#like I genuinely cannot bleed myself out any longer trying to explain to people they shouldn't say all men should die

[boyapologist]

saw screenshots of a good (yet half baked, cause some of it came from tiktok) take on my dash and thought oh great. rare to see someone agree with me on this topic, even if this is poorly worded. only to scroll down and realize the post was making fun of the people on said screenshots. oof

[violetsystems]

#personal

It’s been awfully solitary lately.  Not that that has really changed or anybody really expected it to.  I’m still casually applying for jobs I never get a response back from.  I’m almost finished with my taxes but still waiting to file them.  I’ve spent about nine months in the dark wondering about a lot of things.  The most pressing and annoying was financial.  Wondering if I was going to be fucked come tax time is no longer an exhausting fear.  I’ve been out of debt for the first time in my life since September.  That doesn’t seem to matter much to people unless it’s to get me to spend more money.  Most of my situation has been spent in isolation trying to keep it that way.  I’m in a very different place than where I started back in July.  I’m still expecting to not find a real job until after a full year has passed of being let go.  That’s an awful thing to say in theory.  Because my entire professional network has been dead and buried with only small signs of life.  I’ve learned that nobody talks to you in this process.  They expect you to reach out and reconnect with whatever matrix battery infrastructure social vampires are feeding off of these days.  For me it hasn’t really been worth it.  Broadcasting your moves all over the place regardless what they are never really helped my situation.  It was me in the end who got up off the ground and kept walking.  By all accounts I shouldn’t have been this accounted for.  But my dad is a CPA and my mom did our taxes for years.  So I figured out a horrifically complicated tax year and am over some sort of hump.  This is what worries me about the next phase of everything.  That we all come out of this thinking we’re still in this together.  That we can just laugh and dance away the pain that’s healed over.  That we can ignore the systemic problems that brought us to this point where I hear the word systems in every conversation and think it’s a projected message to me.  The only secret messages I pay attention to is undying love and affection.  Everything else is kind of a waste of my time when I don’t feel included in anything.  There are reasons nobody can be direct anymore.  Everybody seems to be balancing fifteen different narratives that divert so wildly from the main quest line that the world has become a free for all.  I’d argue it’s always been that way.  Whatever grand design or social experiment I’ve failed to be included in really just points to how lame people can be.  If people can’t entrap you they’ll mine your past until they can find somebody who will.  And lately because I’ve been more visible week to week with streaming, these rats seem to come out of the woodwork.  Everybody thinking my next pivot in the rat race will be something they have the keys to.  My future success and inclusion has already been prewritten.  I’d argue in America it’s always been foretold.  Chalk it up to the economics of the post war nuclear family.  That’s how the rich make their money.  Possibly too why we’re so obsessed with starting more wars.  The American dreams is always something less than what I deserve to keep the powers that be happy.  Whether that’s salary, opportunity, or place in the tiers of class that define what we can or cannot attain.  People in communist countries have often complained about how the only way to advance was to go abroad for school or join the army.  It’s not really that much different here in America.  In fact, I’d argue these days it’s worse.  There are entire career paths in America locked out by military service.  The cybersecurity industry being one of them.  And the jobs overseas are seemingly locked out due to class and who you know.  The sons and daughters of generational wealth need to leave the nest.  I’m supposed to get the message my place is somewhere else.  A game of musical chairs in dead silence.  And yet I haven’t been able to go anywhere for nine months.  Not that I care about staying around the house for nine months.  That’s good practice for making a baby I guess.  They left an android on a planet for a whole ten years in Alien Covenant.  Look at the mess that guy made.

I don’t really know what to do anymore.  I was supposed wait for the light at the end of the tunnel.  Which in some ways has happened.  I’m due for my second shot of vaccine in a couple of weeks.  My financial health is what it should have been years ago if I hadn’t spent my life helping and getting conned by other people.  I don’t mind helping other people.  It’s in my nature to be kind, gentle, genuine and all that mess.  So much so that people’s constant punking and testing of my street level credibility has become a threat to my mental health.  I don’t leave the house much anymore because everyone has been deluded into thinking they have full access to me.  That I am some celebrity.  Or I am some revolutionary threat that nobody can seem to touch.  I don’t touch back.  That’s been the biggest shit of this whole entire mess.  I’d love to have a relationship.  I’d love to continue on with my life.  I’d love to go back and honor the last ten or twenty years of being a real human being by sharing that with someone.  And for the most part, I believe that will happen someday eventually.  Particularly with someone who understands the value of why I kept myself and things sacred.  I don’t fuck with people at all out here.  I never have.  And it’s sort of ridiculous for people to draw their own conclusions as to why when nobody can be fucking bothered to ask my name.  People I made music with and shared spaces with have gone ghost.  My linkedin profile is dustier than this website when it comes to human interaction.  The only people in my inbox have been bots, scams, and worse.  Everybody has the trick in which to catch you off guard.  And yet for all the time I spend protecting myself and staying vigilant, the rest of the world just acts like it’s yolo time.  And yolo time will most definitely be this summer.  When everyone can dance and sing.  Celebrate our freedom from the virus.  Party and forget the troubles they created.  And I’ll just be out here wondering why everything is so fucking lame.  There’s an entire year of exile that shouldn’t be called anything but.  I’ve learned through writing here every week that persistence can be rewarding.  But the audience here is different.  People aren’t trying to be seen here.  We’re trying to find shelter.  This site as anonymous and dumb as it is acts like cover for many things we cherish.  There’s an intimacy I’ve grown to love about being forgotten.  It’s the fact that people are so self centered they are incapable of remembering you or your context.  When you control your own narrative as a writer, you know when people read it.  You know when you bleed your heart out and tell it like it is how people respond to it.  People are threatened by the truth, so they libel and talk shit every chance they get.  They’re afraid eventually that truth will come out of the well and shame them.  And the truth is, that already happened with me.  I just realized how little of my past really cared.  It isn’t like I haven’t shared my thoughts on this.  I’m sure whatever artificial intelligence scrapes my blog has learned how to sound genuine through me.  But for some reason I can’t express that genuine feeling to anyone but a small, solid core group of people.  Was it my intention to be seen?  Was it my intention to fake it until I make it?  How much do I have to do to not feel invisible anymore?  How can you look so drastically different on paper financially and just be treated face value like a bum?  How useless can you feel week after week when all people have ever done is copy you and say they’re better?  We’re talking decades of this by now.  There’s so many small things I’ve done that people think they’re better at.  Nobody is better than me at being kind.  I’d know.  I wouldn’t have sat here and rotted by myself in pain for so many months.  I’ve been left to my own devices when they don’t glitch out.  Judging how I fix things before anyone understands there’s anything wrong, I’ll be ok.  I can’t say the same for the rest of the world.  Nobody will ever realize the deeper problem I deal with every day.  And that fear of being alone isn’t a fear anymore.  I’m more afraid of the liability of the fair weather friends society thinks I need to maintain to be normal.

My friends are pretty much here.  The amount of emotional support I’ve received from just a click cannot be understated.  I’m sure some of my friends are hidden behind complex onion layers of safety, duty, and worse.  I never expected anything out of this other than connection and sanity.  We come to these platforms because they are communities.  Tribal tendencies exist in America because it’s easier to herd sheep together.  Collect the wool into an IPO every one or two years to sell off to hide money that isn’t there.  America has become a hall of mirrors sponsored by Enron-esque mark to market accounting.  The jobs are there but no one is hiring for skill.  They’re hiring on expectations how you fit into their complex balance sheet.  They’re looking for leverage.  I worked for a non profit for over two decades.  Watching the Theranos documentary the other day explained it perfectly.  The rich will double down on any investment if they believe they are doing a social good.  And they’ll shower themselves with praise for it.  Think Bill Gates saving the world from disease while selling VR to the military presumably for drone strikes.  The rich definitely have a great PR campaign and all the tax loopholes to sustain it.  But the reality is that much of that money never touches the people that really need it.  The opportunities are scarce.  The fight for them is fierce.  And yet no one truly understands the value of anything other than money.  The things that we are expected to do for a society that pretends we don’t exist.  Shoveling the snow for our neighbors.  Delivering packages to your door for months without a word.  I have become more of a ghost than I would ever have realized.  A memory people talk about and whisper to each other that haunts them in the flesh.  An urban legend that people make fun of and secretly wish they could be.  I can continue to be a ghost for pretty much the rest of the year.  Waiting for someone to see my true value and point me into the life they think I deserve.  As long as that life doesn’t overstep their protected and privileged space.  This has never been a two way street.  For all the good I try to do and above it all I try to be, the results are horrific.  I live in a nightmare so vivid that my dreams are comical to me.  I woke up from a dream that my mom was berating me to find a job.  I speak to my parents on the phone every week.  They don’t even mention it.  It’s quite the opposite.  I’ve beaten myself up for an entire year wondering if this is what everyone wanted.  To break me down and neutralize me.  To bring me down to a level where I was no longer a threat.  And honestly I’m more free in the long run.  People can’t figure out what to do with me.  They can’t figure out where I belong in their complex web of lies, deceit and backstabbing.  And I’ve carved out a small bulwark for myself.  It’s like I live in a little cabin or shelter.  Sanctuary from the fallout of greed.  People can throw stones but they can’t get inside.  Even if they did they’d find me and run away afraid to face the reality.  And that’s where I sit week after week.  Trying to find something that honors what I’ve been through.  And that doesn’t really include some secret plot for me to play video games to an audience of two.  One being the fbi agent and the other for the cia presumably.  I’m joking of course.  I’ve secretly realized that I’ve already made it and tell myself to stop trying so hard.  I’ve tried hard to prove I’m something for years and I just keep on becoming more invisible.  I’d be more worried if I didn’t recognize it for what it is.  You disconnect from your past through growth.  You outlast your competition.  You stay resilient.  And you wait for people to ask the right questions.  And you can do that for a really long time as long as you budget yourself correctly.  I’ve got a lot of runway to see these people choke on their own fumes.  And I will win like I always do.  It’s just some of these games are not worth playing when the odds are set up against you from behind the scenes.   I’ve come the furthest without anyone knowing or caring to know who the fuck I am.  Why fuck up a good thing?  Especially when it’s there for you week after week.  Year after year.  One click at a time.  The best things in life take their time.  And I definitely don’t regret the time I spend here.  Ok maybe some of the memes you people post.  One person’s treasure is another one’s cringe.   That’s what the scroll bar is for.  <3 Tim

[kitkat1003]

I Digress, I Repress, I Regret, I Forget

Based on this post by @super-magical-wizard

@markired and @snarkyowl suffer with me

It starts out without them noticing. 

Celine and Damien find Colonel laughing, kneeling on the floor and pulling at his hair and giggling hysterically between sobs and cries of “No one is dead!  It’s all a JOKE!  Celine!  Damien!” and their heart twists, pulls and there is burning anger and there is painful grief in that they pull Colonel close, whisper soft words into his hair-like they used to, like they will never do the way they did before-until he relaxes and falls unconscious, resting quietly against their chest.

They whisk him away then; they leave the horrid mansion that has brought pain and suffering and go to Celine’s house-they don’t have her key, not in this body, so they have to lock pick the door- and they rest him on the couch, smooth his hair back and pull his glasses off of his face and set them aside so they won’t get damaged, and then they settle in the chair-it is was Damien’s chair, Celine bought one for each of her friends so when they would come they had a place both in and of her home-and rest their eyes, feeling the energy used to steal this puppet-perhaps they regret pushing the third aside, but they haven’t let that third person disappear, their third is simply resting while Celine and Damien try to figure out what to do-leave them and the world of consciousness slips out of their fingertips and they lose themselves to sleep.

They wake up to screaming, eyes flying open to stare at Colonel’s writhing form-he’s had nightmares after the expedition, but never like this-and they jump up and grab his arms, holding them still and shaking him awake.  His eyes are wide and crazed, manic with fear and confusion, but when he sees them he tilts his head to the side.

“Damien?  Where are we?  Where’s Celine?  What’s going on?” And the questions become more and more frantic as Colonel takes in the change of setting, but they shush him, a fingertip placed on his lips as they try to figure out how to explain who they are.

“We are Celine and Damien, William.  It’s okay.  You’re at Celine’s house.  You’re safe,” Their voice is warped, two different people speaking in a harsh unison, and their shell splinters in a wince as they struggle to keep themselves separate but at the same time come together as one.

William blinks, and they can almost see the wheels turning in the Colonel’s head-it would be amusing in any other situation but this-and then Colonel’s eyes cloud, like a veil over the mind.

“No one is dead” he mutters, a terrifying mantra that gives way to an unhinged, far too wide grin.

In that moment, they realize later, the Colonel dies.  William dies then, broken in so many ways to the point of shattering.  In the moment, they had had some hope.  Now, they have none.

“Celine?  Damien?  Celien? Damine?” William spouts out a few names, as if trying to find a silly one to fit them, and they realize they need a name, need a unifying title to strike fear into Mark’s heart so when they ruin him he won’t call out two names, he’ll only shout one.

They remember the shadows, the bleeding black that had covered them until they suffocated them and then they had risen, risen up in the terrible-

“Dark,” they say, and their voice is clear, ringing but unified in that one moment, and the Colonel blinks again, his brain slowly processing the information, before he gives them-Dark-another smile, this time still unhinged but somehow softer.

“It suits you!” Colonel pokes the black suitcoat and giggles, and Dark gives him a small smile.

In that moment, they know things can’t be normal.  They know; they accept that Mark has taken everything from them, and that they cannot get it back.  But, in that moment, they at least believe that they can get vengeance, and that Colonel will stay with them forever, and that he’ll stay himself, at least.

That hope dies, eventually.

It starts without them noticing.

Colonel doesn’t change all that much, at first.  He’s eccentric, so his mad behavior almost seems normal, and Dark is much too busy finding Mark and planning ways to destroy him to see him spiral.

They regret it, hate themselves so, so much for not being there, but an angry part of them was so mad because Colonel was alive in his own body and they were left clinging onto life, so they used that anger to push through the pain and in the process they left Colonel behind.

They do start to notice that Colonel no longer wears any of his military regalia.  The hat, the coat, even the glasses disappear from his wardrobe, even when Dark goes back to the Mansion for a few moments to grab their things-the occult bag, Celine’s bag, is the most important thing they go back for, but they painstakingly combed through the property to find all of Colonel’s clothes-and that’s strange, sure, but Dark isn’t sure that it’s a bad thing.  Colonel’s safari adventure had made him unstable, and as such led to him wearing the same coat and hat everyday, as well as carry a gun with him at all times, so perhaps him taking it off was a sign that the event no longer bothered him as much?

That was the thought process, the hope and belief, but it comes to a head when Colonel comes around their house-they moved, manipulated a kind man into giving them a building far away from the mansion but close enough to the town so they can keep an eye on things-after a day of him running off to “see the sights” with bloodied palms and a sticky reddened knife.

“What did you do?” They ask, and Colonel giggles like it’s nothing, and shrugs.

“I don’t know.  I was just talking to someone about...well, I don’t remember, and then they tried to leave, so tickled them with a knife and suddenly people start screaming!  I don’t know why,” Wilford looks at them in genuine confusion, the look in his eyes both innocent and sickening in a way that makes their stomach lurch.  “They’re gonna come back.”

And suddenly, the realization of how broken the Colonel is becomes striking, and they remember their own-Celine’s- words.

‘He’s a good man, but he’s dangerous now.’

They move again, somewhere more private, and they learn to how to hide bodies.

It starts without them noticing.

Colonel responds to Will easily enough, though they do note he stops responding to Colonel a few days after they leave the Mansion.  That’s disconcerting, but they aren’t that worried too much, in the haze of everything else occuring.  Colonel is still Colonel, with his dashing broom mustache and red suspenders and bright smile.

But then, in the days where they are still trying to find Mark, Colonel comes in with a stark change of wardrobe.

His suspenders are different, for one, bright pink, matching a new pink bowtie that matches a-

Wait.

Colonel’s mustache is irrevocably different.  it’s bright pink, a tightly curled handlebar mustache in contrast to the usual broom shape, and they can do nothing but stare and ask who is this, who is this man and what has he done to Colonel-

“Thought I’d spruce myself up a bit, eh Dark?” And the slight accent that Colonel had had becomes over-exaggerated, a terrible drawl of a voice, where his jowls are lax and everything about him is familiar but wrong.

Celine what the fuck what happened-I don’t know, Damien, I didn’t realize Colonel was falling apart so fast-He’s not himself what the hell did that son of a bitch Mark do to him-

“William?” They ask eventually, almost choked out, and Will laughs, an odd chuckle sound that sounds like a clown and they hate it, it’s not Colonel so why-

“Close, but no cigar!  It’s Wilford Warfstache, showhost extraordinaire!  My friends call me Will.  You’re welcome to do the same, should it please you, Darkipoo~,” And he wiggles his mustache with a wink, and Dark trembles for a moment as his shell cracks because this is wrong, this isn’t Colonel at all but-

Mark took everything from them; they remember that so very clearly that it suddenly makes sense why Colonel is gone, why there is this strange man parading about in Colonel’s skin.  The man is a great actor, but Dark takes in the sight of Will twirling his revolver around his finger, and the way his eyes are so cloudy and dull even with the shine of madness keeping them bright, and knows that Colonel has been taken from them like everything else.

But even so, they know in the end that this is still a part of Colonel, so they clamp down on everything-the fresh wave of anger and grief over another loss that threatens to tear them apart-and give Will a soft smirk, a humoring chuckle.

“Of course, Will.  My mistake.”

They never call William Wilford.  Never.

It starts without them noticing.

They lose themselves.  Celine and Damien fade into the background of a larger being held together by vengeance and a will to survive, but even so the vestiges of who they used to be still lingers in their mannerisms, in their movements and in their words.

In that way, some days are harder than others.

William finds them sitting quietly on a balcony one morning, staring at the sunrise with a cracking shell that splinters into red and blue sparks of pain and sadness and grief that is tasted in the air as liquid melancholy.

“What’s gotcha so gloomy, Dark?” Will asks, and whenever Will speaks the pieces of who they used to be rise up to reply, because they will die before they forget who William is, what William means to them, and so in that moment they reply with the softness Celine’s voice had and the firmness of Damien’s.

“It’s Celine’s birthday today,” They reply, and William tilts his head to the side, thoughtful and then confused.

“Who’s Celine?”

They don’t realize that William has forgotten their names, because they stop using we when they speak and they don’t reference who they are for so long that the need for the words ‘Damien’ and ‘Celine’ in conversation become nonexistent.

And their shell shatters, breaking forth is burst of wind as the shock of the question stabs them in the chest, because William had changed so much; they knew William would never be the same but they never thought he would forget them.

And it’s so painful, to pull back and take it all in quiet stride, but they do, the wind dying down and the shell reforming with practiced ease of far too long being unstable.

“She’s...she was a friend,” It is as close to the truth as they can get, and William looks at the sky, almost pensive, and they are reminded of the many early mornings the four three of them spent watching the sun and talking and drinking wine or scotch or beer whilst laughing over poorly mad jokes and basking in the warmth of each other’s company.

“Celine is a pretty name.  Must be pretty lady then!” And the pieces of Celine laugh, a sobbing sound as she remembers all too well their first meeting, their introduction years ago-

“My name is Celine, it’s nice to meet you,” She smiles, and the man has a gleam in his eye that’s so bright and friendly and wild that her smile is a little more genuine.  He shakes her hand, grip firm but not tight, and winks at her.

“Celine, hmm?  A pretty name for a pretty lady!  It suits you,” He replies with a smirk of a grin, and she laughs, light and airy and happy and-

And William is so different now, but the flashes of familiarity hurt more than the contrasts, and so Dark says nothing at all in reply for a while, swallowing the lump of pain in their throat before forcing words out.

“She was, yes,” And William chuckles, leaning back against the glass door of the balcony, and they say nothing for the rest of the morning.

William leaves far quicker than they would have liked, but at the same time they have learned to expect nothing from William anymore.  They learned this with bitterness not towards William, but to the man that made William this way.

There are so many problems stemming from Mark, and they want to scream, because their revenge plots have gotten them nowhere.

It starts without them noticing, but then it is too much to ignore, too much change not to see that William is disappearing.  They realize so slowly-too slowly- that their friend isn’t as okay as he pretends to be.

And by then, it is too late.

[storiesnstormsinmyhead-blog]

What is my illness

Care For The Ones Who Don’t Care

“Owww”, my fingers feel bruised and numb as they smack against furniture. I lay back and close my eyes, nausea sways  behind my lids and I lurch up. Staring around feels even worse but at least it surpasses the need to hurl. My head is nothing but fog and everytime I try to move my body involuntarily thrashes. What did I drink… I Don’t actually remember. Panic sweeps across my body quick and cold. Laughter filters through the stairs above my head, people having fun. I curl up on myself despite my disgusting stomach and a sob rises up in my parched throat. Parched, I need water… I don’t want to suffer the headache again. Headache… pain.. Fuck. “You go to hard, I’m afraid one day you’ll smoke a bit of herb then the next day you’ll be shooting up in a crack house.” Well maybe he was right, I go to hard, and now I’m alone and scared. More rough sobs shake my body and I start convulsing. Gripping my shoulders I fight the sick feeling in my stomach. There is no one I want, no one I can trust… Nobody cares. Wait... that’s a lie, Jill cares. She loves me, she’s trying to take care of me tonight in her own way, in the only ways she knows how to.

“Hey”, I jump at the knock at the door. “It’s me”, me who, “I brought you some gatorade and a sandwich.” A hand reaches through the door and hands me a plate. My stiff fingers almost drop it. I fight the tears and make my voice sound normal.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Tell us if you need anything else?”

“Yeah thanks…” The door shuts and he leaves. I put the sandwich on top of the shelf and melt down into the mattress. Why do I do that? How do I go from sobbing and cracking apart to stone faced and put together. Can’t I just breakdown, is it okay to cry like a baby in front of people.

“You’re so manipulative, please stop crying.” Am I toxic. My head pounds and tears just start coming. Is it really so toxic to want to feel something, to not be okay all the time.

“He’s just so depressed I can’t deal with it.” “I can’t deal with you when you’re sad, it brings me down.” Tears dry up as words echo through my brain, words that have been spoken to me or about people I relate to. Words said about people who are just grasping to find something to hold onto. My life doesn’t have meaning, what am I living for? Everyday, school, work, working and saving for a future I don’t even think I will be alive for. In all honesty I don’t think I will live long, may be a few more years, but there’s nothing nailing me down, one day I’ll just decide I don’t want to crash again. My fingers scrabble and I bring out a small piece of metal.

My hands shakily open the safety pin, it’s like they don’t belong to me. It descends. It really doesn’t hurt. My whole body is to turbulent, it’s no longer mine so I don’t feel the pain. Slash after slash until I’m done, I feel it again, I feel something. Finally the tears come back. I hiccup and just bleed them out. The heaving brings up my dinner and bile rises in my throat. I barely make it to the barf bag. When I am done I cover my cuts, open the closet door, and make my way upstairs to face everyone. Drying my face off I simply ask, “Where do I put this..?” In the morning no one would know what had happened, they wouldn’t even guess. That is the way I want it, because how would they deal with it. They could say they were sorry they left me alone, they could say many things, but I don’t want them to feel the guilt. I never asked for help so how would they know I needed it. How would they know how lonely I was, and how hopeless I felt. I would watch my own back and take care of myself.

How in the name of everything is that taking care of myself? You may ask me. I could respond in many concerning ways but I will explain instead. Taking care of myself has many different definitions. It could be anything from eating right and working out today to doing my homework tomorrow and staying alive tonight. No I’m not being dramatic when I say staying alive, I mean it. Some days it’s all I can do to eat and sleep. Other days I can maintain two jobs, a social presence, and school. That is the nature of the beast. This beast in called depression, coupled with the dry winds of anxiety they tango in my head. Some people call it crazy, call me dramatic, maybe I am being dramatic. I can never tell. Is it okay to speak your mind and be honest about just wanting to die. Or should I shut up and pretend to be okay for the rest of my life? I don’t think I give enough fucks to shut up for my whole life. I will give people the option to walk away without guilt but if they stand by me they are consenting to seeing some shit. “It won’t be pretty, it won’t be nice.” I don’t remember where those words are from, probably some song I’ve blasted my hearing away with. My demons don’t define me but I am not going to pretend they don’t exist. People say I’m a lot to handle, guys quickly become disinterested when they realize how insane I can be, but I will not change to make it easier on them or anyone. I will continue being myself.

I mentioned before defining self care, self care is when I make something of myself, when I do something to make my day more livable and make me more strong. Often it is healthy food and hydration paired with a steady workout regimen. Making sure I don’t procrastinate to long to stave off stress. Keeping a decently clean living environment, not bottling up too much. Living each day case by case and making each day worth living. Surrounding myself with people I find to be more genuine and relatable, and when it gets bad just putting my hair into a messy bun, plugging in some death metal or hard rock, chugging my coffee and dealing with it. I don’t do that cleanse stuff, I won’t diss dieting or cleanses, but I don’t see a reason to put myself through more pain. I live on the fine line of comfort and productive. Too much comfort I get bored and depressed. Too much stuff to do and I shut down.

A good outline of self care is:

Workout a little every day you feel like it, not everyday and if it is painful you haven  taken it too far.

Eat healthily but don’t be afraid to indulge, eat your veggies and fruit but also treat yourself to quality sugar, just not too much.

Start everyday with a big breakfast and the small comforts, you’ll get to busy to indulge later.

Sleep 7 hrs a night at least.

Make goals.

Find little things to get excited about everyday.

Make sure you study and do your work.

Work a job you kinda like.

Live in the now, don’t think about the future.

Give someone a reason to smile everyday, don’t be pushy but trust me, making other people happy can do wonders when you can’t become happy yourself.

Self care is not a solid thing, it is a lifestyle, self care varies person to person, every answer is correct except the ones that are detrimental to one's health like drugs and alcohol. For instance my self care includes running and drawing while someone elses many include music and long walks. Often self care consists on several things, coping methods, exercise, self expression, and social aspects. Surrounding yourself with the right type of people is just as important as being able to express how you feel. When I am at my best is when I have poured my feelings out constructively and am having stress free fun. Self care is the ability to take care of yourself and not needing other people to baby you. At the same time one cannot be afraid to ask for help when it really is necessary, building a community of people who will give you hugs and advice while understanding where you’re coming from is key to staying sane often.

All in all I have learned that no matter what I’m feeling and no matter how far down the rabbit hole I’ve fallen there is always tomorrow. I have learned not to fear everything. I have learned to accept myself and not to change for anyone. I have learned to discard people's delusions of who I am and not care how many people dislike me, I am me and I do not exist to please them. At the same time I am no asshole, I won’t guilt them for not wanting to get on this train. I will respect people's boundaries and treat them with respect. I take no shit but I also give no shit. I have learned how to find the beauty in every nightmare and gained a desire to show people the light streaming through the top of the tunnel. Depression is a genetic condition for me but I can live with it. Everyday can be gloriously beautiful even if I am under pressure. Even when I am crying in the car at midnight speeding down the road to nowhere in particular, just because I can’t actually cry in front of people. I can find joy in singing my heart out to the music blasting on my stereo and comfort in the songs I’ve heard again and again.

Life is hard for everyone, life sometimes makes me want to leave it, but through learning how to care for myself I have come to peace with myself. I have found how to make it more beautiful and I wouldn’t change myself for the world. I wouldn't switch skins with anyone or take any cocktail of chemicals meant to make my life easier. I won’t feel sorry for myself because there is nothing to be sorry about. I am stronger because of this illness. I am more resilient and a more understanding person. I can help people because I have seen every shitty side of the coin, I can use my meager power to save lives and bring them out of the dark they are stuck in. I am going to dedicate my life to it actually. If I survive long enough I aim to save lives by helping people realize they are truly understood. I aim to listen and advise and be educated well enough to truly help them. Until then I will power through and live life to its fullest. Everyday will be riddled with successes and I will win every fight against myself no matter how hard I have to go. As my ex stated, yes I go hard, but you have to when you’re fighting to feel alive everyday. I go hard in the sense I live, I don’t participate in things that kill me inside, I don’t intend to let the illness win.

[pipedreamsjournal-blog]

January 2, 2017 Just after Midnight I waited to post until after all the discussions with kitten were completed to their entirety, not wanting my post to be half-complete or addressing anything without the totality of the experience... Well, the totality of this portion, anyway. First, I feel it is relevant to address my initial reaction to the situation as a whole... It seems there has been a massive amount of confusion and disconnect, especially with the vastly different opinions my Head Mates and I all have. I want to state it in such a way that it can be referenced whenever the need may arise: I love kitten. She has been in my life for a very, very long time, and we have walked through hell hand in hand. There have been times of disconnect, compromise, discontent, ecstasy, and everything even remotely between... and, in a lot of ways, I feel like I owe it to her to keep trying. I hold duty, obligation, and responsibility all in such high regard that, unlike most people, it MATTERS to me... I don't HAVE to fulfill old or dangerous duties, but I am so... steadfast... I want to maintain that aspect of myself, both for myself and for those that Love and respect me... I make a decision, even if it is the wrong decision, and I keep to. I do not overlook her actions, no matter how much I may love her, but I know that my love may bias my responses and make me... go easy on her. I do believe that a lot of things she does are inappropriate, callous, selfish, or just flat out wrong, and I do believe that selfishness is a driving aspect of her personality that has only worsened as of late... but I can understand the selfishness, and in many cases, I can follow it back to a deep rooted insecurity that I am... most likely going to blame myself for. My understanding of her conscious and subconscious reasoning has made me less likely to deal her what would be a fair punishment and she tends to get away with a lot of things that no one else does. And I know it isn't doing her any good to let her off so easy. I know it... I don't have any clue as to my opinions on her behaviors or responses during the conversation. I hope, desperately, that she was genuine in her willingness to do better, to work on righting her wrong behaviors, and that things will start to return to something akin to normal... I want Him to have "baby sister" back, and I would LOVE TO have my girlfriend back, but I simply do not know how likely that is, anymore. I have spent months in a state of flex and fluctuation, trying to figure out how I feel. She has done some awful things, more so than not, and has refused, denied, or ignored what consequences she MAY have faced... If she were ANYBODY. ELSE. When the puppies died, though, I saw true fear in her... I saw true desperation, the totality of loss, and grief. I know that pain, intimately; or, at least, I thought I did. She then presented me with an agony all its own, all HER own: facing the consequences... as a helpless bystander, sending an innocent loved one to their execution. I watched that begin to undo her, destroy her. It was miserable, and she handled it as best she could, receiving little support from anyone aside from myself... Even Figs was constantly reaffirming her fears that she had finally crossed the threshold and it was "too much," that it was all a matter of time, nothing more, until I left her, that she was no longer able to be forgiven and did not deserve to even ask. Everybody was, apparently, one hundred percent certain that she was a goner. And yet, I sat in our room, on Your bed, and felt my heart bleeding for her, my shoulders hunching under the imagined weight of the responsibility SHE bore. She was suffering... and suffering in a severe, extreme way, that it seemed like the Universe itself was punishing her in my stead. She repented, for her actions before as well as for the slights made during and directly after... and she seemed to MEAN IT. I believed her and stood firm against anybody who said otherwise. What punishment could I possibly give her that could compare?? As an advocate for "punishment positive" dynamics, I firmly believe that once punished, an individual should not be constantly bombarded by the their past deeds; punishment is closure and forgiveness, and she had been punished. Before the puppies, I was more known to defend her than to berate [though, I will admit that I was not quiet about my concerns and projected them aggressively and without filter], but I was a firm supporter and advocate following them. Was she innocent, following the puppies? No. There were things she did after that have not been made right, and the deeds Forgiven from prior were strictly those slights against me... Her behaviors towards my GOD, my SIR, my Mister... the people I care for as I do; worship... and adore; were things that I adamantly voiced my displeasure and FRUSTRATED I was. I explained why, discussing the Collective's advocacy and willingness to fight for her, and she seemed more... unmoved than anything else, perhaps even jaded. I did not give up on her, constantly rallying her and offering whatever I could as comfort, but I did not make my feelings anything but clear. When I finally shook my head and walked away, she came to me, and I thought that she would actually try. Figs swore she would, that she was genuine and he could see it, and suddenly he would tolerate no ill will towards her. Owner, as is modus operandi for Him, was also more than optimistic about her improvement and potential. Whatever uncertainty I had wilted under the brightness of their character witness testimonies, and even attempting to discuss my concerns only led to them being silenced, in one way or another... This is one of my biggest concerns, however... Regarding her behavior when referencing the Head Mates of both of us... Where once she said she would NEVER interact with anyone aside from Blake and maybe Ana, saying distasteful things about every other, she suddenly cared for and wanted to befriend Leif and Sy, saying she missed both and wanted to be around them... Where once she refused to accept even the existence of Mister, standing on unshakeable ground made of irrefutable belief... she has suddenly accepted not only his existence, but the probability - if not the certainty - of his innocence, with no information, questions, concerns, or evidence to the contrary more substantial than the word of the person she called a "beaten woman" and the individual she accused of being the "one doing the beating." On nothing more than our word that there were reasons, she was willing to immediately restore whatever she deemed was her "relationship" with Mister. [Which, I do not remember there BEING one... In the beginning, only I interacted, and shortly following, she was refused most opportunities that may lead to a relationship, by her own doing. I cannot recall any her and Mister's actual interactions that were not underhanded, conflict oriented, or a double sided ploy to manipulate the other... None of these things lead to a positive relationship, yet she acted as though they were the best of buds, totally familiar and comfortable with each other... If she is attempting to instill that as a baseline, I worry for her memory and her stability... If she is attempting to return to the manipulation and scheming, then I expect this to become violently explosive very quickly... and if she believes that she can share a close, trusting, playful relationship with Mister directly after her slights and her disingenuous apologies? Well, none of the options are particularly... promising.] Not only does she seem diffident in her actions and plan for the future, indifferent regarding the actions of the past, and totally, and desperately, grasping for her present.... she seems to have suddenly become shallow, both in word and action. Before, she was flimsy, but at least she had the depth to be... Last night, I saw the kind of superficial, trivial, and uninspired, pedantic bullshit that I usually only equate to.... Wow. Fuck. Ow. That I usually only equate to my aunt. Well then. I think I'm done for now.