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gallows laughter because the rope broke
Twenty 300mg pills of gabapentin won’t kill you. Either that, or I’m immortal, which is bad news for you bitches.
adieu
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: —Do I wake or sleep?
I’m driving to a better place
if I could fix this, I would fix it. I wouldn’t be sitting in front of twenty gabapentin pills and bawling my eyes out.
I’m not crazy, I’m just fucking sad.
tired
the end is very near. the only thing that keeps it from being even nearer is my fear, but eventually, that will be eclipsed by the despair, and that will be the end of it. I’m not looking forward to it, but I’m not dreading it, either. it is what it is, and I think, really, it was what it was going to come down to in the end, no matter what. I thought I escaped it, and for a while, I had — but there’s nothing more powerful than a global financial crisis on the heels of a pandemic.
that being said, I hope all anti-maskers and anti-vaxxers go through precisely what I am right now.
I don’t have to pretend to be a good person; I know I’m not.
and I want those fuckers to burn, because their bullshit burned my life.
no mercy for wilful ignorance, I fear.
Wings has finally met its end, or at least something very like it. I’m too tired to pretend that I don’t care that nobody cares. I’m too tired to pretend that I’m not hurt by the grown-ass men/women acting like fucking highschoolers and using people like tissues or starting shit “behind your back” (it’s not exactly behind my back if you post it publicly and we move in the same circles, you gutless wonder) or being called all sorts of names by hysterical yesterweb cultists because I can’t read their pixel font webshites.
I still love to design, and coding is still a balm, but this shit? This shit is hell. Maybe there’s a sphere for me in the creative web somewhere, but I’ll be fucked if I know where it is. I’m so sick of the high-school drama in the hobby, ESPECIALLY if it’s being perpetuated by creepy hypocritical 40-year-old university professors. (oh, I am not even fucking KIDDING. email me and I’ll name names. I could not give a fuck anymore if I tried.)
I’m sick of everything, honestly. I’m sick of being a sounding board (more like punching bag), I’m sick of being everyone’s second choice, I’m sick of physical pain and migraines that are so bad I vomit blood, I’m sick of rain, I’m sick of this shitty, shitty caravan, I’m sick of not having hot water or a toilet or shower or an oven to cook something that isn’t two minute fucking noodles, I’m sick of being unable to sit up for more than five minutes without being in intense pain which means I can’t concentrate on shit, I’m sick of this shitty internet connection.
I’m only alive rn because I’m too chicken to take the final step, but like I said, eventually, it will happen, fear or not. the human spirit is like a taco; you can only stuff so much suffering into it before it breaks entirely.
can’t stop what is on its way
and i see it coming and it’s on its way
there is no self with which to be selfish
think I just accidentally fed into the narrative that mental illness and its consequences can be overcome by a can-do attitude.
fuck.
for the record: no, it can’t.
which is why I haven’t been able to write a word since the other night.
I was high on (legal, prescribed) opioids when I coughed up that prologue, which I do believe were made more potent because a) like an idiot, I took them on an empty stomach, and b) the relief from not being in physical pain doubtlessly caused either a dopamine or oxytocin rush. (or both, not sure.)
Drugs do not make you creative, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar — drugs remove whatever barriers are in the way to let that creativity flow. in my case, it was physical pain and possibly slight stress.
My creativity is innate.
I have no doubt about my skill or my ideas or my ability.
I know I’m good. I’m not the best, but that’s fine — I think room to improve keeps things from getting boring.
when depression is pressing down on me so hard that I find it hard to move, let alone type up those ideas using my ability and learned skills, that’s not self-paralysis. it’s just garden variety paralysis.
there is no ‘self’ involved in this, which is what makes it so fucking frustrating. there’s no self in depression. that’s the whole crux of the vile little matter — the self is dissolved with the acid of mental illness. I didn’t ask or tell my brain to start making that acid, it’s just the way I was fucking born.
a pianist can’t possibly be blamed for finding it close to impossible to play the piano if a psycho with a knife breaks through their window and cuts their hands off at the wrist.
I didn’t ask for a psycho with a knife to break into my brain, but here we are.
I hate writing at the moment, because depression makes it painful. I hate everything at the moment, for the same reason, and I wish to god I didn’t. but I have no say in it because depression is a psycho with a knife that breaks through your mental windows and cuts your soul off.
I’ve done a lot of shit to myself, but this? this I did not.
but hey. it’s a lot easier to play into the smiley, happy, “I made it, so can you!” toxic positivity bullshit than it is to say to people “I want to die all the time because I am so sad”. I’m lying, but hey. lots of other people are, too.
maybe I’ll just continue lying about the wordcount and productivity until I no longer have to. it’s not like anyone’s gonna read what I write, anyway. this is the TikTok world where people literally whine about books having too many words on a page. there was no hope for someone like me to begin with.
I don’t wanna be you anymore
Wherever I go they’re always fucking there, like a suppurating wound or a cancer
and those who can talk without falling over their words are always received more warmly than the stumble-tongued
no matter the blood on the former’s hands
(I wasn’t thinking of you at all)
I can’t be human, I can’t even pretend to be human or real or worth anything anymore
I can’t do people
not even when I love them — in fact, when i love them it just makes everything a hundred thousand times worse
I’m silenced, but beyond that;
I’m just a broken fuckup, and I know it.
(oh she was right all along.
sing with me, this is)
I don’t think I want to die but maybe it would be better for everyone if I just…disappeared quietly. nothing of value would be lost, really. and I Don’t want hugs or platitudes or attention or anything; I’m not saying this for any of that, I’m saying this because it’s true. if I have no worth I have no one to blame but myself, like with every other thing. I’m a mess, but I’m not quite as fucking stupid as they all said (Say) I am.
nobody notices their silver missing while they’re polishing their gold. why woudl they?
With the sticks and stones I’m made ofI swear I tried the best I couldI still wanna be a winnerI want to be good
a hymn at the world’s end
years go by will I still be waiting for somebody else to understand?
years go by if I’m stripped of my beauty and the orange clouds raining in my head
one more casualty you know it’s too easy easy easy
but what if I’m a mermaid in these jeans of yours
with her name still on them
but I don’t care, ’cause sometimes I hear my voice
I hear my voice
I hear my voice and it’s been
here
silent all these years
my time is a piece of wax falling on a termite that’s choking on the splinters
I can’t write anything. It’s like trying to get water from the moon. I just stare and stare and stare at the empty page. I feel nothing at all.
It’s like how I sign up to make all these fanlistings, thinking that surely, surely by the time the form is processed, I’ll feel some kind of spark of inspiration to make something again, and it never happens. I just end up half-assing a layout in three hours on the day it’s due and throwing it online to keep the Internets HOA off my ass.
There’s nothing in me, nothing stirs. I’m just empty. I’m just pain and uselessness wrapped in a human shape.
It’s probably not surprising, given the last three years of my life being what they are, but it still sucks. One more shard of myself lost; there’s going to be nothing left eventually, I think. If that is indeed the case, I wish it would hurry up and take all of me.
Soy un perdedor. What can you do. What can I do. It is whatever it is. Everything is, everything was, everything is all, everything will be. Supposedly.
stumbling on the razor’s edge
my mental health has, amusingly, gotten worse since the hiatus, so I give up. if you read this blog, there’s going to be discussion about sad stuff and venting about nonsense that doesn’t really matter at the end of the day, because I am trapped in a highly toxic, borderline abusive living situation, and there is literally no way out. my mind is imploding and my body is decaying. this blog is going to be garbage whining. don’t read it.
in other news…meds should be free. also, Trump is a muhfuhin’ weird fascist racist shitehawk, but that’s redundant.
yesterday I rescued a tiny possum baby that was being attacked by a crow. poor little thing’s tail was torn up and bloody, but otherwise, she seemed very healthy — bright eyed, alert, not too amused about having to be temporarily in a box while we transported her to the local vet (they take in injured wildlife for free, and send them up to Australia Zoo to rehab). once she’s all healed up, she’ll be released back into this area — possibly back on our property? not sure, but they want her back in her original home when she’s better, which I love. maybe one day I’ll see her again and know her by her tail scars. that would be so cute.
I was a little worried the vet would tell us “uh, no, we don’t do wildlife” or ask for money (I literally have none — it’s only through the generosity of my chosen family that I can afford my effing meds), but I was determined to just bite the bullet, Google my ass off, and look after the little one myself, if so. no questions asked.
she was so tiny and adorable. I cannot stand human babies, and the whole “come over for newborn cuddles!” thing just strikes me as infinitely boring, but baby animals? I turn into a complete and utter mama bear and I will protect this little thing with my entire life. while I had that little one cuddled up to my chest and curled up in my hand, I could have taken on a whole pack of lions. it’s such a weird rush of feeling — dopamine and adrenaline, maybe? oxytocin? unsure.
but yeah. that’s about the only worthy thing that happened over the hiatus that I’m allowed to talk about publicly. everything else is…not happy. have a nice dragon as an apology. also the Manics’ new single, because Nicky Wire is, and forever will be, my ideal man.