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. 

FUCKING COWARDS. 

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, who’s like 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.

Nightmares and furniture.

You know when you wake up from a nightmare that makes you wish you hadn’t gone to sleep, despite how exhausted you were? Well, that’s how today started. My worst nightmares aren’t scary in any common sense. No creepy clowns and walls that turn to coagulating blood as you watch, no elephant sized spiders chasing you through too slippery corridors, and no vicious torture amidst masses of skinned kin. My worst nightmares turn my loved ones into the ones I loathe with my entire being, at the very end. With the change I realise how all of it was wrong; disgustingly so, and my misplaced affection, attraction or interest turns my insides to grime; nothing is worse than knowing you felt attracted to what makes you want to become a torturer, to what once (and still, when I question it) made me suicidal.
Luckily for me, it didn’t end there.
Several lovely things happened today. First we went to buy furniture with my sister. All went to plan, mostly, and we were very quick so I didn’t get as tired as I suspected.
My sister and I finally decided to order the equipment necessary to do gel nails ourselves, so now that has been done too, after talking about it for half a year.
And finally, a vital application I sent three or so weeks ago, came back with a positive reply.
Now, I feel tired, but not awfully so, and very content. It’s rare, and I will savour it.

There is no space for this!

Story of my life. Ugh, I hate that phrase, but it is fitting, as “There is no space for this!” as an exclamation to everything added to my life is an accurate portrayal of my responses to new shit in my life, good or bad.
Now though, it is literal. I don’t have any space for anything new.
No. It is not because it is messy. It is messy, but that is because I am, at heart, a crafter, so my desk is a perpetual struggle for available surfaces. I am frankly quite systematic, and also often a “thrower”, and I still don’t have enough space. The apartment I live in isn’t small, seventy five square metres isn’t small for three people, (it is for five, I know from experience) but we still cannot find space for so much of what we have. And it is going to get worse. My nanna lived in a three story, 180 sq.m. house till the day she died, which is four or so months ago. A third of that now belongs to my mother.
Yes. There is more to come.
It frustrates me, it frustrates me so, so much, and I feel like most of the small, awful problems I face day to day would be fixed if only there wasn’t such a lack of space.
Ah. Rambling, and not doing anything productive. Like editing those photos I took of Draco a month or so ago. Yes, I did take pictures I said, but they are still unedited and grungy and not at all how I want them, so they are not up yet. Ugh.

Do you know?

So what do you say when your brain says the words don’t make sense in the only order you can put them?

You say nothing, or scream really loudly.

I stopped screaming years ago, the attention you get is never of the kind that you want.

Perhaps I should draw instead of doing nothing as well as saying nothing. I do not know, my hands won’t move the way I am used to, and my heart no longer shows me things to make that will get the pain out. Dreams are not helping, for despite their alloure and the comfort I find in them, they are horrible, as they always are when I am this tired. Although if you asked me how tired this tired is, I could not give you a straight answer for the life of me. I take pleasure in the little things now, and attempt, (although I don’t have to try too hard) to forget the rest. After all, my mind is barely more than a tenth of what it used to be. I enjoy how my newest pair of gloves fit my fingers like an extra layer of skin, and how this state of discomfort surprisingly feels somewhat euphoric. I have anemia, and currently my blood pressure is far too low, so even when I sit my head doesn’t quite work as it should, but surprisingly, as long as I keep myself relatively still, it isn’t so bad.

On another note, do you know what you like? Of what? Do you know what clothes you like? What food you like? What music, films, books or art?

I don’t. Never had the chance to find out. All I know is what hurts, what doesn’t hurt, what hurts in a familiar way; so as to be comforting, and what hurts in a familiar way that makes me hate so strongly I barely see the difference between family and rapists. Wait, there is no difference. At least there wasn’t, and for some reason the rest of them can’t seem to tell that that’s all I’ve ever seen. Family has never meant friends, comfort or affection. It has meant pain, lies, and horror. It’s hard to look at them and know that if any of them had just not tried to suffer it anymore, it would not have ruined my life so much, but I try. I try, just like I always do, and in the process I shut myself off, and decide, for the umpteenth time, that family isn’t blood, it’s companionship, respect, understanding and care. Nothing less, nothing more. No obligations other than those four, and no need to forgive anything less.

Ah, this turned into a rant. Well well. It is what it is.