Lately, that's all the commentary I have to offer about life.
Friday, December 18, 2015
It was unintentional, obviously. I was overcome with grief, for no reason, really, had an episode. I took a razor to my legs, and now I must conceal them under bandages nightly, and daily, cover them with something long, in order to avoid telling anyone, close to me, that I relapsed. The cuts are shallow, but the skin on my legs clings to the muscle. As a result of being skinny, wounds don't heal rapidly. So I've tried to consistently apply antiseptic stuff, whatever I can dig from the unpacked goods, to treat them.
My psychiatrist, after hearing that I've been having more mood shifts, has put me on low dosage mood stabilizers, but I've yet to start taking them. Nobody except for a few close friends on CR and my old blog, knows that I did this to myself. Until now, obviously.
I feel very brittle and weak for relapsing. I also feel like breakdown is simply cyclistic, and it'll happen from time to time. If nearly not so drastically as this. It's still stupid.
I was in a lot of episodic pain, and I ended up slashing my legs as a result. For some time I’d been contemplating it, either that, or ingesting enough pills to give me some kind of ulcer, which is what I was constantly warned would happen to me with my laxative abuse (it hasn’t yet). A combination of factors reassured me, my brain coddled me, my disordered mind, that shitty, shitty mind. It all coaxed me. I targeted my legs. Slit, after slit, after slit, because my legs were wiry enough to use a razor on to harm, and it was accessibly convenient. I was sick of being all alone. That hasn't changed.
Torment by my own thoughts, my own warped mind, that wants me, that begs me, to cling to the past, to cling to whatever I can hurt in avoidance of betterment, if it means that I can somehow feign stability for five fucking minutes in front of a crowd of few onlookers and faceless masses who aimlessly judge me without knowing my actual situation. Nobody fully comprehends that I feel so shitty, nobody fully comprehends what it’s like having the effects of unspeakable torment that’s trailed you since you were a child to the point of childhood memory regression, a forced selective amnesia, and a lasting trauma.
Even if I’ve been living at my father’s residence for nearly two years, it hasn’t stopped me from having breakdowns, it hasn’t stopped me from resorting to self blame, and it hasn’t fully stopped me from sometimes reverting to my old maladaptive coping mechanisms in times of dire stress. The lingering effects of what’s happened to me won’t go away at immediate notice, nor by request, no matter HOW hard I try. And I was redirecting my anger unhealthily recently. My guilty conscious, combined with my situational turmoil, drove me back to relapse. And I wish I could say I was strong enough to avoid it all this time, but I was getting to the point where I wanted to relapse, months ago.
Sometimes, I’m so stony that no matter how much my heart swells, I can’t force tears from my emotionally drained eyes. Sometimes I’ll spend hours crying. I want to be happy for people, eben the people who I’ve had bad blood with to be well themselves, but I’ve somehow felt like even inwardly I’ve misdirected my anger at all of them at one point or another. And the guilt within me there swells to proportionate and uncontrolled size.
I drive people away, it's my profession. I feel like that’s all I do.
A lot of people like to treat being borderline as being more minimal, or composed of only a few traits, to paint it as being one dimensional and incomparable to things like DID or schizophrenic disorders.
As if severe mental illness is some kind of competition, an aspect to be proud of. A year in, nearly, since the confirmation, and I still have no security in this, and in my symtoms, and when my next change will strike. Security fluctuates, one day I'll have assurance and the next I'll be a baffled mess.
Who wants to pit themselves against me in competition? Why would someone want to try and outrank me in derangement or misery? My disorder is my individualized struggle, I’m not treating it as a part of me I enjoy. It’s a part of me nonetheless. Who wants to be mentally shaken to the point where functionality is a chore? I look at these tumblr kids and their self diagnosed disorders and my eyes flame with an uninhibited vex. Who would want to have what I'm stuck with? If they spent a month in my shoes, a week in, they'd be begging and pleading to be transferred back to their own body. It's gotten to the point where the childish nonsense of teenage normality being mistaken for fullblown BPD is not just a nuisance, it's fucking infuriating.
Lately, my misdirected anger has been the absolute downfall of me, alongside the festering filth that’s sinking to my bowels. I’ve lost lovers, I’ve lost friends, I have lost my sibling for a long span of time, I have even brought forth disappointments in the people who I do fucking trust, my father, my therapist, my psychiatrist, and even strangers!! (My therapist accused me of being bulimic the other week!!) are directing some scorn at me. I’ve been almost hit twice today whilst driving by distracted, piss poor drivers in midsize cars, when I myself already have enough nerve driving after having an accident a few days prior. I don’t want to have to step on eggshells and end with my foot bleeding, inspiring a panic attack, a paranoia, a further fear than what is already deep seeded in me. I’ve even been honked at, walking my dog on a park path near a public road, by some ass in an SUV who I can assume only thought it to be the most hilarious thing ever to try and deafen a teenage girl who is clearly standing there, overlooking the edge of a short bridge, to a short drop into defecated sewage runoff, just trying to think, with a canine by her side. The inconsideration from strangers Who I don’t even know, has driven my sensory issues wild. I began crying for a bit after the horn honking incident. I hate the screech of a car horn nearly as much as I despise being yelled at. Why do perfect strangers aim to antagonize me, and my poor creature of an animal who is there trying to make me feel better, the glint in her amber irises thatre usually focused on squirrelly creatures eyeing my distressed being with great concern.Even my dog treats me better than some holiday neurotics do. Meanwhile, I'm not seasonally neurotic, but a neurotic mess on and off, what seems like, all the time.
It just feels like the whole world is creeping out on a limb to somehow torment me, or, more accurately, my mind is interpreting these independent actions as being somehow related to me, this insatiable and unstable attitude, the fact that I so happen to end up driving behind, in front, and past, the worst suburban soccer mum bitches with no consideration for anything or anyone except how fast they can arrive at their intended destinations, the fact that within less than a five day period, both my sisters car and mine obtained damage.
I feel like I’m just a misfortune walking. That’s what the voices say. I guess I have to believe them. When no one listens anymore, when no one speaks to you anymore for what's supposed to be an allotted requirement of human interaction hours a day, there’s only use in talking to the characters you’ve formed on paper and the sneers in your head.
I'm sorry, all. I tried to be ok. I’m really going to try not to misdirect my anger from here on out and redirect it towards healthier things, but I can’t go back to any kind of hospitalization, especially during the holiday season.
I can’t break my father and sister’s hearts, especially since the latter has finally come around to trusting me once more. I don’t care what my mother thinks. She’s a sorry excuse. I’m a torn narrative and a constantly revised draft. I just fucked up and ripped myself some more. If I relapse again, I may have to take more drastic action.
Until such time as they heal, I will have to conceal my wounds by wearing pants and long skirts, applying bandages and antiseptic when I can overnight, for the sake of faster healing. It’s wintertime, I can get away with it. Until such time as the guilt kills me, I can’t tell the people closest to me, either.
I'm sorry. I'd said that I'd never let y'all down. Nasujima mun is a serious wreck. I've been through a lot in the past few months. Dropped out, ended up procrastinating on my equivalency work after B left me and let me down, and I'm somehow still wallowing in that, since once again, I disappointed myself by falling for a person too hard. But yeah, I guess there's no comeback for me to any kind of tumblr blogosphere or community until I'm stabler.
I did let you down. It breaks my heart.
I hope everyone else's holidays are safe, and I'm going to try remaining normal, having normal conversations, and eberythng. That's what I've been doing as
Far as my online activity has been concerned eben after I cut myself up. There's no point in clinging to this for too long, and a vent is all I need to get out there in order to feel a smidgen better.
The weather outside is frightfully cold, considering the cast of the Texas sun. And I must go on in life. If anything else happens, I promise I'll drag myself to the nearest facility for admittance, but until further notice, I'm gonna have to trust my new mood stabilizers to take some effect.
Posted by dizzier at 2:36 PM
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Taking my break from my depressive and angry raving about a man who doesn't even contact me anymore to post some dumb shit
By this point, I've become a regular lurker on TiA, and of course, sometimes, I contribute. I used to be a more active poster until I ran out of suitable material and generally found myself too dissatisfied with even the most hysterically inaccurate assumptions and fallacies spouted by the dense morons, but I still frequently lurke, so I recently revamped my activity as an actual follower of TiA with some commentary. There was a post about "gender flags", including such bogus melarky as "trigender", the whole agender controversy, which I find to be incredibly polarizing but still improbable, and genderfluidity, which either refers to tryhard cis girls with tomboy mannerisms or sometimes, the actual very veery rare, and when I mean rare, I mean like, one of billions (so don't get your panties in a twist), person with dysphoria who fluctuated between feeling masculine and feminine. Most tumblrinas are whiny teenage to twentysomething females. I am somewhat a female misogynist, but let's face it, the needless drama, infighting, and overspecialization is just an oversaturation of poor feminine misbehavior and petty jealousy, which'd make sense since most LGBTIUIABCDEFG (the list might as well comprise an entire alphabets worth of letters, since it's getting longer by the day). There are SOME guys, but they're outnumbered by the delusional females.
So I bring in my first comment. With the ridiculous influx of new identities that are merely components of preexisting ones, outright false, could be named by something that already exists, improbable, or downright impossible?
(this response actually got a chuckle out of me. TiA is generally a pretty amusing place if you're not tumblrina fodder, and if you have the capacity to not be offended by free-range sarcasm. there's an overabundance of people there who enjoy joking around, and also a fair amount of people who'll be willing to give you long winded, well worded answers that put a uni student to shame. It's a pretty diverse and interesting sub that isn't filled to the brim with tumblr's toxicity. be warned, you'll probably be banned from r/offmychest for posting tho)
The acronym for the LGBTQ+ community is being passed around like fucking syphillis, and each person seems to try and transmit a new letter to an acronym that's already a damn pain to pronounce in real conversation. Try saying "LGBTQUIA", and whatever else is added in the future to this shopping list, in real conversation, and watch someone give you a quizzical look of complete and utter confusion. Why? Because it's damn near unpronounceable. It's not understandable. It's nonsense. Try saying it, watch yourself stumble. It's simply not meant to be lengthy. That's the purpose of an acronym. To be snappy, short, to the point.
This "new" melarky also includes IDs that either are deemed to be very very rare, and filled with fallacy.
Intersex people are pretty damn rare, I wouldn't at all call being intersex a gender identity unless the person involved has dysphoria. There are likely some intersex people who grow up to fit within what Tumblr calls "MEHHHH RESTRICTIVE GENDER BIIIIIIINARYYYY!1!1!1". Because, let's see, a good 95%- if not higher - of the damn world is Cissy. Cis. Most people. Yes, pretty much, most people, grow up to fit into the Oppressive Gender Binary.
Shockingly astonished, the tumblrina doubled over and Xe Xir Xizzle Zerp You're An Oppressive Shitlord Twerp died from her morbid obesity, though in her will, she cited her Crippling Self Diagnosed PTSD as the cause of her demise.
True "Asexuality, or Aromancticism??" is EXCEEDINGLY rare, most people have romantic feelings and sex drives, some more rarely than others. If you derive sexual pleasure from something even if it's only in the comfort of your own home, and don't necessarily want to have sex with other people, that still means you have a sex drive. If you're more interested in sexual aspects before romanticism, that doesn't mean you're repelled by romance. Very few fucking people have the inclination towards disdain or boredom towards these things, for many people, their sexuality doesn't develop as early on! That's normal. And everyone goes at their own pace. Some people feel that they can't have intervourse or be in a relationship due to trauma, but may still have undertones of this. Very few people are actually 100% uninterested in these acts. Most people claiming they ID with these labels are either people who claim to have lesser "urges" than others (you still have them, dense loons), or young people who are inexperienced, not all of therefore interested in participating in sexual or romantic relationships yet.
I don't know what "U" means. I'm just going to say it's "Ugh". As in, "ugh, please stop, tumblr, please stop, before your infection spreads to the real life population and the easily influenced youth".
I mean, I would not have such a problem with it if there was more validity, but I always felt like the acronym and the movement were intended for identities that'd long been considered "unacceptable", and since I don't remember the last time someone user "asexual" as the butt of a joke or as a placeholder for the word "stupid", let alone the last time someone derived any stereotypes from the identity, I can't say I can put it on the list. Considering the degree of asexual people in comparison to the gay, lesbian, bi, and trans population, it's far too marginal to even deserve its own spot. Intersex is extremely debatable, but I don't consider it to be a gender of its own class either. Intersex people may very well go on to identify as something else.
And once again, both instances here, these are more "marginalized" by a significant amount than any of the "groups" listed. Like, less than a percent of the population. Perhaps less than half a percent. This is just an excuse to try and oppress yourselves, people. Using false pretenses for what asexuality is, by the way.
The nearest cliff is that way, I suggest you go and plunge headfirst into the water underlying it, swim in your own, murky, shitstained words.
This isn't funny. This isn't cute. As a person whose part of the "acronyms", sincerely, fuck off. I've dealt with this sexuality confusion my entire life and spent years without a supportive parent backing me, but a bigoted and abusive mother demeaning me. People love to act like I didn't struggle at all, having nothing to confide in and all until I moved into an environment where I didn't feel constantly judged. And on top of that being verbally and sometimes physically thrown around for the slightest infraction.
A lot of people like to try and discount bisexuality's validity, specifically these sorts of people. The ones who won't stop trying to perpetuate their awful little additions. Trying to replace bisexuality with pansexuality and whatnot, the latter which I now realize is pretty damn near made up.
Slow clap for you guys. Totes appreciate being booed out of the LGBTQ circle by a bunch of you fake queers.
Posted by dizzier at 1:31 AM
Sometimes, that's almost exactly how I feel. Sometimes, I look at myself and the fact that I've become pallid and gaunt in the face that used to be rounded, but gawk at the horror that is my less than miniscule thigh. Some days I look at myself in vanity and interest. It's the same shit, on and off. I'm shit, I'm that shit. The new meds to an extent are helping, but the dimwit doctor has vowed to try and space my appointments closer and closer as if to milk more money from the whole deal. I only saw my previous (shitty, skinny shaming, blaming) psychiatrist who provided me Xanax every few months, why should I open special circumstances for the newbie who openly agreed to put me on addictives?? I mean, as much as I do appreciate them, I've been taking them more sparsely lately to try and spruce myself up, it's not simply done, but I am doing it more on an "as needed" basis like the bottle describes. As supposed as to an everyday crutch. I've been swallowing three to ten pills a day since I was a child, and there's some things medication can't even cure. You think by now that researchers would've invented a solution for all of life's little discrepancies, moreover, a cure for the warped configurations of my brain. Nothing of that nature has even been tested. I suppose it defies humanity and nature. That we're somehow destined to "overcome" our flaws, but some of us are also doomed to certain, eventual death.
It's fucking sick.
And I guess, so am I.
I don't know myself well enough, I don't love, no, I don't know how to love anymore. They've all broken my heart a bit; all the rejections and admissions. Almost sentiently tapping me on my now scarred shoulder, where a healing wound that resembles a cigarette burn is splotchy, uneven redness against ruddy slightly tanned skin. It's not from any person, it's something I let fester and develop into a cluster of blood vessels, a clumped and disgusting lesion that could only be removed sensibly through precision by a skilled professional with something resembling a box knife, and the flickering red torch of a laser. The dermatologist laughably coined it to be the "chip on my shoulder", the "evil twin".
I was given an anesthetic, didn't feel a thing. Initially. The precursor to pain post surgery, even of such minute urgency, is always numbing. Then comes the actual pain, the itchiness, the desire to scratch, pick, rip the healing wound apart, because it won't stop fucking pestering you. Like a sentient person. Who used to be in your life. Even if the wound isn't there anymore, even if someone isn't there anymore to watch over you, to care, to bring you the affection, joy. My "mole" lesion was unwanted in most ways, but the after effects bear resemblences to a lost person, the lost contemporary to you, the person that you were so helplessly infatuated by who just… faded from your life faster than the blink of an eye without even a goodbye.
I really cared about my asshole "friend", but calling him that would seem unjust. I don't know what he was. I let myself care too much. I felt something there, I just wasted it horribly. Surely, he was flaky, forgetful, imperfect, and flawed, but I was willing to put up with anything, anything, for someone. And now that someone I cared about has been gone for a long damn time, but I can't think of the drifting apart and the general disinterest I started to express for no reason. On a downward spiral, somtimes it's seemingly impossibly to stop your feelings from dictating your actions before they clumsily exhibit themselves before a crowd of astonished and disgusted onlookers. I guess that's the splendor of it all. I let myself get distanced because, as I've previously stated, getting too close to anyone, and showing them your personality, if you can even call my monstrosity that; is a no no in the rules manual for depressive stints it's just. unfortunate that the loser is a tumor on my arm whose stupid face and hair, and smell, I sometimes think about; is any kind of figment in my imagination. Go away, B.
Posted by dizzier at 12:38 AM