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No but like I haven't posted on this blog in like a year

I forgot it existed

beep beep lettuce

…the fuck?

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beep beep lettuce

...the fuck?

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I’ve always said that I’m “high functioning.” It’s a term the mentally ill are familiar with; it’s a term that guarantees you rarely get the care you need, because to Them, you don’t need it as much as someone who is more visibly struggling.

Them being the “adultier adults” we need; caretakers, doctors, therapists, the list goes on and so does the neglect.

To be high functioning means that you can get by on your own without, like, setting fire to your cereal a la Homer Simpson. That’s it. Those are the basic qualifications that determine it.

Have you been hospitalized, arrested, fired, evicted, or otherwise unfairly punished om paper for being unwell by an authority figure? No? You’re high functioning. Abused for it? That’s just trauma. It has to be on paper that you failed at something, or you’re high functioning.

Some places are a lot nicer about this term; you have to function like a normal person before they label you. But in my experience, it gets thrown around unless you’re a complete wreck.

It wasn’t even until I was 23 that I received ANY diagnosis, and the one I got was for generalized anxiety, because nobody was comfortable saying what I actually had until I “proved it.”

I eventually did get a proper diagnosis; for the record, it was bipolar, adhd, and anxiety. It took even longer to start on proper medication.

Yesterday, in fact. Right now, I’m on four; one every morning and/or evening for bipolar (figuring out timing still), one every evening for adhd & insomnia, an as-needed stimulant for adhd, and an as-needed calming medication for panic.

The price of a 30 day supply for all of them, by the way? Around $100. That’s with Tricare, also known as one of the best insurances in the nation, albeit also one of the most difficult to work with BECAUSE of how good it is. You can only have Tricare if you are in the military/a veteran, married to someone in the military/a veteran, or the child of someone in the military/a veteran (until 26 if you’re a student). I literally don’t even know what the cost would be uninsured. It’s a lot. One of them, the $50 one, would be around $1,000, I know that much.

But … the relief of being on something is worth that price. It is to me, at least. The relief of not feeling as if I’m about to die, at any moment… I don’t think I can go back. And this is just one of the first days of being on this cocktail. I slept amazingly, I feel calm and focused, but not sluggish…

It’s like… I’m me, for once in my life. Unfiltered by chaos, swimming instead of drowning, in the clear air instead of lost in the fog.

And the fact that it took me so long, that some haven’t gotten there yet… because of money, or being labeled too high functioning to need help, or any number of things…

You’ll get there. I promise. It’ll be hard, but you can do it. It’s always darkest before the dawn.

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Who cares if one more light goes out? In a sky of a million stars It flickers, flickers Who cares when someone's time runs out? If a moment is all we are Or quicker, quicker Who cares if one more light goes out? Well, I do ...

-One More Light, Linkin Park

Today, I found out that one of my personal heroes passed away. Specifically, that he killed himself.

I used to get shit for liking Linkin Park. Mostly, by pretentious people - they were popular, and emotive, and let’s not pretend that every single one of their songs was a masterpiece.

But those people weren’t there when Numb made me not want to die for a while. They weren’t there when Breaking the Habit made me stop running until my feet bled, and put away the pills I’d been jacking from my parents.

They weren’t there when the release of Minutes to Midnight made me excited for the first time in months.

They weren’t there when Linkin park played a part in saving my life, over and over and over again, because I wanted to die pretty much every waking second.

Given Up was my favorite song to show to people, because of the extremely long note, and I could excitedly rant about how amazing it was, about what a fantastic singer Chester Bennington was.

I’ve seen mixed reactions to his death. I’ve seen people mourning, and I’ve seen people shrugging it off.

I’ve seen people callously disregard it, too.

Me? I’ve been crying on and off all day. I’m not ashamed to admit that, just as I’ve never been ashamed to talk about my love for Linkin Park - for Chester. I wasn’t the most devoted fan, I couldn’t tell you their birthdays, I didn’t even know his last name until I saw it in the news today.

(To be fair, I’ve never been good at that sort of thing anyway, not even with friends and family.)

I never knew him personally, obviously. And I’ve never really felt this devastated by a celebrity death before - even Carrie Fisher, while tragic, didn’t affect me in this way.

But ... to think that I’ll never hear a new song from him? To think that One More Light was the last album we’ll ever get? To think that he made such a heartbreaking decision, that he was in that place, the place I still feel like I’m on the precipice of every day ... to know what he was feeling this intimately... unless you’ve been in that dark place, it’s impossible to describe.

And it hurts. It hurts more than I know how to say. Because he had support, he had friends and family, he’d created such wonderful music and contributed so much to this world, and it still wasn’t enough to save him from that dark place.

And in moments like this, it kind of feels like it’s an inevitability for some of us, you know? If you’re in that place, and you’re looking for a way out, and you see this... that someone that saved you without even knowing your name still chose to end his life...

It hurts.

And I want to end this on some sort of positive note, I really do, but I just don’t have it in me right now. I hope that he achieved some measure of peace, and I hope that his loved ones are well taken care of.

For anyone struggling right now - my inbox is open.

Who cares if one more light goes out? Well, I do ...

... well, I do ...

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Oh man, I remember making this half-hearted attempt at a blog. It didn’t go well. This was a great video though. 

Today on That Doesn’t Go There

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Day 2. Friday, July 14th, 2017. Polaroids were taken around 7pm, photos of polaroids, around 830. Depression, again. I'm having a particularly difficult time navigating the minefield that is the American healthcare system. Trying to stay alive shouldn't be so difficult, but being mentally ill makes a mountain into Mt Everest. The hot, sticky summer heat & humidity of a dying swamp warped some of the prints this time. Surprisingly, though, my blood has never sung that siren song to all the demonic mosquitos, so all I got was sweaty. Anxiety kept me from taking more shots, but I like these. It has a duality. Warm & Cool. Fitting, for me. Trying out new styles. I enjoy practical effects. Posting 4 of these to Twitter, as well, will be a chore. Mostly, because I'll have to choose four. @PixieParticle - for the curious. Tldr: C'est la vie, c'est la mort. May the latter not tempt me more than usual.

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Day 1. Friday, July 7, 2017. 4am. Photography project, regarding mental health.

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Sometimes, I drive past the airport, and I just wanna run in and take the first flight to anywhere else. Not because I don't want to be here, or I hate my life/the people in it. Just... Just because. I hate feeling stuck, more than anything. In a relationship, in a job, in a place. I hate the idea that I have no freedom for new roads, and I want options and variety more than anything. I have trouble focusing on only one thing, particularly for very long, and I suspect that this wanderlust is a manifestation of this quirk. But, in the end, it's a facet of who I am, and who I am is a person with far too few vacation days. (None. I have none vacation days. This is tragic.) I want to see it all, do it all, experience everything there is, and fill this deep void within that nothing so far has sated. I expect that I could consume the entire known universe and still be hungry for more, feeling empty, like there's a space deep inside me that nothing known to man could satiate. In the meantime, I stare at airports as I drive by, and I think about flying anywhere but here.

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A E S T H E T I C What does it mean, to live in a cycle? Layers and layers, built up like inside jokes and decade-old memes. When you're down, it's worse, because on the one hand you know that it'll pass... but on the other hand, it'll come back, again & again & again. When you're up, you're even more inclined to ride that wave all the way until you're smashing into the rocks again, because at least the wave feels like something instead of the abyss you drown in when you aren't on top of the wave. And the in betweens? Your head is above the water, but you're still swimming, and you're still caught in the tide. Sooner or later, you're atop the wave or dragged under by the current. There is no escape. It will be like this, forever, mitigated only by a cocktail of chemicals that may or may not always work. And sometimes, you just get really fucking tired of fighting, because you know that there's no end in sight. At least... not an end you should look forward to. But is it any wonder that so many of us have suicidal ideation? It's like the only sense of control over your life, your fate, that you have. To know that you choose if you live or die - "not today," I've said, too many times. Whether it's because of some unfortunate circumstances, or something I tell myself when nobody can hear me, I say it a lot. And it's powerful, and liberating, and feels like I'm winning another battle in the endless war that is my own personal hellscape - like I'm facing a hurricane, staring into its eye, and telling it that I refuse to be moved. ...for about five minutes. It feels like that for about five minutes. I don't owe anyone shit for an explanation as to what's going on in my head - unless I say so, it's nobody's fucking business. "How are you doing today?" "I'm doing great, thanks. You?" It's easy. Reflexive. High-functioning, apparently. High-risk is a phrase that pairs nicely with it, because nobody looks twice at someone who seems to have their shit together. And why would they? It's so easy to fake it until you make it, right up until you crash and burn and have to vomit up too much aspirin because you realized you're a fucking idiot. It's not easy. Every second of every day is painful. Scrapes and bruises and breaks and burns, and so, so many scars. I cannot look at a spot on my body without seeing something there; a scab, a black & blue surprise, an old wound that didn't heal properly. Most are tiny; others do not easily see these flaws. They remind me that I am made of storms & stars, and that I cannot be vanquished by simple means. They remind me, though, that I am mortal, and that one day, I will only exist in memories and ash. It is terrifying; it is relieving. Someday, I will rest. Someday, my cycle will be broken. Someday, I will be immortalized on the lips of my loved ones, who cannot bear to see a world without my light. But today is not that day. Today, I choose to face the abyss, and today I choose to tell it: "No."

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I have too much fun with Snapchat filters.

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Tired at work.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, so here’s my face.

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So, here’s the thing about physical intimacy:

It doesn’t actually require an “end goal.”

For the longest time, I described myself as “touch starved” - and, to an extent, I still do. If you go long enough without enough positive physical touch, you develop a weird relationship with it.

It hurts, but you need it. It helps, but you fear it. And it’s kind of like a rush to make up for all the time you didn’t have it; like if you touch someone enough times, or intensely enough, in a short span, it might make up for the lack.

It doesn’t really work that way, unfortunately. It leaves a mark on you for a very long time. The only real cure is extensive self-care, and seeking out people who understand and are willing to help - and put up with your quirks, which you WILL have. (For example, I seem to love burying my face in people’s necks and just kinda rubbing my face on the person like a needy cat. That’s just a thing I do now.)

My point, though, is that this intimacy is often framed by society as having a specific & immediate purpose - that is to say, it’s sexualized. And the thing is that it’s sexualized in a particularly male-goal way you see at its most literal in porn; a certain pace, a certain flow, a certain number of goals to meet.

It’s static. Everything follows a formula. But it isn’t just porn; lots of times, it’s sort of expected that if you start cuddling, it leads to heavy petting, you do a few sex things with increasing intensity, you both “finish,” and there’s some wind-down cuddling, maybe sleep or a shower or a shared meal.

That’s…not really what I want. At least, not all the time. And generally not with men, in any case, but it’s even worse to try and seek open-ended intimacy with a girl in a society that still wonders which girl is supposed to wear the strap-on. It’s like there are mandatory checklists to cross off, and if you don’t, you’re not gay enough - you’re faking, to attract men, or you’re not sure what you really want.

Especially being polyamorous - I’m not a unicorn, and I most certainly do not want to be hunted by ignorant couples who see me as an exotic sex toy.

Sometimes, I still want some raunchy pornographic sex. I’ve got several out-there kinks, I like it rough, bla bla bla. But, like - that’s not *all* I want, and as someone recovering from a wide variety of traumas, it’s certainly not all I *need*.

But, well… try explaining that to someone who’s been indoctrinated by our society’s ideas of what makes a relationship function. Bland cookie cutter shapes in bland flavors at set quantities and rife with specifics of what you’re allowed to eat and when.

Because that’s obviously going to work for /everyone/.

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"I wanna die, but not like, I plan on offing myself right this second; more like, if I didn't have shit to do & people to provide for, I'd probably down a bottle of aspirin and chase it with 2 parts bleach & 1 part Kahlua. But I do have shit to do, and people to provide for, so I guess I'll just drink water instead." This week, I had midterms, interviews for new jobs, and work to do - until Wednesday, anyway, after which my schedule would be mostly clear until Sunday. I slept 6 hours on Sunday night, and took a small nap Monday. I got no sleep Monday night, no sleep Tuesday night, and slept for about 9 restless hours mid-Wednesday. I didn't sleep again until 7pm Thursday, and I woke up at noon on Friday. What was I doing those days? Planning a d&d campaign, getting weeks worth of world building out of the way in 2-3 days via intense manic hyperfocus. I should have been doing actual work, and studying. I did neither of those things. Now, I'm sitting here, and all I want to do is sleep for 17 hours again. Then 17 more. Then stay asleep forever. On the bright side, I got the jobs I wanted, and my players are incredibly amazed & astounded & immersed. Failed the bio midterm, though, but I aced the psych one. Also, at some point, I bought the virgin killer sweater? But I honestly remember nothing more than joking about how I should buy it. Dude. It could have been worse, I guess.

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Who the fuck am I? 

No, really, I ask that question every day. 

What does it mean to be me? To have this identity, this collection of parts that is somehow unique in a sea of billions like me. We are all different, yet the same. Fractured identity is a thing I struggle with, even on the best days. 

(These are all raw, dumb selfies I took in the heat of the moment.)

Ok, can I digress for a moment to say how fucking annoying it is that half these pictures I took when I still had my starter piercing in, and the dumb thing would always tilt to the side and look askew? Like, holy shit, the lack of symmetry bugs me. Gah! 

... 

Digression aside. 

Being bipolar is one of those things that, like ... it gives you some serious identity issues, ok? If you have it, you know, but if you don’t, it’s basically like living on an emotional rollercoaster that you can’t get off of no matter what you do. 

On Tuesday, you feel like you’re on top of the world, but on Thursday, your existence is a crushing pit of absolute despair. (I’m speaking from a rapid cycling perspective, here, but the foundation is the same: X amount of time is normal, X amount of time is manic, X amount of time is depressed.) 

I’ve gone through an entire spectrum of emotions over the course of two minutes before, not even realizing what happened until the person I was with talked to me about having experienced it from the outside. Witnessed the spectacle, as it were. 

And that sort of existence, it’s... polarizing. There are days I don’t even know if what I’m feeling is real or valid or what I’m supposed to be feeling; where I feel like I’m not even Me anymore, just this ... collection of misfiring neurons. 

It’s a point of irony, for me, that I was born a libra, and that every horoscope talks to me about balance this and balance that. 

(Astrology is bullshit. Anyone can give you a vague collection of statements that will somehow apply to specifically you. People make a lot of money scamming others this way; cold reading is a skill, like any other. There’s no mysticism there.) 

I’m not in balance. I’m not even close to being in balance. If I were a set of scales, one would be buried beneath the ground, and the other would be flailing around in the air like a Bethesda glitch. 

And through all of this meandering through one identity crisis after another, I’ve had to figure this shit out more or less alone. I’ve had help - anyone that tells you that no one has ever helped them is a fucking liar - but like, nobody can do this shit for me. Nobody can just give me answers that will satisfy me. 

I’m not sure that sort of thing is even possible, for me or for anyone; an answer to a question that big? 

Who the fuck am I? 

That’s something I’m not sure I’ll ever actually know. 

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On tattoo culture: 

Some of y'all are pretentious as fuck. That said, this shit helps me cope with my baggage, and the universal Thing seems to be “we’re individuals celebrating artistry,” so ... we’re in this together.

Tattoos are a form of therapy, for me.

I think long and hard about every single one I want to get. That, plus not having much money, is why I only have 4. 

So, technically, my first tattoo was simple... and not pictured here because I was stupid and uneducated and went to a shitty place, and it faded into nothingness within months. It was just the word “Breathe” in my handwriting. It still had a lot of meaning, because that’s a lifesaving word to people with anxiety - but I’m not that upset that it’s gone, either. Perhaps I’ll put it back later, somewhere else.

My first real, legit, artistry tattoo was the logo for Diablo 3 on my left thigh. (Artist plug.) The story behind that was basically… my dad and I have a strained relationship at the best of times. Nbd. I love him, I just acknowledge that he is a human being with flaws.

Nothing against him; I think he’s a pretty cool dude. If he ever reads this, that might be a little awkward, but it’s nothing I haven’t said to his face before. “Hey, you did good in some ways, but you kind of fucked me up, so…”

Anyway, we bonded over video games and shit like that, and the first game we played together was Diablo. Like, the original one. I pressed random buttons while sitting on his lap, and I was scared shitless of caves. I’d get super upset if a character died. (To this day, I hate caves in video games.) YMMV if a toddler should be playing a game like Diablo, but honestly, that’s the thing that fucked up my childhood the least. 

So, fast forward two decades and some change, and it seemed like a really fitting first tattoo. One of my favorite games, a nod to my dad; it’s perfect. (Note: I initially hated D3, and even now, I abhor the Witch Doctor, but Reaper of Souls fixed all my issues with it. But seriously, minionmancer 4 lyfe. Blizzard, give me my female necromancer, immediately. I’ve waited like twenty years for this.)

So … my next tattoo was the butterfly. (Artist plug #2.) Some of you may recognize it as the Butterfly Project, and you’d be right; the anti-self-harm sentiment of doing something beautiful instead of something ugly, something something symbolic transformation, you get the idea. In my case, it’s kind of literally transformative, in that the body surrounds a nasty scar. The colors are also that of bi pride (with a seafoam green accent, since I needed four colors). It’s supposed to also be stained glass, but that part honestly is #aesthetic and doesn’t have any special meaning.

After that, the semi colon on my knuckle. It’s got a match, on EC’s sternum; we drew the designs for one another, and it’s super sappy platonic moirail soulmate fluff. “We have matching tattoos in one another’s handwriting!” 

The meaning of the semi-colon is an anti-suicide thing. My story isn’t over; that’s the general idea, anyway. Both of us have … issues, but there’s a lot of love there, so we’re ok.

Lastly, the geometric scales. (Same artist as the butterfly.) Ah, astrology, how I loathe your flippant disregard for actual science. You would think that astrology, sharing a suffix with geology, psychology, biology, and other sciencey things would be actual science. But no. Astrology is bullshit zodiac crap. Astronomy is the actual science.

… I love linguistics, but that annoys me.

Regardless, the scales have nevertheless called to me; libra & gemini are the two most “torn” signs, in a way, both caught between opposing forces. Ambivalent, as it were. (Watch “Girl, Interrupted.” Do it.) I’ve never felt in balance, as I should, but … I strive to be. And I happen to be a libra. 

On to the phrase: Aut inveniam viam aut faciam. “I shall either find a way or make one.” It has a few variations, obviously, since it was never directly quoted. Supposedly, when Hannibal’s generals told him that it was impossible to cross the Alps by elephant, this was his response. (No, not that Hannibal. Pretty sure this one didn’t eat people.) Dubious, I know, especially since he wouldn’t have spoken Latin. The sentence appears repeatedly in the tragedies of Seneca, as well, though mostly just the first half of the phrase.

I’m also not, at all, the first person to use it as a motto. And most of the people who do use it don’t understand that it isn’t necessarily the best motto to have; it pretty strongly implies being a headstrong, foolhardy piece of shit, if we’re being totally honest.

But… that’s kind of what I am. 

That’s kind of a defining feature for why I’ve survived this long, albeit not terribly successfully. A friend of mine, who we shall call DG, once said of people that “everyone has rooms locking away monsters.” Some people keep them closed & locked, forever, and are too afraid to go near it. Some people leave the door open. (Some people don’t even have monsters that are all that scary, and that’s ok, too.) 

And me? I would be the one to kick the door in, somehow trip over the doorknob, and fight to the death, every time. 

So that’s me. I either find a way, or I make one. I’ve further ripped open a gaping wound in order to climb a fence to freedom and survival. I’ve done a lot of stupid shit, but there isn’t a bone in my body that knows how to lay down and die.

My goal is to achieve some kind of balance in my being. As I am now, I’m askew; the goal is to be level. And I’ll either find a way… or I’ll make one. But I sure as shit am not going to give up. 

So, those are my tattoo meanings. Everyone has their own shit, and some people just do it for the # a e s t h e t i c - and that’s fine, too. 

Like I said - the universal Thing is that we’re all individuals celebrating artistry, so we’re kind of in this together. 

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Yet another millennial struggling to make ends meet. 

It shouldn’t be this hard for us. 

But, well... it is. 

I’m one of the lucky ones, in that my parents are sometimes willing to help me out a little bit financially, but 1) there’s always more to that story, and 2) they have enormous medical bills to worry about, and can’t actually help me THAT much. 

My mother has fibromyalgia, and PTSD; my dad suffered a stroke due to polycythemia vera, which to keep it simple means that his blood is effectively Extra Thick maple syrup, and also has an auto immune disorder that hasn’t been classified yet. (Think “like Lupus, but maybe not actually Lupus.”) Twice a week - twice a week - my dad has to get his blood drawn to thin it out. He just recently had to get a bone marrow biopsy done, and they are constantly running tests; he also has physical therapy regularly, since his right side doesn’t exactly work properly anymore. 

You really think they can afford to pay my bills? Yeah, no. They can’t. They can throw me some grocery money sometimes, but that’s about it. Still, it’s more than most people have, and I acknowledge my small fortunes there. 

Why don’t I live with them? Because it’d be enormously unhealthy for and a financial burden on everyone involved, and it would mean abandoning my new family, which, no thanks. 

So how is it that someone with 5+ years of work experience is turned down? 

Probably a number of reasons, honestly. I have tattoos and piercings; my availability isn’t amazing since I’m currently going to school (BioTech, by the way; I’m gonna get to study STEM CELLS and shit, and do RESEARCH, and oh my god I’ve become boring). Maybe I say the wrong things, or make the wrong gestures, or my references aren’t stellar. 

... 

But why is it so hard, though? Why in the fuck is it so hard for someone with over five years of experience AND college education to get a job? 

Why does it come down to one wrong sentence? 

Why do you need an education and experience in order to get an entry level position? Where the hell are you supposed to get the experience? 

Oh, right. Free internships. 

Bitch, I have bills to pay. 

None of this is anything that hasn’t been said before, but it still bewilders me. From craigslist scams to LinkedIn making you pay ridiculous amounts of money to access their premium membership - you know, pay money while you’re looking for a job? - it just seems like everything is stacked against you from the beginning. 

My future looks great - lab technicians and experimental researchers aren’t exactly minimum wage slaves - but the problem is getting there alive. I’m still trying to pay for testing and medication for my slew of disorders, and I still have to actually make it through the 2 years it’ll take me to complete this education. 

Oh, well. At least I won’t have to worry about getting pregnant, since I already got my tubes tied. Suck on that, Team Pence.