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.

Confused again.
At times like these I wish I didn’t have an interest in fashion or design. Dysphoria comes back whenever I attempt to transition from one minor obsession to another.
I love androgynity, but I’ve never had the chance to feel it. As a child I was terrified and had already been branded as the “black sheep” in most social situations. As an early teen I pushed sexuality as far away as I could. As a late teen I got too close. Now, with some time on my hands, I see how much I have struggled with my gender, and my highly feminine appearance. The people I drew before were either highly feminine or androgynous, and I realise I was identifying with the latter all along.
My mental health has been poor for a long, long time. I have so many troubles that they will probably never all be identified. What symptom have I not had?
Confused for so long, and now it’s impossible to shake.
I thought I had combined my styles, my mind-sets and my preferences, but it seems I have not.
I’m trying, but my situation isn’t good enough for me to solve any of these problems, so I wait and hope and pray for spring. When I am this tired the hunger doesn’t stop, and I need so dearly to be careful with my diet.
I hope the destructive behaviours stay away.

I don’t want this blog to turn into another pit of my mental illness. I want this to be a show of my path to happiness, but I don’t know how when things get bad. I have no where to vent, and regular journaling has never worked for me. I hope people don’t mind. 

Yes, I am quite fond of the mailperson.

This weeks mail was pretty exciting for me. I can’t really explain how glad I am that online shops exist. Being sick and an artist is pretty hard, because I can’t go out much at all. This week I only went out once, and then I was driven everywhere by my sister. Mail was exciting because I received three things I’ve waited for for a while. One of those were Draco’s new eyes from Safrin Doll, of which both pairs look amazing. A jewelry box: not a big fancy one, but a plain black PU one, to display my ever growing ring collection. It is pretty small right now, I only have ten, but of those, eight I would never want to part with. One of those eight is a marvellous piece by Skeletos, which I was so happy to receive I decided to wear rings that day, despite being super tired.  So I finished the day today with changing Draco’s eyes, and taking a few pictures. They are the first pictures I’ve taken of him in his new boots, but it’s past midnight, so I don’t think too many will be worth showing. I’ll post the good ones of course.

Today was a good day, all in all; despite my meagre five hours of sleep, and the disgusting flashbacks that begun it. The next couple of weeks will most likely be quiet, so I hope I can rest a little more, so that I might have more energy to do things that actually feel like doing something.

I know most people won’t find more than one of my blog categories interesting. My personal philosphical rants, my day-to-day updates and my BJD hobby don’t really mix all that well, but those things are mostly what I am these days, or mostly what I am comfortable sharing of myself, and I finally think I might do my blog for me. It would be nice to manage that at least.

Coffee and dreams.

I like both coffee and tea. I grew up with tea, and have come to like many kinds. Coffee has a different feel to me than tea. Coffee reminds me of cold mornings writing outside my old college, watching the two crows that lived in a nearby tree. I wrote a lot back then. I don’t write much anymore, but I don’t feel as bad as I did back then either. It may be good and it may be bad, but I feel a bit sad that I have barely felt inspired since then, particularly as I’ve felt happier ever since.
But coffee brings me back, and makes me hope that I can write again soon. I know my soon is a long time away, but it’s something I want to be able to do. I want to take my life back, and that includes writing, and creating.
Just now, I had a flash image in my head, of myself doing what I did then; writing in a café, after doing one of the few types of exercise I enjoy; dancing. Physical activity often makes it easier for me to think, so it’s a surprisingly realistic image.
I enjoy such things as these. They make it seem as if dreams aren’t an impossibility. For a long time they have been, despite my life steadily getting better.
Perhaps it is something. That’s what I hope. Something.

It is not morning yet, the shadows still hide me.

To sit awake at 3am in the morning has a very special effect on me. The effect varies depending on how I already feel, but today I already broke down, and the feeling after such a thing is always a highlight. Some I am certain, would say I am weird because whilst I do fear panic attacks, I will not hate that I have them. I had my first remembered panic.attack at age six. I woke up at around two thirty in the morning, and couldn’t move. At the time I didn’t know what was going on, but it proved to be a side-effect of my night terrors. I could in fact not move. And thus I lay for four hours believing myself to be lame. Given the circumstances of my life at the time, few things I could imagine would be worse. Now. Now I know what my panic attacks are, and I don’t feel quite myself if it goes a too long time between them. When I wake up and my body won’t heed my commands, I treasure it, as I came to treasure my forced lucid dreaming. I know people have thought me off when they found out that I, for years, dreamed of despair, as nothing else would make me do anything. I do not like it, despair, panic, horror, but after my experiences, a life without it, is unreal, unrealistic, and seems more like a fake copy of that life I, to outward appearances, should be living. Thankfully, I do not mind that people think me weird, or odd, or off, or even mad. I am what I am, and denying myself the pleasure of that would be too cruel for even me. Call me a masochist, for yes I am, but no more than I am a sadist, and should either of those increase any more, I would dislike being on my own bad side, as the best torturer will allow themselves to hurt immensely, if it only hurts the victim a fraction more.
But, what I intended to say was that I enjoy the nights awake alone; their peace and tranquility is inspiring and unsurpassed. Given that they are not spent in fear or great anger. Sadness would never ruin the beauty of the days quietest hours, in truth the only thing it is liable to do is grant the grey pre-dawn sky a shade of melancholy timelessness, and that I will gladly suffer.

My Ethereal Empire

The world has always been quite odd to me. But I suppose that is mostly because of the way I see the world. If I were to describe it to you, it would probably seem overly intricate, highly unfriendly, but at the same time awfully promising.

I don’t remember a time before my distrust for people. I barely remember a time before pain was a constant. I do remember a time when I thought things would get simpler. I still do I guess, at least in some ways. Socialising will probably never get simpler, but I hope, easier to succeed at. My mind will likely never stop hurting and horrifying me, but I’ve gotten quite used to it. I will probably never truly see eye to eye with my brother, but that might be easier to live with when we don’t live in the same place.

Have you ever thought that the world wasn’t how you see it? That perhaps what you see is just an image; a fools belief in dreams and hopes? Or perhaps just a dystopians suicidal reflections of a place people live? I have, both, and occassionally at the same time. Makes for a wretchedly confusing experience. The world is not how I want it to be. I don’t believe anyone truly wants it to be the way it is now, even if we are nigh seven billion. I aim to make my world, my space, my life and my circles what I wish them to be. I do because I have always dreamt, and always hoped. I know nothing will truly become as clear as I want it to be, but they might get close. I frequently change my vision, but it never travels too far from its origin without me noticing. Do you want to know what I dream of the most? Somewhere where I may be accepted as I am, not misinterpreted based on peoples insufficient observations and interactions with me.

I know that is unlikely to happen, and that the only place where one might hope to have such acceptance is in the eyes of ones mother or ones lover, and neither of those seem particularly plausible right now. My mothers thoughts of me are consistently tempered by what she thought I was like, and why she thought I did what I did, and mostly she was wrong. And I find it unlikely for me to find a lover, at least not as I am now, as I am neither particularly attractive, (No, I have actually never been told to my face by any potential romantic interests that I am, but I consider myself to currently be at one of the worst points, attraction wise, of my life.) nor am I physically, emotionally or mentally healthy. The latter two, any potential lover will have to deal with; me and my mental issues are a package deal of course, and they are not of the small and simple kind either. I know that even with this alone, a lover would be hard to find, but it is mostly my prickly pickyness that truly ruins the game. I did have a boyfriend, but I fell out of love with him after about ten months, and it would probably have gone far faster had he not lived around six hundred kilometres away. I am glad that is over, and I have learnt a great many things, and most of those point towards the same point; the person will indeed be special if I truly, and I mean thoroughly, fall in love with them. I should say anyone is special when someone falls in love with them, or loves them at all, but I suspect the sort I am looking for is almost unrealistic as a prerequisite for a romantic partner. Yet I hope that I somehow will have enough luck to get them to me or me to them before either of us wither away of age. Why I talk about a lover is because I know that my world; my home, cannot be built by just me. A true friend might be enough, but I don’t have any of those, nor have I ever had any. In addition I feel it would be cruel to ask a friend to help build my world, when they might not see the full benefit of it. They might not even like it, and then we might as well never start at all.

What is my world like? Oh, dear, if I could explain that I would. I would, and I would write it down, I would write it down and when people read it, I would know who of these would help me with it. But I fear I cannot. Maybe one day, I do hope so, but hope is never more than that; a dream, a wish. And as my experience so begrudgingly tells me; be careful what you wish for; it will not be what you want when you get it.

But I hope to get somewhere on this dream of mine, somewhere, where I might at least glimpse it on the horison. Somewhere where I may at least know that it is something I actually wish for, where I might know if I am working in the right direction.

But first, health.

Ah, I try, I do, I really do try. But it is hard, and the world I currently live in is not accommodating at all, not even compared to places I lived before. Not even compared to where I practically burnt my self alive to avoid. This is unaccommodating in ways I had yet to experience before this year. I hope it will improve, and I hope that my focus will let me do what I intend to do, but one never knows what else life might throw before or into your wheels.

And a final note, for anyone interested in BJDs, I will, after I’ve used it a couple of times, write a review of Dollmore’s quilted MSD sized carrier bag, but as a general bag. I do not yet have an MSD doll, and I bought the bag because my child self (that would be my self of around 15 years of age) fell in love with it. And if I have the energy and the time, I might bring Draco outside, as it is now snow here too, and maybe take a few pictures. He looks quite lovely in his new boots.

What do we say to the world today?

Fuck you.
That is what.
Because it’s just that kind of day. Because, for some reason, it’s that kind of life I have.
I am not an angry person. Some who “know” me would violently protest that, but I am not. I am patient and easily sad. But I am angry today, again. Because of all the things that has made my life the way it had become. I am angry at all the shit things that caused my PTSD, and in turn my SAD. I’m angry at my M.E. and I’m angry at the world’s incessantly stupid, hateful, racist, bigoted, self-centred but not self-aware masses.  I am angry because being complicated seemingly gives people an excuse to fuck you over, discriminate, and then turn away.
I am angry because frailty means as good as dead, and because the ones hurt always have to fix the mess.
But mostly I am angry because it hurts.
Mostly I am angry because there is nothing more I can do. Because when this many things happen to one person, eventually they become too tired to fight. Too tired to care. It seems a blessing; today it doesn’t matter what happened, and what might happen, but it is sad, because you are also to tired to hope. And despair seeps in through the cracks.

I didn’t think nursing was something sick people did.

But it seems I am wrong. Sick people nurse other sick people when one sick person decides their sickness is more pressing, more important and more in need of care.
That is occasionally understandable, as in the situation where my mother, chronically ill, took care of her dying mother. It is not fathomable, at least not for me, as in this situation where I, chronically ill and worsening, takes care of my brother; sick with an inflammation for the past two weeks.
Frankly, I just want to leave, say; I can’t do this, you take care of it yourself, but he’s been having panic attacks, and the entire situation just bothers me immensely. Fuck, this reminds me far too much of those horrible social situations I was raised in. Fuck.

I would rather be alone.