Sensitive Dependence

Sensitive Dependence

The long and winding road, 

Spreads out in front of me as 

I ask for directions from insects 

Flying past— 

I’ve always spoken to things 

That do not speak back, 

They whirr in their own sort 

Of peace, mostly interested 

In my colorful shoes and 

The sweet scent of my body butter, 

As I give them meaningless names 

Losing track of how many I met 

On my way to the bus stop.

Someday You Will Be Loved

Someday You Will Be Loved

Seventy-six seconds

I lay in the arms of a man,

Unknown and startled

He entangled my brittle arms

In the rusty landscape of an embrace,

So sudden,

His words a blur as they

Swarmed in past the little hairs

On my neck, turning to gooseflesh

At the flick of a switch

There are so many moments

I could have chosen to remember

To cherish—

Swim and float in the warm waters

Of my mind, the rough yet gentle waves

Having me drenched,

The surface licking at the backs

Of my ears and my head

As I let myself wander, slowly

Through immobile matter

Seventy-six seconds

I lay in the arms of a man,

A burnished cocoon in early winter

Cement to protect me from the

Scraping claws of cold,

Yet at dusk—

When all remnants of

That moment were gone I let

The windows crack and the locks melt

And I let it in again, that glint of doubt.

You'll be loved you'll be loved

Like you never have known

And the memories of me

Will seem more like bad dreams

Just a series of blurs

Like I never occurred

Someday you will be loved.

----------------------------------------------------------

Last stanza is the chorus from the Death Cab For Cutie song Someday You Will Be Loved. The Sunday Whirl this week consisted of the words in the picture below, of which I used some but not all (brittle, burnished, cocoon, scrape, rough, drenched, burnished, blur).

Monday Madness #14

Water melts sugar

I've always been very sensitive and easily affected, not so much in the way that I would be easily manipulated, but in a way that I sympathize with things and people very easily. I absorb feelings like a sponge and even though I consider it a valuable quality it can sometimes, or more often, prove to be destructive. Films and books and articles, even simple conversations or words, can bring up something completely different from what they were about. My mind has a tendency for building bridges, you see, and it isn't that rare that these bridges end up surprisingly long and curvy. I can see the cover-art of a movie and remember something about my first English teacher whose son had a hard time learning some letters and made mistakes which, not surprisingly, my then nine-year-old mind found extremely funny. Or I can see pictures of Keira Knightley in a photoshoot for Vogue and instantly remember the October 2007 issue that I bought on the day my parents sat us down to tell us about their divorce. Which will enforce more and more bridges and... In the end I'll wind up thinking how the hell I got to thinking about this in the first place. If I'm in luck, I'll forget. If not, I'll somehow connect it to present events and try to find reasons for all these fucked-up (soap opera, non-sensical, the-kind-of-thing-only-a-desperate-screen-writer-would-write kind of fucked-up) things happening to me. 

I want answers. I have wanted answers since the day I first had a hunch that something was not right, which, doing the math adds up to just under five years. I've tried scientific explanations, I've filled my brain with psychological facts, I've read through philosophy articles and religious scripts and watched people around me just to get more proof that I'm not living with robots that someone has operated in order to drag me down into a melting-pot of psychosis and trauma-induced personality disorders. (And taking into account I have in fact considered robots and conspiracies, their plans might actually be working). 

Of course, I could simply go and talk. Ask my parents why the fuck they let these kinds of things happen, ask them to write down everything, ask them to finally tell me what is a lie and what isn't --- but there seems to be some sort of protocol to this talking-business. It is the I Am An Adult, I Am The Parent And You Are The Kid So You Take What I/We Give You protocol, which has been going on for these five years now, and is still on-going even though I'm an adult these days. I understand you are an adult responsible for your actions and you have the right to keep or give information out. But what I don't understand is why you choose to twist the truth in order to terrorize/destroy/change your children's view of the other parent (or to terrorize/destroy/change everyone else's view), when you could have just as easily kept the rage to yourself (as a responsible adult) and kept your mouth shut in front of the people whose minds and bodies you can so easily affect with your actions.

But let's put that to rest, shall we? 

The status of my mental stability and health has been quite undetectable lately. I've been doing my clam-shell trick daily. I haven't cut since I got here which makes a little over a month. I have wanted to though. Very, very badly at times. But I get my fair share of physical abuse from my little brother, and it sometimes does part of the trick that cutting would. I have finally have my psychiatrist appointment in two weeks. Only waited a month here, but hey, at least I got it. I'm unhappy everyday --- but still I'm happy everyday. It goes up and down pretty steadily and I know when the anxiety will hit me. Most of the time. It will still catch me off guard. I know I'm not whole yet. My mother has gotten into the habit of asking me, on a scale of 4 to 10, what is my number for the day. I usually lie. But sometimes I don't. I'm still not used to being around her all the time. 

I'm having quite a lot of trouble with eating or having the inspiration to make something. I have weird thoughts about specific foods being disgusting and won't want to eat them. I've grown to hate my thighs and the fact that there almost is a gap between them but not quite and they touch just barely when I walk and it irritates me. I'm scared of phones, mostly picking up. I have this feeling that people are watching me all the time. I think they want to hurt me. 

And I'm scared.

I'm scared all the time. And paranoid.

I'm scared of turning the lights on at night in case someone is in the room.

30 Days of Truth: Day 8

I AM SO SORRY 

that it's been so long since the last one!

Day 8: 

Someone who has made your life hell, or made you feel like shit

Now, I have thought of this one long and hard, as you can probably see from the time it has taken me to post this thing. I don’t want to single out a single person and guilt-trip them for making my life hell. That would just be cruel and I, at least to an extent, am not a cruel kind of person. So instead this goes out to the people who have made my life hell, or treated me like shit, or made me feel like I’m a fucked up freak who doesn’t belong, or who have just plain and simple broke my heart. 

So to name a few, I’ll start with school curators and psychologists. Oh boy, have I a bone to pick with you. You know, there is a reason why the school system is divided in pieces more or less according to the development stages of the students. So when I come and talk to you at fourteen, I do not appreciate being spoken to like I am seven. I do not appreciate having to draw trees with stars whose sizes are in relation to the sizes of the problems I have, or having to play with teddybears and give them names or choose silly photographs to represent members of my family. It would also be nice if you didn’t blame my troubles on my, as you put it, over-the-top perfectionism and raging inability to be responsible about my education when the real problem was in my family situation and the fact that I was being torn into tiny little pieces and living a suitcase life where I switched homes every week et cetera. And might I add, I still made top grades and was one of the best in my year. So to all you eight or nine school psychologists and to that one bitchy curator who sucked at her job, fuck you. Fuck all of you. I never needed you, I never wanted you, but it was the school’s obligation to forward me to assholes like you. 

I have had friends run away or just fade away intentionally, unintentionally or just because of everything that was going on. There are many friendships that are now nonexistent due to the mass fuck-up of the past five years. There are many that could be revived but are not being revived due to my fear of letting people in, or just picking up the phone to call someone. I’ve always found refuge in words but it’s a cold fact that you cannot re-build a friendship through written text. I haven’t had the power in me to change into something more social and trusting and open. I miss the friends I used to have. I miss them very badly. I miss the friends I have now because it has become a habit of mine to clam up and stop trying. I don’t know why. I want to try, I want to have fun and laugh and do meaningless things that at the same time mean so much because they make me happier. But at the same time I am so fucking scared of letting someone too close or letting someone see or experience too much for their own stamina of personal problems. So many people have given up on me; I just assume others will too. 

I have been bullied in the classic way that kids bully other kids: because they are smarter and nerdy. When I was in 7th grade people called me a living computer. Looking back now I should have just taken it all as a goddamn compliment. But I didn’t at the time. At the time it hurt like hell to get that in return for working my ass off to get great grades. So, having learned from that, I kept things to myself that I could have been bullied about even worse than how I had been bullied earlier. I didn’t come out until after high school because everyone there, mostly guys (guys who had bullied me before) were very narrow-minded and wanted to kill every gay person off the planet. But you know, it still felt like bullying, hearing all those mean and disgusting things they would say, even though they weren’t precisely pointed at me but were still pointed at something I was. I tried not to let myself get upset over it but naturally I was. It didn’t lead to good things. It left deep marks in me that drove me to trouble, self-inflicted but at the same time something that made me feel mistreated. 

And of course, needless to say, my parents belong to the list of people who have wronged me. I’ve spoken about it too much anyway so I won’t get into it here, it is a vast subject with many sub-categories. But I can say that nobody has ever hurt me more or made my life hell. At the same time, though, almost nobody has ever loved me as much.