please enter undomiel’s passcode to read this private message:
[private] I’m driving to a better place
please enter undomiel’s passcode to read this private message:
[private] tired
please enter undomiel’s passcode to read this private message:
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.
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.
fuck your therapy; provide me a non-toxic environment instead.
therapy, much like mindfulness, mentorship, medication, and probably a slew of other things that don’t start with ‘m’, is not a fucking cure-all. also, it is not appropriate for ALL people. in can, in fact…make some people even sicker than when they started.
i know, i know — but if it helped you, it must surely help everyone else who isn’t the centre of the universe, right? and, and if someone doesn’t find themselves helped by something you personally found helpful…why, that’s besmirching your character, isn’t it?! obviously this person is just Not Trying Hard Enough, or some other flavour of Just Not Doing It Right. some people just don’t want to be mentally healthy. they want to be sad and ill. it’s so very disheartening, but you can sit here and feel superior to them, so it’s not all bad.
I don’t need to talk about how fucked up my life is; I need the finances to be able to change it. if you can’t provide the latter, the former ain’t gonna do shit. help me remove the poison from my life entirely or fuck off; I am tired of wasting time and energy on preventatives when I know what the cure is. deal with it.
some days I just fucking hate everything.
the slow poisoning of the world
Deleted Twitter. Felt…I don’t even know or care.
just explain WHY.
Physiology: “Hey.”
Yrs Truly: “Mm.”
Physiology: “HEY.”
Yrs: “Jesus, what? I’m reading!”
Physiology: “Anxiety attack!”
Yrs: “Wait, no–”
Physiology: “ANXIETY ATTACK!”
Yrs: “I just…but…what…why?”
Physiology: “ANXIETY! ATTACK! :D”
Yrs: “WE WERE DOING LITERALLY NOTHING. WE WERE THINKING ABOUT DRAGONS WHILE SITTING DEAD STILL.”
Physiology: “Anxiety! 😀 Attack! 😀 😀 Cha-cha-cha! 😀 Woohoo!”
I quit. Being a physical being is a load of malarkey.
take me to Imladris.
I’m tired of trauma. I’m tired of it existing and I’m tired of having to deal with it. I wish it would just fall through me like rain and dry off and not mean anything. I’m tired of crying and I’m tired of PTSD spirals and I’m tired of adrenaline nausea and I’m tired of second-guessing the actions I take to keep myself as safe and sane as I’ll ever get — I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of fake-ass people on the internet and people who can’t be bothered reading a simple list of rules and people with the general attention span of a TikTok video. I’m just.
Why am I here? Why is everything like this? I try so fucking hard to change it and I just end up with scraped knuckles and wounds and I can’t anymore. I don’t want to. If it doesn’t get any better than this, then I don’t want to keep going with it. I’m fucking tired.