these people make such great videos.
so god damned weird.
in a really nice way, though. ^_^
these people make such great videos.
so god damned weird.
in a really nice way, though. ^_^
I’ve planned it out.
But every time I nearly get there,
I end up thinking of my parents.
There’s no way I could do this to them.
And so, I live.
no no no
why why why why why
for fuck’s sake
why why why
kill me now
this isn’t right
what the fuck
fucking kill me now
why the fuck
two out of the past four days. Why do I do this?
I’m sure the two days I forgot would have been less regrettable if I wasn’t so hell bent on forgetting them in the first place.
I am a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Thing is, I really don’t feel like giving myself shit over it, mainly because the stuff I remember was undeniably great. So long as I don’t forget to eat, I won’t die, I guess.
And seeing as it’s this time of year, you just kinda end up eating almost by accident. Wait… how great is it to be able to say that?
Some people can’t feed themselves, no matter how hard they try.
I JUST FIGURED OUT WHY I CARE ABOUT THE SAD AND THE HUNGRY.
Because I end up happy and well-fed just because.
And I wanna share how glorious that feels.
…yeah, I’m a little less sober than you’d think. 😀 ❤
Have you ever been sedated like a wild animal, for having a panic attack in a waiting room?
It’s the worst.
Yet, I decided to do this shit all over again.
As if once wasn’t enough.
I don’t want to be diagnosed.
And I don’t want any more sedatives.
I probably need them.
But I don’t want them.
What have I done? It’s too late to pretend it’s not happening. Even if it wasn’t, I’d be hospitalised for not turning up.
I want to throw everything. I want to break everything. I want to turn everything into dust. Fire. Kill it. Kill it all.
I’ll draw stuff on the back of my hand instead.
I’ll try not to press too hard.
How did I get here?
How can I escape this?
I feel so very alone.
It’s best to be alone right now.
The only way is through.
It’ll be fine.
I can comply for the day.
I can do this.
if you’re all such miscreant pieces of shit,
why do I crash when you forget about me?
if I really couldn’t care any less,
then why do I care so much in the first place?
if this is all an illusion,
then why is it so menacing? and distressing?
if nothing really matters in the end,
then why should it matter today?
if advice is all we need,
then why is nobody listening to anyone?
if anyone really is listening to anything,
why won’t they, for the love of everything good,
just act like they are?
if I didn’t think so hard,
would I be this distraught?
if we weren’t all so full of shit and ego problems,
would everything really be all right after all is said and done?
if we weren’t such great actors and actresses
if I could just say what I mean
if you could just mean what you say
if someone would just say anything that meant something
would we feel better?
if I had more than words,
would I be better understood? or just misconstrued in a different way?
if I fix myself,
will everyone else seem all the more broken?
if you fix yourself,
would you tell anybody how you did it?
if I will never get a real answer,
why do I still ask?
After not talking to my counselor for way too long, I decided to give her a call. Although I think she’s great at what she does, I just don’t know how to use any of her advice to my advantage. Not in the way I imagine she intends, anyway. That said, I felt like it was the adult thing to do at the time – if you need advice, why not ask someone who’s not motivated in any way to lie to you?
As much as I love my loved ones, I feel they might spare me some hard truths out of the kindness of their hearts, without knowing that I’d rather deal with an inconvenient truth than a comfortable lie. Also, you can’t really get too mad at a counselor if they give you feedback that might be a bit harsh – it’s not like you have matching friendship bracelets and family friends in common (if you do, then maaaaybe that’s rather unprofessional…?). So I went ahead and called, because I felt the alternative would’ve hurt way more than any momentary weirdness.
She told me that I should remind myself that other people have it way worse than I do.
As much as that is true, I don’t feel like any mental health professional should say that kind of thing. Doesn’t she know that we all know this (to varying degrees)? Doesn’t she know how platitudinous that stuff really is? Doesn’t she know how subjective everybody’s suffering is?
[insert shitty metaphor here – probably something about how it takes a harpoon to destroy some animals, whereas some die from shock after an arrow narrowly missed them, and how they’re both dead at the end of the day and there’s no point in comparing them because both instances are sad in their own way]
The above is pretty much what I said in reply. I was annoyed, I’ll admit it, but not in the usual way. I told her that I was too tired to get properly outraged about anything lately, and that I was just contextualising why I don’t take her advice in the way she’d probably like. I added that I was simply too sad to care, and apologised for wasting her time.
She then seemed to change her tone, and she sounded kinda fed up. She told me that of course she didn’t feel too great about telling me to “toughen up”, more or less, but that she was so frustrated and uninspired that she felt it was all she could do at the time. I wasn’t really buying it, so I said that she should try a little harder, because that’s what I expect of her as a professional, that kind of thing.
And then she said, “Don’t you feel the need to fight for your own happiness? Please, I assure you, it’s worth it. You deserve to feel better. We can deal with what has hurt you in the past, but please try and stop blaming yourself so much, because it’s already hurt you more than enough.”
I booked an appointment for next week. Even though we disagree on a few things, at least I finally agree with her that bullying myself is a total waste of time and that I should give this whole “happiness” thing another shot. I’ll see if she’s got anything else for me. What have I got to lose? My sanity? Ha, good one.
…but I still have some new synapses behind my face.
– Skip Divided – Thom Yorke
– Subcutaneous Phat – the Desert Sessions
– The Hand That Feeds – Nine Inch Nails
the different gauges of sandpaper:
– painting prep is best done with a coarse-ish grain, like a 400 or 600.
– gonna get on up to 1000 tomorrow, after the zinc does its thing.
– so, yeah. the higher the number, the finer the finish.
also: Jacques Lacan was probably taking the piss, but only kinda. I can’t help but think that all the “signifier / signified” stuff has some substance. The jury’s still out on his matheme stuff, though… something in me really doesn’t want to mix psychoanalysis with algebra.
Yay, my brain is denser.
NOW YOU GO WORK ON YOUR OWN EXCELLENT BRAIN
Ilene, age 1: -kicking and crying; it’s all I’ve got-
Ilene, age 2: -kicking and crying and breaking things; all I’ve got so far–
Ilene, age 3: -running away into traffic during family outings-
Ilene, age 4: -telling Mum she’s a poop-face until she stops ignoring me-
Ilene, age 5: -telling teacher that I’m being raised by poop-faces-
Ilene, age 6: -nothing, because nobody’s listening-
Ilene, age 7: -saying something offensive during Sunday School, and noticing that people actually found it rather funny-
Ilene, age 8: -throwing up into the baptismal waters, because God gave me this panic attack so I could learn something, right?-
Ilene, age 9: -covering journals in glitter glue, ditching the Bible because it’s for shit-dicks (learned to swear, but only kinda)-
Ilene, age 10: -nothing, because I might get sent to live in Tonga, and it’s harder to rebel against God / anything over there, hell, might even get married off. no. No. NO.-
Ilene, age 11: -learning Tongan properly, just in case-
Ilene, age 12: -figuring out that the so-called poop-faces wouldn’t actually care enough to punish me in that way (my first real brush with an empty threat)-
Ilene, age 13: -scratching things like “WHERE’S YOUR GOD NOW” into the most holy and publicly-funded of seating-
Ilene, age 14: -running away from home and ending up in places far more dangerous-
Ilene, age 15: -running away to the school counselor’s office-
Ilene, age 16: -running away to my workplace at the time-
Ilene, age 17: -running away and hiding in libraries, until it’s safe to move out of home-
Ilene, age 18: -believing that tertiary education would fill the void-
Ilene, age 19: -reading. readingreadingreading-
Ilene, age 20: -writing. writingwritingwriting-
Ilene, age 21: -believing in nothing. strange comfort, but a comfort all the same-
Ilene, age 22: -wondering if I could believe in someone else, seeing as I was finding it pretty hard to believe in myself-
Ilene, age 23: -burying my face in one of the most ill-advised relationships of all time-
Ilene, age 24: -alone again, and realising that maybe I shouldn’t be taking it all out on myself; after all, not everything’s my fault-
Ilene, age 25: -reading. writing. drawing. readingwritingdrawing-
Ilene: age 26: -wondering if all this self-pity shit amounts to anything-
Ilene, age 27: -blogging about how I used to “handle” things, I guess-
Right… so all I feel I’ve learned is that I should learn to do ALL THE THINGS so I can do ALL THE THINGS when I feel I have nothing left. All the fucking things. Fuck yes. I’m into that. Here we go, then.