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.

Advertisements

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.

Bombastic, untrusting and selfish. In other words, Perfect!

What do you do when someone is anxious, seeks company by coming into your room whilst you’re resting, but does not want the help you can give? What do you do when that person constantly treats you as unknowing in the field that makes up most of your life? What do you do when you do not trust them further than you can throw them?
What do you do when caring sets back your own recovery weeks, if not months and apparently helps theirs none?
I don’t know. That’s what.
I’ve been sick in some way or another since I was a child. There’s always been something “wrong” with me. I don’t have panic attacks much anymore, but I’ve had them for a decade and a half. I haven’t been in life threatening situations for a while, but I’ve been in far more than your average fucked up kid of my generation.
No, I don’t think you’re dying. Can I prove it? No, there’s no other proof than that you’re still alive. Do I care? Yes I do, but I am trying not to. Why not? That’s super rude, we’re siblings. Because it ruins my life, because I’m too tired to feel, because I’ve got an unusual fever, and it doesn’t seem to bother you. Because I don’t want to waste my breath as you won’t listen anyway.

No. I’m not nice. I know. I’m harsh, bitter, selfish, arrogant and petty. Does that mean people can ignore the relationship they created with me and ask me to be social when my social anxiety is flaring? No. It does not.
It is petty, but I am no worse than they have been towards me. In fact, I’m far nicer, like I’ve always been, just because my face is practically the emoji for “fuck off” doesn’t mean I only ever do accordingly or mean accordingly. When I smiled no one cared to look twice, so I stopped. You asked to know why, now you know. You asked what you could do to help, I told you to behave towards me like you would a normal person. And the only flaw in that was that I didn’t know you were so interpersonally oblivious. Read facial expressions, read body language, notice what people do and the effects it has, listen to what they say. Analyse. It will make it far more understandable, trust me.

Do I say this to make a point? Yes! I do. I suppose I should add dramatic to my list of flaws. I’m dramatic, my language is bombastic and I paint myself black when I’m tired of people’s shit. It is how I do it, because it’s easier to have flaws and know it when everyone else are so oblivious to theirs.
In truth I am clearly hurt, but too tired to feel it, too tired of feeling it. This side of me appeared a year or so after my M.E., funny that. I don’t want to talk about it when I’m hurt, what I want is for people to see, to notice, and to change their behaviour.
I’ve yet to see that happen. 

Also, on a side note, my order from Alice Collections arrived and whilst most of it were tools, I did get Draco a pair of boots, and they are so cool. When I have the energy I’ll take a picture of him, but I suspect I’ll have received some of the other accessories I have ordered for him before I find that much energy lying around.
But ah, well, thus is life.

Too much my estrogen, ah, far too much.

This may be too personal, but such is the life of a blog.
I have three most likely life-long illnesses. Two of them infer pain, one complicates everything else, until that one too is mostly pain, and increases the two others.
But guess what? That’s not what makes me miserable today! Ah, well, at least not entirely. I’ve lived with my mental illnesses for so long they have no more dramatic foolishness to surprise me with, my M.E. well, it makes me sad. I cannot get stronger, I cannot get better, and I can only barely learn anything new. But today, today, today what makes me miserable is the literal weight on my chest. For some obscure reason, I’ve got breasts that are quite disproportionate to my body size otherwise. It might not seem so now, if one could see me, but that is M.E.’s fault; reduced cellular metabolism means I simply burn less calories. Effectively making it impossible to lose weight, and uncomfortably easy to gain it. I’m usually (as I was when my M.E. was mild) at around 60kgs. Being 168~170cm tall that isn’t particularly high, and as I have somewhat slight bone-structure compared to the rest of my family, it might be a little surprising to know that I also am in possession of an EU size J bust. 65J, but J nonetheless. It hurts. It truly hurts. Today in particular, as I am very tired, and at first I thought the steam from my shower had triggered asthma, but it was simply the weight that made it hard for my weakened muscles to give enough space for my longues to fill. It has gotten a bit better, but “a little bit better” seems to be the best that ever happens around here, and I’m getting pretty tired of it. I rarely mention this issue to anyone else than my mother, as she is the only person who I relay uncomfortably personal things to, but it’s a constant strain. I’ve tried building up the muscle tissue that supports them, but they are far too heavy already, and the tissue I build, the muscles I increase, disappear within a frighteningly short time. I have had most of the issues related with large breasts and because of that I have again wondered if it wasn’t time for me to consult a doctor about a reduction mammoplasty.
It might be, and I might be told that I must be healthier to undertake such an operation, as my recovery rate would be too low, but I have a good doctor, and whilst he probably has no experience with reduction mammoplasties, he has done surgery on me before, and his recovery time estimation was spot on. When healthy I heal somewhat abnormally fast and the only seemingly permanent scars I have number less than ten; and given over a decade of self-harm that are quite few. I hope that this little peculiarity might be what enables me to get the surgery done despite being effectively crippled by M.E.
Ah well, the worst pain is over, and it is almost midnight, I will proably not get myself to the doctor before in February anyway.