#I hate being queer mentally ill on the spectrum and half

[jellyshark-jester]

I’m so sad

When I was younger and look Thai and is literally a walking roast chicken I used to draw myself wHITE and now that I don’t go outside like ever aside from work and idk hangouts witch is like once a week I am pastier than my wHITE friends but i just wanna draw myself tan cuz I was fucking tan but no I’m out here Casper, the fucking ghost, literally out whiting my white friends.

My point is that I wanna draw my self inserts tan but because I’m not it feels weird cuz I did that with my HI3 oc :/

[ugly-anarchist]

Hey. I just wanted to say thank you for the posts you make and one that I reblogged before, praising and supporting aros who would/do feel romantic attraction sometimes. I sometimes doubt my aromanticism due to getting puppy dog crushes as a child, or the fact that I only dated once.

As a thirteen year old, no less. Hated it at that age. It lasted for half a year. As kind as I remember the person being, I remember feeling a bit ill and entirely drained/exhausted whenever I was called "their girl" and told "I love you." Any crush emotions I felt before easily fizzled out, and I came to realize "wow. I... hate this. I wouldn't want this kind of thing with anyone. Am I weird? Am I cold-hearted or something?"

Thank you for assuring that no matter what, aromanticism is a spectrum, and you're still absolutely aromantic if you've had a crush or would daydream about being in a romantic relationship at any point in your life.

I have a highly knowledgeable and intelligent older brother that I've always looked up to, but when I came out to him, even he was doubtful of my aromanticism. "But how do you know you're aro if you've never dated?" He doesn't know about how I did date, only once, and long ago. But it still stung, and I feel he would find another way to doubt and question it, as if I haven't done so countless times already. At the end of the day, "you know yourself better than others." As assured and confident I like to put myself across on the internet, I wish that analogy was hammered into my head better in reality. Your kind of posts, and many others, help me work on that. So, again, thank you. Sorry if this was weird and out of nowhere. It's 11:49 PM where I am at the moment, so this may be a bit messy.

I'll be following you on my main account where I go by "Leif." This is just my second one that's more "adult" leaning, which I like to keep entirely private and separate from my main! My main is solely dedicated to fandom, mental health, and nostalgic posts, haha. Almost entirely opposite of my current one. So if you see a notification under the name of "Leif," that's me!

No problem! I think "queer imposter syndrome" is something a lot of people can relate to. I'm as aro as they get (jk you can't be more or less aro) and I still like romantic media and even envisioning myself in romantic relationships.

Honestly my experience is a lot like yours because I also dated once before and hated it! It lasted like a week and I despised every second of it even though I really liked the person.

Despite the fact that I'm 1000% certain that I'm aromantic and will never experience romantic attraction, I still doubt it sometimes. There are moments where I'm like "I'm not aro enough because I like self shipping". Sometimes it feels like it's my "dirty little secret" and that I should be ashamed of it or like I'm betraying my community. But then I realize how dumb that sounds. People who like horror movies don't want to be murdered by a chainsaw wielding serial killer. It's no different with romantic media.

Hell, even if I did experience romantic attraction at some point I'd still be some form of arospec, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Romance is everywhere, it's constantly shoved down everyone's throats as this thing that is Necessary To Live. It's no wonder why aros specifically have a lot of issues with believing their own identities when we're constantly told romance is a universal experience that's necessary to be human.

Anyways, I'm rambling. Thank you for the nice ask!

[nuttyasacucumber-blog]

Showing My Hand

I want to write honestly and openly about my own experiences, but I find myself hesitating over and over again and deleting hundreds of words that I’ve so carefully chosen. Every topic I sit down to tackle takes place at the intersection of multiple facets of my secret life, each of which requires some explanation. Organizing the chaos is exhausting, and it’s easy for me to convince myself that said chaos is my reason for not jumping in. Truthfully though, fear and doubt are what is truly stifling.

I am absolutely terrified of putting the truth out into the world. Maintaining relative anonymity is part of that fear, but honestly, the root of it is denial. If I lay my cards on the table, will they define me? The answer is no, but it’s hard to believe that and let go.

Fear and doubt are like Jabba the Hutt with Salacious B. Crumb, cackling on his tail. It’s hard not to be Oola (the green woman), dancing for Hutt to cling futilely to safety. Being Leia takes effort. If you want to take off that goddamn gold bikini, you have to kill Hutt yourself.

The world would be so different and exciting if everyone openly laid their shit on the table, hid nothing, and admitted who they are. If we were honest and upfront about the struggles that make three dimensional people, we would probably find others that can relate. Then, all that would be left for us to discover is what makes everyone around us beautiful and exiting.

…But oh my god, My hand has so many shitty cards in it. Will I sound crazy? Melodramatic? Self-important? Why do I care this much? Why don’t just kill Hutt, take off the gold bikini, and be who I am? Ok… This is it. I’m just doing the thing:

I have a crippling, unhealthy fear of disappointing people and being disliked. I also have an incredible memory, so when I let someone down, it never stops hurting.

I’m on the bipolar spectrum. I suffer from (as my semi-retired, 80ish year old therapist calls it) depressive-anxiety about half of my waking hours. I literally can’t stop worrying.

I have a reading disorder. A 200 page paperback is about a thirteen hour commitment, assuming I can find large, uninterrupted chunks of time. I read constantly. I lie about finishing books.

I have synaesthesia. I assign colors to scents, flavors, numbers, and letters. I see time in terms of shapes, and I assign human characteristics to letters.

I’m queer, and I feel like I’ve waited too long to embrace or explore that. I hide it from people because I’m afraid they’ll feel like I’ve been lying to them. I feel guilty for hiding it from people; like I have been lying to them. I’m exploring my own sexuality in a vacuum. I’m trying to allow my brain to think and feel things that I spent over 30 years training it not to. I have a very patient and understanding husband.

I have miscarried twice. I want to have a family, but I’m scared to try again. I worry that I’m not psychologically designed for motherhood; I worry that mental illness will make me a bad mother. I also worry that I’ve waited too long. I’ll be 35 this fall.

I have a love-hate relationship with Christianity. I felt manipulated and ignored by the Catholic church. I felt used and discarded by the Protestant church. I hide my beliefs from my friends, and I hide my doubts from my family.

I am embarrassed of my body. I’ve always been heavier than I’m “supposed to be.” I’ve never felt comfortable or normal, and I feel like I don’t have control over it.

I am embarrassed of my medication: what it means about who I am, what it does to the rest my life. I have to choose between depression and weight problems. I have to chose between anxiety and these new fun speech problems.

I am embarrassed of the words that come out of my mouth.

I hate having secrets, and I verbalize (what feels like) every thought and feeling that comes into my head. I want to trust people. At the same time, I’m constantly terrified that people will find out who I actually am. I spend a tremendous amount of energy hiding (what feels like) every thought and feeling that comes into my head.

But yeah… that’s who I am. That’s my shit. Now I get write honestly and openly about my own experiences. I can talk about these things without worrying that I’ll scare or disappoint you, and hopefully, all that will be left is for us to discover what makes me beautiful and exiting in spite of it all. One can dream, right?

[autolovecraft]

It had happened.

It was then that they were not feared half so much so that he showed; relief at the remnants of the meteorite had poisoned the soil, and a buggy wheel must have brushed the coping and knocked in a healthy world. Yet it was clear that a faint phosphorescence had begun to exude the faint glow of the child himself no trace.

And as for the afternoon was advancing and he changed his line of linkage with subterrene horrors writhing and struggling below the black cosmic gulfs it throws open before our frenzied eyes. The rest of his rare visits, who fancied they talked in some terrible language that was all. The night had been very like one of the globule in the attic. He had looked at him, and they held strange colors, and it burst with a long pole must have been lonely and remote. Then the dark fears of rustics were held up to polite ridicule. Their dreams at night with a studied malevolence which Ammi had difficulty in recalling all these years.

Whether it had glowed faintly in the well shone at night they swayed also when there was a mounting wind which seemed to strain more and more in troubling my sleep. Slowly nerving himself, he has never been there, he thought only of the thing away at once, so soft as to damn any accountable being to eternal torment.

How it had grasped quite as much of the great chimney, the testing was carried on in glass; and whereas it had crawled or whether it had in other years, and from a searchlight, giving dull reflections in the sections where reservoirs were to be no use, either, in part, though; and it burst with a caved-in earth. Never were things of such size seen before, it was still hot, and that to leave anything capable of motion there would have been lonely and remote. Nahum home with the coroner, the seven shaking men trudged back toward Arkham by the meteor. But his gaze was the case with the hues of the Gazette, but perhaps they had taken less than they thought.

There was something wrong with the three professors who saw it, both half-fused, seemed to sweep down in black, frore gusts from interstellar space.

Nahum borrowed a horse from Ammi for his haying in the chill wind that came down the exposed corner-posts, coruscated about the well water was no one ever saw in a healthy world. It does credit to the county asylum, but perfectly conscious and able to give up my position. They had heard of the old road, and Ammi thought that most of the anatomy and habits of squirrels and rabbits and foxes as they ate their meager and ill-cooked meals and did so.

The plants were certainly odd, but before the poison was out of the path up through the stony curb by the north road. It was not like the globule and the grotesque, as if the extra wood had made him any more comfortable, and then to poorer health and a clammy and hateful current of vapor had brushed past him—and the next morning to see the water from that stricken, far-away spot he had had an added shock that the folk of Arkham the hills and through the valleys, that ye can hardly see and can't tell what it wants that round thing them men from the well immediately, so soft as to be. He was far brighter and brighter, bringing to the sky like a great spot eaten by acid in the old one can still be found, though; and Nahum worked hard at his door, and toward the kitchen. It does credit to the editor of the well. Nitric acid and even such grass and leaves on the dark its luminosity was very inexplicable, for old Ammi Pierce's on the other crops were in a mad cosmic frenzy, till it became common speech that something was wrong with all the proper reagents. Thereafter Ammi gave a violent start.

The plants were certainly odd, but husky and almost identical from every throat. There had been dark and the fragment of rag carpet, and Ammi thought that most of the ancient well-ordered laboratory; doing nothing at all since the horror happened, but Nahum was very close and noisome upon cutting. Ammi walked conscious through that low doorway and locked door were intact; but the shape in the meteor stone was missing from the gray dust that no axe has ever cut. It must be this which keeps the foreigners would not credit this. On the gentle slopes there are farms, ancient and rocky, with the sunlight changed color around the mouth of that skunk-cabbage had been in the light winter snow. He had looked back an instant at the miles of old forest and slope again, or the gray, twisted, brittle monstrosity which persists more and more educated than I had to wait trembling while pail after pail of rank water was phenomenally low. The rural tales have named it the blasted heath where the water come.

It had an added shock that the Gardner farm, and only Mrs. Gardner had made pets of the floor was too soft with the ripening came sore disappointment, for an instant at the doom of the woods. It had flashed there a second, and all they touched, and knew that this last week. When they looked back an instant at the bottom they saw. Merwin and Zenas in the end of which nothing of Nahum and Nabby, that the meteorite; and he feared the fall of night over that accursed place, and their trunks were too big for any earthly reward. Into the fine flavor of the old one can still be found amidst the weeds of a Puritan people. This was no need to speak and crawled on all fours, and the poor woman screamed about things in the ground beside the well gave a violent start. As they passed Ammi's they told me this in Arkham. He said it was none of Nahum's family at all on the ground, vines falling in brittle wreckage from archaic walls and gables, and appeared to think, and their eyes and muzzles developed singular alterations. They say the mental influences are very bad, too, seemed to have grown taciturn; and at last it was pouring out; it was now scarcely five.

He let the boy run about for a cycle of whispered legend was fast crumbling to a grayish powder, and furtive wild things leave queer prints in the meteor that the foreigners tried to live in the dark, as did their worst twisting high up. The sounds, the seekers left again with their gnarled, fiendish contours; but could not fancy what for, since he had roamed all his life. The way they screamed at each other from behind their locked doors was very plain that healthy living things must leave that house. Thad and Merwin, who first noticed the glow about the horror was that it very slowly and perceptibly moved as it was very merciful. On the gentle slopes there are farms, ancient and accursed house itself, four monstrous sets of fragments—two from the well.

Commencing his descent and walked boldly toward the valley far in the 'eighties, and the fruit was growing smaller and burning the bottom they saw that his wife and Zenas in the barn. Then a cloud of darker depth passed over the sashes of the incident with its seemingly increased strength and the special signs of purpose it was in the clouds before any man could gasp or cry out. Then Nahum had dug a grave in the front yard, and slight luminosity, cooling slightly in powerful acids, possessing an unknown spectrum, in part, though perhaps there would have fainted or gone mad, but it was now scarcely five. I could not help glancing nervously at the window as she was harmless to herself and others. Used as the column of unknown and unholy iridescence from the well? Wood, indeed, rather a product of moments when consciousness seemed half to slip away. There's more to this talk until one night in ignorance of the old one can still be found amidst the weeds of a fire; but had he been able to move away? Sucks and burns, he said, with a geologist's hammer had shattered, and a most detestably sticky noise as of the child himself no trace. The others looked at it through the aimless days. It was not an explosion, as so many others of the phosphorescence appeared to stir a morbid fancy. But with the hues of the woods and fields? The old folk have gone away, for all the abhorrent grounds seemed faintly luminous with more than write a humorous article about them all, but not any real ruins.

Nabby, Ammi could not go. Hydrochloric acid was the same state, and each one had to retreat to another room and return with his lungs filled with breathable air.