Something.

Just got a whiff of my own B.O, and became seriously confused. I smell like Boy.

Was intent on writing some poetry tonight to throw up here, but, decided to wait for a stronger jet that I can later take the time to refine.

In the meanwhile… I’m on a “back tattoos on pretty girls” kick, so I will share some favourites:

Sincerely hoping to have a family Zodiac collage done on me like this, someday (not that I anticipate looking quite like these women, but you never know). Was going to have a friend design it for me but… come to think of it, I might just sketch one up myself instead. Sometime.

Bones

I do believe that if more people shared the details of their experience during the times when they were feeling comfortably unobserved, the world would be at least in one way a better place. For one, everyone would be less alone in their weirdness; those embarrassing or even destructive quirks and habits you haven’t yet found power over are more common among “regular, respectable” people than many of us tend to think.

But people can get really wrapped up in their own secrecy. And when you are the first in a group of people, say, to share a really personal experience that you aren’t necessary proud of, it can be totally embarrassing. Which is the way I feel, in part, about yesterday’s extreme and gruesomely personal post. But I need to remember, then, that likeable people do “fucked up” things too, so I hope not to be nailed down somehow by the hammer of supreme judgement. Controversially, my fear of this happening is integral to the process; the whole point of my public humiliation here is to kick-thrust myself into a new pattern: that of positive change.

What is “positive change”? To me it is the various evolutions of self, which the self can scope out objectively and feel at the very least pacified by, if not actually proud of. A person who falls victim to craving and contempt (that is nearly poetic nonsense, but if you catch my meaning…) on a regular basis will naturally sink into a depression, their self-esteem corrupted by a simple lack of self-respect. That’s what all this is about, alongside “I am not afraid of the truth”, and it is pretty basic, if not also a dangerous philosophy to run by. Because I haven’t been too careful, and I would be a fool if this were all to backfire and slander someone else’s name other than my own, but right now I really don’t see that it could.

All of that being said, after posting and rereading my gruesome confessions of frequent, unhygienic mania and imagining all the terrible questions this might strike into the imaginations of my friends and family, instilling probably a weird mixture of laughter and disgust and hands over mouths going, “Oh, my God… Oh, my GOD…” a certain reality has flowered up from the buds of my own imagination; it’s not just that I want to change in order to preserve a positive self-image. It is that I need to change, simply upon the principle that most of my behaviour is so painfully illogical that it only contributes negativity and confusion into the sea of experience which forms our dear, shared human race. The idea is that, collectively, a multiplicity of my ‘selves’ would be no good – actually, dysfunctional. The fact that I am only one person in a massive populous of people in all of their intelligent variety does not change the truth of that personal dysfunction. The blister exists.

But where in the Hell do I even begin to fix it?

I tried something different today. I removed the full-length mirror from my bathroom, for one. I also took a shower for the first time in a week. Feeling rejuvenated and unlike “I am rotting from the inside out”, I found it easier not to hover over the toilet bowl looking for tiny living culprits that could possibly be keeping me sick. And I was able to wash my hands, twice, because I moved some of the sink-side clutter to the cupboard underneath the sink, and I took deep breaths and moved carefully so that the whole ordeal didn’t fill me with restless anxiety that would spark the need to mutilate myself for the rest of the night. When I took the dog out, I didn’t take a cigarette. In fact I only smoked socially, a bit earlier, having a short but really genuinely nice visit out front my place with a girl friend who happened to be out and about on the road, as I was walking home from work. And I had a key to get into my house, praise Jesus.

Quite frankly I don’t feel any better about myself as a person because I’ve yet to do anything particularly extraordinary, nor have I proven to myself that I can maintain healing for longer than a few good days at a time, at any point over the past seven or eight years. However, I guess I can say I feel generally better, somehow, because I am trying to, and that’s what it’s all about really. One should never regret having shared the truth, or having expressed themselves creatively, but I am a little paranoid about some kind of fallout because of me blogging all of this. Example; I just missed a call on my cellphone – it is almost 2:30 in the morning. And all I can think is that the call was someone in my family who read the last post and feels the need to reach me immediately to say how disgusting and inappropriate and downright stupid I am being, making myself look like such a nutcase. And that family member would be right in a number of ways.

All of this is relative; sanity versus insanity, acceptable rhetoric versus the unacceptable, blatant truth in arrogant prose – that is the message I was trying to give above, when I suggested how the world might be if everyone opened up about their dirty little secrets. Truly, ashamedness is the most painful kind of motivation.

Break the bone to set it straight again. Choose my excuse for me, please. With time, everything comes to be redefined.

(And if in doubt, I can always just say it was Fiction.)

Run on sentences, childishly emotional ranting, and unsettlingly personal things I kind of hope no one on my Facebook comes to read.

Having explored some other people’s blogs, I’ve found respect for others’ uplifting and/or inspirational musing and I have thought about trying to mimic such an optimistic style for my posts. Lately I have been shamelessly writing away my woes and posting without regret as a way of laughing in the face of fear and secrecy, and maybe attracting someone who is as low down in an uncanny, bizarre, self-righteous depression as I am.

This is just a moment in time; I am old enough now and hopefully learnt enough to know that none of this is “eternity”. Maybe one day, I will have found my sparky steed of hope or wisdom upon which to mount a better, happier me, who writes with the same comical whit I admire, who asks questions I already know the answers to, and who inspires the good in people like other writers selflessly do.

But presently, I am the struggling young woman; I am the psychologically defected, I am the stereotypically depressed. Best I can do is to share records of my experiences in these precious moments of insanity, as I do hope they will not be forever – just as I hope that no one who reads this will be either offended or disgusted by my egocentrism, and by my honesty.

And maybe in some weird and unexpected way, my sharing of experiences in the dark will help someone else to find the light.

~

At night when I come home from work I settle into a new kind of skin and I become more than just myself.

It’s the same routine, which I consistently plan against toward the end of my shift at the restaurant, but which I consistently repeat day-in and day-out.

I approach my home: I unlock the door and wrestle it open for all it’s latch’s faultiness as quietly as possible. Which means I am kind of holding my breath, and pushing, which gets my heart pounding before I’m even through the door, which makes for forced quietness of breath and a lack of balance as I try and gently kick off my shoes without untying them for an aversion to pressing between my fingers the grease saddened laces that leave a sticky film on your hands if you try and untie them, and in this shaky dizziness I feel foolish and anxious and I can hear stirring from the upstairs, and I know I am really being obscenely loud, and I run through a course of calm-associated words in my head like “Zen”, “Ninja”, “Ohm”, “Whussah”, “Grace”, “Water”, and “Light (in the sense of, as opposed to ‘heavy’”. And it is mostly all in vain, because my setting down and picking up of my backpack and the removing of my coat and all of that, the sound of it, I know has traveled right up the stairs and gently disturbed probably everyone except for the younger of my two middle-brothers, because he lays like a log and sleeps like a bear in the cold.

This is every night, except for the ones where I’ve botched up and not brought a house key again, and have been locked out and don’t feel like imposing on my neighbour, so I go about the ground level of my place and find a window whose latch has been left up and free, and bust in that way, which is so totally humiliating after the first four to six times and counting that I don’t even want to get into detail about what it is really like.

On nights that I have managed to salvage leftover goods from the restaurant, I creep into the kitchen to put the things away, refrigerating the meats (which is to say, a deep-fried chicken-thing that is shaped like a fillet) and pantry-ing the breads (that is, some bleached bun-thing with a spongy texture that is supposed to be synonymous to a wheat product, but actually is more likely a composition of sugar, salt, water, soda, and nutrient-starved flour that suffocates your insides for their vital effort in trying to suck some good out of it, on its way down and through – In lower-class Canada, this is the shit we call ‘food’).

I’m thinking along the lines of having a shower or cleaning my room or writing down a list of what would be smart to get done tomorrow, which is actually later today, because it is at this point always after midnight. But once I head down the stairs, I’ve already lost that battle; my intentions are immediately done for and I’m getting so used to this defeat that it has brought me to a point of not caring, which is dangerous, because then I wake up in the day with the same submissive attitude and continue on my way of not giving a good God damn about practically anything at all, until the absolute last second that I have to leave for work in the late afternoon. Or, sometimes, I’ll actually go early; any excuse to getting out and away of the distractions and the stress and the utter emptiness that is the inescapable void of apathy that surrounds me for some stupid damned-selfish reason when I am at home and among family.

Instead of my practical plans, what happens is I sit on the toilet and generally speaking I have a shit, some nasty mush comprised of my body’s rejected portions of the aforementioned stolen goods (not actually the ones I brought home, but ones of the same family that I had for dinner earlier in the evening), plus other deep-fried nothings I might have stolen bites of while I was supposed to be working, plus unnecessary amounts of caffeinated beverage mixed with soft serve ice cream and, on days when I’ve felt a healthy kick come on: processed cheese. The shits are unpleasant; the kind where you wipe your ass like fifty-thousand times and you still can’t come clean between the cheeks, so you do that funny half-sit half-stand over the toilet seat to reach for the tap with your wad of shit tickets and try and wet it a little, mopping your asshole tenderly with it and checking on the spongy mass until it appears to have wiped clear – or, almost clear, but you’ve given up on the whole ordeal of sanitation because you don’t plan on anyone being up your ass until after your next shower, anyway, so what the heck.

Then I stand and turn and kind of hold my breath and kneel over the toilet bown, so I can check out what is visible of my soppy shit, beyond all the wads of TP. I formed this habit about a year ago shortly after catching a strain of parasites from a stray animal we’d been keeping at home, and whose litter-room was connected to my bedroom so her freshly soiled paws, chalk-full of worm eggs, were always all over my stuff which I never cleaned. So I got really sick for a while and now I’m paranoid about having worms in my crap again, so much that over time it’s becoming more of a frequent quirk, to need to have a good long scan of my fecal matter before it goes down the flusher. Even though I’m pretty sure about not finding any worms, the world of your shit is still really interesting, like it’s something alive in its own right with the way it swishes round and bubbles if you’ve eaten something that’s made you especially gaseous inside; a defeated swap monster trying to wrestle out its last, dying groan of evil and despair.

Provided the toilet doesn’t get all clogged up with the overabundance of toilet paper capping my mulchy, monument-to-my-unhealthy lifestyle final shit of the day, (in which case I kind of stand over the bowl and flush over and over, watching the shit separate itself until the toilet’s innards are just a whole soupy mess right up to the rim, generally still clogged tight until the morning after, or the morning after that, or whenever I can’t keep the window open any longer for my aversion to the cold and yet I also can’t stand the smell of it any longer, and finally make the journey upstairs to borrow a toilet plunger) I then take off all of my clothes as quickly and effectively as possible, which usually means my uniform T-shirt and bra are kicked into the corner in front of the toilet, and then a weird chain of socks-pants-underwear that manage to all come off in one go are thrown on top, where I fold a pant leg over the soiled part of my underwear just in case someone makes the unhealthy choice to use my bathroom, at least that’s not the first thing they see. I don’t wash my hands because, one) the sink is so low to the ground I have to duck down to use it comfortably, which causes me an undue amount of stress, and two) there is not an appropriate amount of counter space about the sink for the things I have seen fit to be placed there, and it requires great skill and patience to get around it all to adjust the taps and pick up and replace the soap bar and scrub your hands under the water, without bumping or knocking or otherwise misplacing anything, the thought of which also causes me an enormous amount of stress, so at the end of the work day I generally don’t bother washing my hands.

Next comes the challenge of the ¾ length mirror I’ve stupidly put up in the bathroom. See, at this point, despite the fact that I’ve tried like Hell to avoid stress by cleaning my ass to the best of my ability, deciding I have no parasites, ditching my work garb, and avoiding the booby trapped sink, inevitably my imagination will have wandered off somewhere about the time while I was in mid-shit, and here I am challenged with images of my real life. So when I get up before this mirror, I do a very practiced set of things:
1) I see first my eyes, which is extremely uncomfortable. So I navigate to the next point of immediate interest; a blemish on my face.

2) I start to think. I think about things that have happened or things that could have happened or I imagine scenarios that might potentially happen, if I had the will or the guts to make them. And I start to go for this one, little blemish. Harmless. Just a quick squeeze, see if there is anything in the sucker. And I go deeper into my imaginary scenario and I start to feel a whole flurry of emotions surrounding these thoughts and images, which get me real excited or upset in some way, either or, depending on what thought has crawled into my head and which direction I have taken it. So I get all wound up in these feelings, and as I do, I start frantically looking for more blemishes, more visible pores, anything; blackheads, bumps, whiteheads, scabs, scars, rashes; I literally scratch and dig and squeeze and tear, in what after minutes of increased flurry would I think appear to be a panic, and everything and anything I think might give way to something just underneath the skin that is under some kind of pressure, and might relieve me with a pop, a squirt, a brisk snap, a tiny shard of lovely pain.

3) At some point I realize the thoughts and images have begun to loop in my head, like a reel, with my favourite or most climactic part occurring over and over again in my head, with maybe slightly different connotations highlighted each time. At this point I also generally realize that, meanwhile, my face, chest, back and even nipples are becoming seriously red and swollen and that I need to develop some mental Segway that will draw my self away from this – to stop, breathe, carry on. Lately the Segway has been to go for a cigarette. But the nicotine and other poisons create a vicious addiction that has, in turn, made these “picking frenzies” notably worse. Of course the thought to “stop – walk away” will have come and gone periodically throughout the episode, but it takes a certain focus that I feel I have to wait for to actually be able to change the course of action and carry on.

I have at times of being otherwise occupied, made these episodes last as little as <20 seconds, but otherwise I might stand there “freaking out” before the mirror for up 20 minutes; often more than an hour for the entire bathroom excursion, from the time I walk in to the time I can push myself out.

When I finally throw the curtain aside and come out from my chamber of defeat, I am physically and emotionally exhausted. Realizing this, I come to not care about any kind of preparation for the next day. So instead I might surf the net. Or read, or write a little, go for that smoke, take the dog out, eat something, text someone, pretend that I can start all the “important stuff” tomorrow because tomorrow is a new day, and it will be better.

But I wake up unmotivated, and I’m still bound by these emotional fits. My self-esteem is mostly wrecked, for I’m a destroying myself on the outside and a being made to feel like I have no strong will over craving, on the inside, which is in a sense a definition of personal worthlessness. My family is as frustrated with me as I am, but they don’t know what to do either; they treat me like I am too fragile to criticize and possible not worth the honesty, on the best of days. I don’t enjoy being babied. It makes me feel like none of the times that I have been brave or tried to keep a level head on for them in the past, in moments of extreme chaos, means hardly anything at all. I’ve proven nothing positive about my respectability to anyone, so that in myself I have glorified my own rare moments of self-control; I recognize them as something, and I cling to them, hoping for some revelation that will bring all this back to me and make a peaceful soul out of me, in permanence.

My mum’s my top councillor, the only one I have the energy to go to and also the only one I’d like to think I can truly afford. But she must be mad as Hell to see her oldest kid be such a flop, when at 21 she was working multiple jobs to support our family and little me, already a terrible-two-year-old. So sometimes she says really hurtful things like, “the problem with you is, you do one good thing and then you think you’re off the hook for however long afterwards”, and boy that is so true, but knowing it is true doesn’t help any. And when I get sad and try to tell her how confused I am she says things like, “we should have had this conversation when you were 13”, to which I want to scream, “but I didn’t feel like this when I was 13! Christ, I was smarter when I was thirteen!” My old, dearest friend who more or less abandoned me for a better life (and in a sense, I’m glad she did, but I still pine away for the wholeness I once experienced only when I was with her) said it best, when we were in high school: she started to cry on the phone, while I was doing my usual mental breakdown only this time I caved in to the heaviness of all my aloneness and effectively pitched away the safety net of secrecy and took a shot at ‘explaining everything’, and she is clearly crying and angry and she says, “what happened to you? You used to be so, like, calm and wise and beautiful and now you’re… I just don’t know. I just don’t understand.”

I am sorry, Sarah, but neither do I. There’s a whole world of things “out there” that I desperately want in on, for self-respect, for re-definition, for refinement… but I’m all caught up in this ill apathy and this distractedness that draws me in like a wicked spiral, like the nightmares about whirlpools I had as a kid; the harder I tried to beat against the current, the faster it sucked me in.

And I really just don’t. I dream, I muse, I lie to myself, but otherwise I don’t... anything, at all.

“Fashionable Ego”

One day I might have a little girl. I’ll tell her I used to be called “punk” and “Goth”.
But her peers will call her a beautiful hippie,
With a smile that warms me so I throw all my black clothes away.

Cold Spaghetti

This is a boring personal reflection:

It occurs to me how often over the past maybe six-to-ten years I have existed as a character in one of those stories where the reader does not need to define what is good and what is evil, only that the character is struggling more with this than anything else, to hold back from becoming something they think that they loath.

Like while I bit and chewed and yelped and clawed and violently shook to prevent from screaming or killing my way through high school, and how sweetly tempting every day were the bottles of painkillers, the cocaine, the alcohol, the knife at the bedside table, the salty hunger come up in back of my throat at the thought of murder, manipulation, or rape. An Ironic infatuation with the ugliness of these characters, though – some whom I fought with personaly, some only in my imagination – was what prevented much entertainment with most of these.  That, and holding firm to the belief that, even on the cusp of insanity, I was responsible for remaining in control in the world of chaos I was wrapped in.

I thought of this because at present I struggle with, among other characters, this rather overshadowing one: the self-righteous obese king whose will fails to surmount craving or desire, nor destructive act, however mild or downright evil. Sometimes I want to lash out. Sometimes I want to deny my roots, bury my demons. Sometimes I want drugs harder than I should handle. Sometimes I just want to eat a 4,000 calorie meal. Does exercise help? Sure it does. About as much as writing, I guess. But neither quite succeeds to burn the grave that these ghosts are coming up from.

And here I am in the midst of “quitting cigarettes”.

In other news, I just found and hopefully disposed of a virus on my computer <– (that was idiotic) here is an illustration/interpretation of Quetzalcoatl I’ve really enjoyed. Artist cred’s at the corner.

Quetzecoatl

Recently I have attempted to set myself up to a pretty strict daily regime, much like being in school again, so as to make better (or at least, some kind of) use of my time. Thus far my progress has been accurate as far as resembling my performance at “real school”, prior to dropping out: I have been active in the self-titled “Program” less than half of the allotted time. And tonight, I was supposed to be in bed to prepare for tomorrow’s regime approximately two hours ago, and yet here I am blogging late.

It’s like I’m frozen, or already asleep, or something.

Sadly, viciously, when time is irrelevant to you, you will spend an eternity trying to change.