touch of Chaos. The Offer was again impressed upon me. Power. Control. Understanding. Everything I've ever wanted, all within my grasp. The king reached out his hand. As it passed the boundary it changed from a pale human limb to a huge, crooked talon. TAKE MY HAND, MY CHILD. I WILL SAVE YOU.
I stared. There was silence. Moments passed. I raised my own hand and stared at it. It seemed so small, so insignificant, next to his. I knew that I shouldn't. I knew that I mustn't. Yet my every impulse was screaming at me to reach out, to take that hand, to become something greater.
If you do, said some part of me deep inside, you will lose everything.
I can't say how long I stood there, arm raised but not outstretched, thinking. Considering. Perhaps mere moments. Perhaps longer.
TAKE MY HAND.
I closed my fingers across my palm and pressed it to my chest. "You know why I can't do that," I whispered.
THEN YOU ARE OF NO USE TO ME.
I looked up. The dark king folded in on himself and vanished, leaving a black, hairy cat-sized mass floating in his place. Instantly it pounced upon me, clinging to my chest, eating into me. I fell.
All faded to black.
I awoke. Somehow I was still standing. The dark blob was gone. For some time I stood, afraid that if I moved I would fall over. At last I gathered my strength and turned, heading back the way I had come. Too late I realized my mistake; never turn your back on the druj. I barely felt it. Blood trickled down between my shoulder blades. Thankfully it was more insult than injury. I made it inside and spent the rest of the hour beating my head against a wall and curling up in a still, numb ball against it, trying to drown out the horrors impressed upon me.
YOU WILL JOIN ME. OR YOU WILL DIE.
Jan 3, 2009
Dear Mistor Mayor, the pills are not working
This is going to be difficult.
Something has been wrong with me for a long, long time. I first became aware of it nearly four years ago now. I started actually telling people about a year ago. I've lived through periods of manic-depression, self-harming, love and heartbreak, voices and visions, egoism and self-hatred, silence, chaos, invisible wounds and a battle of wits with the Devil. And now, finally, I think I'm having a proper nervous breakdown.
I've been waiting for this for a long time.
Twitching. Barely-controlled spasms. Mood swings so violent as to be almost bipolar. Headaches. Chaotic periods. Insomnia. The desire to destroy. Hyperventilation. Insatiable bouts of lust - I know, that could be put down to hormones, but for me, and at this level, it's very abnormal. Gibbering. Panic attacks. The constant feeling that at any moment I'm going to snap. All this has happened before, but on a much smaller scale. No one's noticed yet; but then, I'm very, very good at seeming fine. I wonder how this will end.
How does one go about bringing this sort of thing up? I've never been good at talking about these things. It's the staring I can't stand. She stares at me. Impatient. Accusing. She's already worked out what she things is going on, and no matter what I manage to say it's her answer that she's going to push. Usually that I'm spending too much time on the computer. In the face of that argument, it's small wonder I don't bother talking to her. Mothers are a handful. Or the other way around.
Anyway. The reason I mention mentioning this is because I've been thinking about taking up asylum for awhile at the mental hospital. Get away to a safe place in a reasonable environment. My other fear about this is that it will be interpreted as an excuse to sit around and mope all day. People get that kind of impression about me and then apply it to everything I do. There's no helping that. They make up reasons for what I do. It's happened a few times. Sometimes it would be valid if applied to a normal person, while other times it's something I'd never even have thought of. A lot of it's because they think I acted without thinking, not fully understanding the consequences. Half the time I let them believe that. It's much easier than explaining my plans. I dread the day they find out about the things I do for no reason at all.
Got off-topic. Anyway, so I understand this is a constructive environment for people who are actively trying to get better. My third and final fear is that it's a happy-smily "positive learning environment" where we get love bombed into submission until all our negative emotions are clouded by a fog of false cheeriness. I know already I'll be able to see right through that bullshit. What I want is a realistic setting that helps people actually confront their problems and get over them. Preferably with grey walls. A padded room and psychiatrist's couch won't be necessary, but it would feel a lot more honest. I know most people want to get through this kind of thing without any kind of pain and trauma but come on, let's be realistic. Strength through adversary. If I'm going to a place of healing I want to do something that works.
Of course, there's always the possibility that my pleas won't be heard. I'll just be left to deal with it by myself and my biweekly trips to see the good doctor. But then, there's always the possibility that I might let myself... slide, a little bit. Let a few extra episodes slip past my faltering defense system. Give in to my destructive urges. Scream at the top of my lungs for the first time in my life. Of course, I couldn't do that if it might hurt anyone... well.
Anyway. Nothing set in stone. Just a few thoughts.
Something has been wrong with me for a long, long time. I first became aware of it nearly four years ago now. I started actually telling people about a year ago. I've lived through periods of manic-depression, self-harming, love and heartbreak, voices and visions, egoism and self-hatred, silence, chaos, invisible wounds and a battle of wits with the Devil. And now, finally, I think I'm having a proper nervous breakdown.
I've been waiting for this for a long time.
Twitching. Barely-controlled spasms. Mood swings so violent as to be almost bipolar. Headaches. Chaotic periods. Insomnia. The desire to destroy. Hyperventilation. Insatiable bouts of lust - I know, that could be put down to hormones, but for me, and at this level, it's very abnormal. Gibbering. Panic attacks. The constant feeling that at any moment I'm going to snap. All this has happened before, but on a much smaller scale. No one's noticed yet; but then, I'm very, very good at seeming fine. I wonder how this will end.
How does one go about bringing this sort of thing up? I've never been good at talking about these things. It's the staring I can't stand. She stares at me. Impatient. Accusing. She's already worked out what she things is going on, and no matter what I manage to say it's her answer that she's going to push. Usually that I'm spending too much time on the computer. In the face of that argument, it's small wonder I don't bother talking to her. Mothers are a handful. Or the other way around.
Anyway. The reason I mention mentioning this is because I've been thinking about taking up asylum for awhile at the mental hospital. Get away to a safe place in a reasonable environment. My other fear about this is that it will be interpreted as an excuse to sit around and mope all day. People get that kind of impression about me and then apply it to everything I do. There's no helping that. They make up reasons for what I do. It's happened a few times. Sometimes it would be valid if applied to a normal person, while other times it's something I'd never even have thought of. A lot of it's because they think I acted without thinking, not fully understanding the consequences. Half the time I let them believe that. It's much easier than explaining my plans. I dread the day they find out about the things I do for no reason at all.
Got off-topic. Anyway, so I understand this is a constructive environment for people who are actively trying to get better. My third and final fear is that it's a happy-smily "positive learning environment" where we get love bombed into submission until all our negative emotions are clouded by a fog of false cheeriness. I know already I'll be able to see right through that bullshit. What I want is a realistic setting that helps people actually confront their problems and get over them. Preferably with grey walls. A padded room and psychiatrist's couch won't be necessary, but it would feel a lot more honest. I know most people want to get through this kind of thing without any kind of pain and trauma but come on, let's be realistic. Strength through adversary. If I'm going to a place of healing I want to do something that works.
Of course, there's always the possibility that my pleas won't be heard. I'll just be left to deal with it by myself and my biweekly trips to see the good doctor. But then, there's always the possibility that I might let myself... slide, a little bit. Let a few extra episodes slip past my faltering defense system. Give in to my destructive urges. Scream at the top of my lungs for the first time in my life. Of course, I couldn't do that if it might hurt anyone... well.
Anyway. Nothing set in stone. Just a few thoughts.
Jan 1, 2009
Happy new sodding year
2009. I'm surprised. I had no idea I was going to live this long.
I rounded up 2007 last year with a list of things that have happened. Not so this year. What with my memory the way it is... worse than ever. My insomnia is getting worse, too. Even when I sleep I'm never rested. I feel exhausted, inside and out.
But look on the bright side! I didn't expect to live past December, yet here I am. I didn't expect to live past my birthday, yet here I am. Heck, I only half-expected to live past the time at camp when Enzo nearly blew up the cabin. That's a great story. We were sitting around in the cabin watching Superbad (I hated it, but it was too loud to sleep and too dark to read) when we hear cries of "Shit! Shit!" coming from outside. I look out and there's Enzo flailing his arms wildly at the popcorn he was trying to cook. It's erupted into a huge fireball and is licking at - gasp! - the propane tank. I put two and two together and was out the back door before anyone else was able to stand up. I waited out there in the rain for a minute or so before it became clear that the flammable gas was not about to explode. Then I went back in. Highlight of the trip, that. Aside from when I parted the clouds. And the totally offensive short-paddled ginger boat adventure. But anyway.
Happy new year, everyone. I have no idea what it will bring. Happiness, hopefully, but maybe that's a bit naive. Whatever.
I rounded up 2007 last year with a list of things that have happened. Not so this year. What with my memory the way it is... worse than ever. My insomnia is getting worse, too. Even when I sleep I'm never rested. I feel exhausted, inside and out.
But look on the bright side! I didn't expect to live past December, yet here I am. I didn't expect to live past my birthday, yet here I am. Heck, I only half-expected to live past the time at camp when Enzo nearly blew up the cabin. That's a great story. We were sitting around in the cabin watching Superbad (I hated it, but it was too loud to sleep and too dark to read) when we hear cries of "Shit! Shit!" coming from outside. I look out and there's Enzo flailing his arms wildly at the popcorn he was trying to cook. It's erupted into a huge fireball and is licking at - gasp! - the propane tank. I put two and two together and was out the back door before anyone else was able to stand up. I waited out there in the rain for a minute or so before it became clear that the flammable gas was not about to explode. Then I went back in. Highlight of the trip, that. Aside from when I parted the clouds. And the totally offensive short-paddled ginger boat adventure. But anyway.
Happy new year, everyone. I have no idea what it will bring. Happiness, hopefully, but maybe that's a bit naive. Whatever.
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