Snippet: 339, 6398. 

Exhaustion sweeps over her like a cold blanket. She blinks, but the burning in her eyes does not fade. She sighs, morning is only a few hours away. Maybe something will change then; maybe she will fall asleep. 

There’s a biting winter outside the stone walls, and she wishes she could be out in it. Snow up to her knees, frosted breath forming ghosts in the calignosity; the dull, grey ache covering the city. 

Then she remembers there’s no city out there. Venthyanol is an empty ruin; broken towers reminiscent of glory days never spent in the company of others. 

Soon her mind wanders to her friends across the great ocean of uninhabited land. Her sister and her sister’s duke, no doubt surrounded by a herd of brittle minded sheep; laughing all too ironically at the idle chatter. 

The next face she sees is his, her lover’s. Her beautiful, tragic lover. His unageing body lies beneath her feet, a stone coffin open and lit by unwelcoming blue flames, casting their poison glow from iron sconses in the walls, illuminating his pallid, ethereal features and shading them with an illusion of necrosis. 

Many a night she spent down there, hands clutching the sides of the sarcophagus, nails breaking on its unyielding surface, tears streaking her face with bloodied salt. She would kiss him, and pray. She would stare at him with lifeless eyes, knowing all too well that she would not be sane till he woke from his dreamless slumber. But this dawn would be without him. She had tried to make herself exist without him. Yet, all her efforts had been in vain. Dark blue skies inclined towards a burning red lightened by the moment, but she had not moved. She had forgotten how long she had spent in that chair. Staring intently over empty halls, stainglass windows preventing the light from blinding her unseeing eyes, even though she wished they would. The night was no refuge, only the vast, frigid void of rememberance. The dawning sun’s rays would scorch her limbs till she could feel again, but then that too would be gone and dusk with it’s opprobrious refuge would still her heart once more and let her vacant eyes glare at herself in even greater contempt than before, if such a thing was even possible. 



Who would have thought it would hurt? I have very little emotional connection to it, yet it hurts. It hurts a lot. I suppose he reminded me of what I think a father should be. But then he died. Perhaps this is me mourning the loss of my own. It would have been so much better if he had died. Oh god how much better it would have been. For all of us. 

Personally, I take great offence when others increase my reactions in their descriptions of my actions. Saying I am “left crying”, when I leave the room, is extremely rude. 

Assuming things destroy communication, I fall in the trap myself, often and as such I know how much it ruins, but I also know, perhaps more than others, that it actually works to avoid it. If only I could get that across, perhaps people could understand that I avoid it at every cost, but it seems that is impossible. People here don’t understand, they don’t understand and frankly it doesn’t seem like they want to. 

Rude. Rude. Rude. What, if anything, makes me want to cry is people’s assumptions about me. 

Just stop assuming you know what I am like. Stop assuming you know who I am. Stop assuming you know what I think. 

You don’t. 

To friends of people with hidden traumas. To family of people with hidden traumas. Stop assuming. You’re hurting people. 

Some days you just feel more like yourself. I presume most people do at least; have days where they feel in their element, confident of their abilities, or just comfortable or even happy with how they are. 

Before I used to search for that actively, because I had to be someone else, someone who could get along with a manipulating, selfish and generally awful person. Now I find it just comes. More rarely than I would like, caused by this wretchedness called M.E., as part of what truly makes me is my mind, but sometimes, even when I cannot think, it comes. This feeling of remembering that this is how I am, how I am supposed to be, how I am supposed to live. 

I know millions of people might never get to experience that, and I’m happy I do, as I would never want to rob anyone of the possibility to be who they know, or perhaps yearn to be. Being is to important for that. I just hope that others will choose the better path, not just the path that is good for others, but the path that is good for themselves. I try to, and I know how hard it can be. 

I will not be petty and say that my cousins should suffer; I know they already have, what I wish is that they realise that and that they realise they don’t have to hurt anymore, that they don’t have to hurt anyone else to feel okay. I hope they stop comparing their pain to others, or perhaps some of them need to realise that others have as much, if not more, suffering in their lives. Whichever it is, I hope it works, because whilst I may not care much about them anymore, I used to look up to them, as strong, independent women, and now they hurt the ones who might love them all their lives, and who has, at least until now. But I have to attempt to avoid as much of the pain they inflict on a person very dear to me, and I fear that might mean she won’t be there for them anymore. But to me she is more important than them, and there is nothing else I can do. 

Be careful what you wish for. 

The first time I read Harry Potter I was ten, nearly eleven. And you know what? I was jealous of him. His “family” treated him like shit and his newfound friends acknowledged that. He even got to get away from them for almost a year. I always wanted to go to boarding school, but there is no such thing here. I wished I was an orphan. 

When I was eleven I had a big rowdy family. Half of that was the family that I was connected to through a rapist. I don’t speak to anyone of them anymore, even if none of them knew; they still acknowledge him as part of their family, and then they are not mine. Other than that I had two aunts, two uncles and a grandmother. My youngest aunt and I have never really gotten along. She has a master in art history and I’m the desperate sort of artist, roaming the streets making poetry when you’re half-dead from starvation, she’s not. I’m not even certain she knows that I am. We argue a lot. Even now. She’s also now, turns out her husband doesn’t like women. They’re friends though. My other aunt is dead. Her husband has a new girlfriend, who is lovely, but they are both Indonesian, and he intends to move back; she can’t stay here for more than there months or so a year. My grandmother is dead. The children of my living aunt are  of the very oldest of my group of cousins, they’ve lived good, stable lives and one of them has two kids. I’m the black sheep and until a handful of years ago I was still half their age. We don’t talk much. The daughters of my dead aunt are manipulative arseholes. I’m not lying or exaggerating, they have their own sets of techniques and diagnoses, but they are still just petty little selfish arseholes. My living aunt has cancer. My mother has M.E. And they are only thinking of themselves, and using all the manipulating techniques they have to get their will and humiliate their aunts as much as possible in the process of dealing with my grandmother’s belongings. They’re greedy. All they want is more money and power. They don’t have much of course, but neither does anyone else. Just today, one of them sent a message saying that she was too scared to meet my sister; my mother’s step in due to her cognitive problems, and my -got cancer  treatment three days ago- aunt. So instead when my aunt, who by the way doesn’t live here at all, goes up to the house to take a look around three of them show up. 


I don’t say that lightly, and I know I confessed to being a coward myself in my last post. I am. I am a coward, but I protect myself because I know what it means to break. If I don’t protect myself I will likely end up in a mental hospital, and frankly, with gifts like mine, that would be a wretched waste. They are cowards in a different way. They like the taste of power. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it all before. In a rapist. In several, and in all the selfish manipulative people I’ve met. Which is a fair lot, given my attraction to intelligent and dangerous people. 

The worst part though, is watching them hurt the people I love, knowing that if this fucking illness I have wasn’t there, I could beat them so hard at their own game they wouldn’t dare be in the same house as me for a very long time. I was bred into this. I enjoy being hated by people like them, as it strengthens me to know that people hate what they fear and what threatens them. And I want to do just that. But I cannot. So I sit here now, and watch my family shrink to a meagre nine people. And that’s including my aunts and uncles and cousins who I have spoken to five times in the past decade. I hope that by the end of this I won’t be an orphan. I’ve felt like one for so very long. 

Someone else is dying 

And I can’t move away. 

He’s only six years old. No one should die when they’re only six years old. And worse yet, he knows. 

It becomes so quiet sometimes, and there is nothing you can do, but sit there and feel it, the sound is so loud, the sound of your own pain overpowering, like an air-raid siren, but no one does anything, because there’s nothing they can do. You know you’ve done what you can, but there is always the lovely nagging little fear that you didn’t do as much as you possibly could. You haven’t died yet, there was something else you could have done. They weren’t important enough for you to try or go mad trying to save them. They weren’t important enough for you to risk your life, or even your emotional comfort. But you know it’s a lie. 

I’m a coward. I’ve known for a while. The first time I invested myself, and then I learnt to see the signs. The past few times I’ve backed away in time. In time to be mostly out of reach when it happened. This time I’m pretending it’s not going to happen. I know it will. My logic screams “Inevitable!” “Inevitable!” And I know. But I don’t want to run away this time. He’s innocent. He’s our baby. He will always be. 

God it hurts. 

It’s odd how I always think that. God. Whenever I’m in pain. God. God. God. It’s odd because my faith always vanishes when someone I love dies. Barely even a trace of it now. A ghost. 

I love you, little wolf. I always will. 

It’s my note. 

That is a citation, because nothing else fits this poetic thing I made. I would use a better one, but I don’t have one right now. I’ll probably change it later. 

This, it’s my note. 

Blood on your empty hands. 

What did you do? 

I see it now, the pulse that races through your brain like cars on the autobahn, you know too well that things like this don’t end well.

There is no sense in a good bye, we all know that. Even they know that.  

But good ends are for fools and good-for-nothing, thoughtless romantics.  

We are romantics of a different kind. 

Love needn’t span centuries to be true. One moment can be enough. One, wretchedly long moment, where our eyes didn’t meet, but our intellects did. 

One moment such at that is better than a lifetime of sexual fulfilment. Better than being in love with a good person for a lifetime, and happily being with them.  

“I love you” is not enough. It has never been, things like this, if there is a group big enough to qualify as “things like this”, are always far bigger than those simple words, but nothing else fits. 

I love you, and what a tragedy that is, so give us the chance; let our eyes meet, and share a laugh with me. 

Who inspires you? 

Literary characters inspire me. Real people do too, but not particularly many. My grandmother inspires me still. She is dead now. Which means I only have two people left in my life I feel I can really trust. It makes me sad, but it is still simply a reality. It has struck me that I perhaps take death a little differently than most others. Death is a fact to me, a simple, horribly cruel fact, but that is still all it is. It hurts of course, I don’t like to think about it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t always feel it. But she’s not the first person I’ve loved deeply who died without me there. It might not seem important to anyone else, but when I was eleven I had a small rabbit. He was so beautiful. So lively. So wonderfully innocent. Most likely he died because of my carelessness, and my abuser’s selfishness. I could barely smile for years. His death was was my first break. The first, and so far the only death that broke me. 

And I think the rest simply felt like being abandoned, betrayed. I don’t know yet what that does about my trust issues, but I know that it likely doesn’t improve my ability to heal. It does replenish my nigh bottomless source of sadness, but many things do that. What it does though, and likely always has done, my trust issues, is make dead people, or people who never existed, my heroes. 

And here I am. In love with several dozen men and women, wholike there will never be. I hope it improves me, these high standards of thinking, of behaviour, of being, but it makes me fear for my future friend-circle. How ironic. 

Who am I?

I forget sometimes. Other times it is simply hard to remember. And yet other times, I’m not certain I want to. 
Being me has been very hard for a very long time. 

I don’t really like what I am, but I’ve found a way to live with it. I’m not certain that it will make me happy though. I keep thinking that something else will be the true dream of mine, and that if fulfilled, I will be truly happy. 

But it’s probably a lie. Most such things are. 

But can lies be more liveable than a selective truth? Is it okay if it is? Would I be able to live with myself knowing I lived a partial lie? Or would it gnaw at me like it did before until my self-desructive behaviours get out of hand and I need hospital more direly than before? 

I don’t know. I don’t know and that’s why I write.

M.E., what a joy you are.

I am certain I’m supposed to be able to think. That is what my experience tells me. But I cannot. Half of my head is uncomfortably warm and throbbing, the other simply numb. I’ve started feeling pain in my legs; most likely caused by weakness in my back, and flawed posture brought on by muscular weakness.

I get dressed and it groans. I lie down again and it reels still. It hurts. I didn’t think it could hurt to simply have no energy, get no energy, create no energy. It seems ridiculous, but it is the truth. I’ve imagined pain from all sorts of things, and felt a good chunk of them, but this pain, it feels like what I imagine getting old feels like. I’ve been sick, I was sickly even, but this is not the same.

Fuck you M.E.
I would scarcely wish you on my greatest enemies, as they would not have the mental awareness to know they were being punished, and given half the chance they’d forget what they did in the first place.
You M.E. are worth nothing, and when you are conquered, no one will look too closely at what has passed.
Die gracefully whilst you have the chance. Let me do you that one courtesy.

Another thing to wish to be understood about, but to not wish anyone to be or have been in the situation necessary to understand. Another thing to feel lonely about.
Then again, I think prefer it that way.