An angel by Edward Burne Jones
Here's the ballad of someone whose chronically online.
Here lies my general journal index... They have no set theme, and a lot of them are written stream-of-consciousness style. Mostly about my thoughts, experiences, wishes...ANY JOURNALS SHOWN TO BE WRITTEN BEFORE MARCH 25TH, 2,022 WERE WRITTEN BEFORE THE CONCEPTION OF THIS WEBSITE.
Emails from a Schizo Retard // Thurs., August 4th, 2,022
Don't you feel embarassed? Also, I am re-uploading this. Maybe I imagined it, but I remember writing it out and uploading it and seeing that it uploaded properly, and then it is gone. Maybe I'm crazy, I dunno. I know you have my password, I just changed it, so just let it be, okay? I'm not trying to be cruel here, but you need to realize how pathetic your behavior is. That you hurt me by keeping yourself tethered to me. That you caused me so many dreamless nights and expect me to leap again into manipulative arms. Don't kill yourself, just leave. Leave.

I love you min elskede - 2022-07-02 05:06

Sweetheart please, i miss you too much and I'm certain i can't do this without you.

Words can't even describe how much you mean to me, or how much i miss you.
Every morning i wake up longing for you, i go to bed in anguish at having lost you and throughout the day my stomach twists itself in a knot over you. I want you back, my darling.
I don't care about anyone or anything but you honestly.
I couldn't love anyone else ever and even if i could i wouldn't want to, you're the only one for me forever.
I'm still sick with worry about you, grief over losing you and yet still overflowing with love for you.
I know it's hard on you too and i wish you'd trust me and take me back, but I'll wait for you until i wither away i promise, i just worry i won't last long like this.

I love you so fucking much [Estynia], i wish I would've realized I wasn't showing you that nearly enough earlier, for once i actually wish I could turn back time and redo this all, i feel like I've failed my purpose in life by failing you.

I really can't stand life without you in it, please come back.

I love you forever, min elskede.

<3 - 2022-06-27 19:58

I love you so much [Estynia], and i miss you way too much. I hope you're alright.

Please come back - 2022-05-27 20:35

Please talk to me at least smh, don't throw three years of love and friendship away it's too cruel and meaningless

(no subject) - 2022-05-27 03:46

I'm sorry that i keep mailing you even though you want me to leave you alone, i hope you don't read these because you really don't have to.

I just need to get things off my chest time and time again because if i leave them stew it'll only serve to hurt me further, i love you and it's not going away. I'm sorry but i will keep my promise of staying alone and waiting for you, you should know I've tried finding someone else and it doesn't work, not because they're not good enough or because I'm not but because you truly are the only one I ever want.

I'm still hopelessly in love with you and while that is overpowering, there's still also the dismay of the cruelty of this all, blaming your corruption and pain on me when you know i tried your best and you pushed me away oh so often when I tried giving you my love, and throwing me away for a mere infatuation that i worry will only use you and hurt you more than I ever could. I'm incredibly worried I'll see the fallout of that sooner rather than later, though I'm also incredibly worried i might not be able to stick around all too long at this rate. I don't blame you, I've forgiven you as well, but if anyone who loves you is the purest kind of angel, than what does all this love for you make me? I just don't know, it's too cruel, i can forgive you but that cannot take away the pain and I'm incredibly worried this failure of mine is one too grave to see through. I so long to hold you and take all this pain away, i don't care how much you'd have to insult me or pound away at me with your hands i just want to be there as a recipient of all your emotions and return to you warmth and love.

I'm growing a lot as a person, even if it's too late and useless now.

I love you [Estynia]

Love, Dreams, and my Demise - 2022-05-26 01:51

Woke up to a dream of calling you, telling you I love you and hearing your beautiful voice tell me you love me. It reminds me of what could've happened three days prior to when you left me if only i wasn't such a stubborn fool.

I had a dream earlier this week that we were listening to Animals together and it was a soundtrack to an anime that you hadn't seen so we went and watched it together.

I hope you hate me and don't feel guilty though. I've already picked a date to exit, i can't do this. I don't blame you i promise but if i fail my purpose in life there's no point now is there. I'll try and tie up loose ends before it happens, but at this point I'm convinced it's inevitable anyways, sorry. Just don't worry about me, I'll be fine though. I'll manage to find warmth and calm either way.

I love you, farewell.

Wait for me - 2022-05-24 16:50

Why'd you tell me you'd wait for me if you couldn't wait anymore??? If you'd just told me I'd have come back! It's not fair and it's too cruel you're telling me i hurt you when you're hurting me breaking even the last promise you made me and ditching me by the roadside

I'll wait for you as long as I can, but at this rate i think I'm gonna end up drowning myself. I can't keep crying myself to sleep every night for too long

(no subject) - 2022-05-24 08:17

It's to cruel and i don't know if i can take it, I'm sorry, i hope you won't miss me.

I love you - 2022-05-23 18:15

Please just let me take you up on these words and we'll forget about all the pain I'm crying so much ava i never want to find someone else

You told me not to worry and now I'm worried we'll both forever hurt and i can't fucking accept it WHY DID THIS HAVE TO BE THE ONE PROMISE YOU'D BREAK? I just i can't believe i didn't take you back then and there i should've IM SO FUCKING STUPID

Please, min elskede. I want to heal and have you heal.
Look back on our chat and tell me it's not worth salvaging, I'll be here crying and vomiting my guts out until then.

(no subject) - 2022-05-13 03:17

Please come back, i don't know if i can bear missing you like this

Re: Idk - 2022-04-23 17:06

So you don't want to or?

Idk - 2022-04-22 19:37

If you want to try again for whatever reason I guess we could talk and see if we want to idk


Goodbye - 2022-04-19 15:22

Thanks for finally blocking me
I'm sorry for all the bad things i said earlier and for failing you

I'll always love you
Now please leave me alone it's bad enough as is
womb // Tues., July 26th, 2,022 Today, it stormed, and the sky would light up and and and....You know how thunderstorms work.
I'm slipping again, and nothing feels right. "How could you bring someone into the world who did not ask for such?" A soul must want to come back to be born again. Though I do not feel as if my soul has ever wanted to be here, so maybe I am wrong. I have no vigor or excitement in life, especially not anymore. Everyday I inch closer to being in the center of a terrifying, cruel world in which I do not belong. I belong in the womb.

Pushing away, again. I thought that it could not happen again, to brew up that irresistable urge to run away and hide as a pitiful little coward, but it enwrapped me again. I thought that I could've changed, that this would be different. No. Something's wrong with me.

Estynia is nothing but a coward. Expect less.
Farewell, Everything passes. // Thu. July 21st, 2,022
Eternal love
I cannot process that you're gone. I thought I had a few more years to spend with you, and in that time I would have given you the world. If I had held you longer, more tightly, after that horrible first seizure of yours, would you not have died and lay in my arms forever? You purred, and you seemed comforted. I just wish I could've given you the same assurance when you died, but I don't know if you recognized me then. Please come back to me, in whatever form possible. Farewell. Everything passes. The clay they stuck your paws in is still wet, and I want to hold your hand, but I can't do it yet.
Narrative Dreams No. 1 - "Angel Unatoned" // Tues., July 19th, 2,022
A dream I had around mid-May about my lover dying and the emotional turmoil after. It's hard to properly articulate the feeling of loss I felt.
Memories and lost times
My darling,
Can you hear me?

I hope this letter finds you well, if you can ever read it.

Nobody would ever tell me how you died, or even when. Even the notion that you were actually dead or not was constantly changing, undulating. They would never make up their mind, and I always got mumbled, muddled answers. Surely you cannot be dead and alive at the same time? Whenever I had the courage to bring it up, my questions were shamelessly waved away. . . All I could do was presume. I knew that they knew, but evidently I do not deserve to know. They know that I am the person that treasures you the most, yet they still will not tell me. Why? Just to agonize me? Your death went largely unacknowledged by everyone but me, despite me not knowing any of the details. Before anyone had ever fumbled an embarrassed explanation to me, I just knew that you were gone. You were gone, so very gone, and not even your soul lingered on this Earthly plane. Dread infested every crevice in my heart, and so desperately I yearned for your irrevocable return.

After that, it was impossible to feel like myself. All the faces I gazed upon were entirely unfamiliar and contorted themselves wildly into threatening patterns. My sight was unfocused and dull; I did not care to ogle anybody. Nobody was there to comfort me or protect me from this affliction, not even you. You were gone, and had been for eternities, infinitely many days, before I had even realized that. I was alone in this world now, the world where I knew I was no longer welcome, not merely a delusion that I was outcasted. Through the halls of my high school I walked in a dreary daze, with uncertain and shaky footing. I came to walk with a suicidal carelessness. If I were to accidentally fall from the third-story balcony, I was sure to die with a bittersweet smile.

On a mild Thursday I felt more ghostly than usual. “I was sure I would phase out of existence at any moment, and I felt a twinge of sadness prickling my heart.” Grasping onto hope, that distant guarantee of heaven, I looked down meekly. Jesus hung limply from my crucifix. His gilded forearm had been cruelly amputated, with an impossibly straight edge, as if it was cut with surgical precision. My heart dropped, and what was left of my soul must have left me then. The bright red enamel framing his body seemed to mock me, taking on a devilish glint in the sunlight. Immediately I retraced my steps and frantically searched for his forlorn digit. I searched throughout all those liberally lacquered concrete floors. That crass concrete offered me only cruelty. I never found his arm, and so I felt that seed of atheism and dissatisfaction settle within me, like the unforgiving gravel of the riverbed.

You defeated me, God, and you, darling. I sat at that insular bench beside the stairwell and sobbed silently into my hands, roughly digging my untrimmed nails into my cheeks. I noticed myself stroking my golden ring of heirloom, reaching out instinctively for anything of coddlement. When my fingertips brushed over the stone inlay, I could distinctly feel the shallow and gritty inside of the mold. The gemstone had withstood seventeen years of abuse, and the heart-shaped chunk of aquamarine had no longer shone, had no longer strived to make himself known, and now he had fled to some parallel existence. I knew now that there was no point in searching, as I was not made to be forgiven, and so I buried my face within my clasped palms once again and choked myself with my bereavement. I left school in the middle of the day, walking two miles dully home. Like I had any place to call home anymore.

“If I’m your angel, why couldn’t I protect you?” an exhalation spoken breathlessly and uselessly into the stale air of my room. Collapsed in an abandoned crinoline dress onto fresh linen sheets. Three precious things I have lost: my connection to humanity, my connection to God, my connection to my heritage. I gave up, and I felt my body falling underneath me already. My divine duties could not be fulfilled anymore, my connection with the heavens was severed. It was not by accident, I had committed some unspeakable sin that even I did not know of the origins. What can be done? Nothing. Atonement is not a possibility. I am no longer divine, I cannot protect you or anyone else. In fact, I failed this from the precedent. You are dead. I could not protect you, and I can’t even hear your voice anymore. Surely enough, the clear, gentle voice of yours that implanted itself in my head is losing its lovely timbre, its bright pitch. I cannot live with the thought of losing my memory of you.
I’m coming to see you. I’ll be there soon. My darling.
“I ran over a goose once, and I didn’t even feel bad about it, I could really care less about it”

“What do you like to do for fun, then?”

“...I don’t know. I hang out with friends.”

Forgiveness // Thu., July 14th, 2,022 The next time my mom says "I love you," I'll say it back. I didn't last time.
Estynia's Wine and Dine// July 12th, 2,022 All the time I am rotting, and nothing I ever do seems to alleviate this. In not too long I'll be groveling in the dirt. Today I overslept massively, just because I have no real desire to be awake, and actually dread it as it comes with a massive feeling of guilt. I cannot concentrate concretely on anything, it seems that I have ruined myself, once again achieving nothing of note, not even to bolster my own pride. I am dead, I am dying. I don't know what is best to do with my time.

Sometimes I feel tortuously the weight of all my Earthly possessions. I'm told these are not tangible, this is not real, that I am being erratic. Perhaps I am, but this does not change the fact that what I feel is real. Is it abnormal to have as much as I do? I have 47 books. I have 36 long-sleeve shirts, including sweaters and cardigans. I have 18 sketchbooks and notebooks, full of nothing interesting and nothing important. If the weight of all I own was on my back, would it not crush me to death? I'd be a glorified Giles Corey, if such a thing were to happen. The desire to "get rid of" for me is no longer rooted in a need to be self-destructive, but rather to lighten the weight that sits heavily atop my soul. To streamline my life and not to overcomplicate it with possessions that I feel no great sentimentality towards, or that I barely ever use. When I move out, whenever that is, I will likely get rid of many of these things. I feel not the need to take most of these books and notebooks with me, they're a fleeting memory that will be much better burned.

So what is it that I truly desire, or need desperately to keep? Scarlett, for one, I would never consider getting rid of her. I need some amount of clothes, but I'd like to downsize it and make it simpler. Something of a "bullet wardrobe". My bass guitar, even though I do not play it, is non-negotiable, and my monitor and laptop is as well. I'd just like to travel lighter, and find more fulfillment within myself than within my vapid things. Sometimes I feel as if I really am just a rotten creature.

The only shocking news I've heard of in an indeterminate amount of time is of Shinzo Abe's assassination. I actually felt some vague notion of loss when I heard of this, I thought it was a meme at first. He struck me as an immovable effigy, and I hardly accepted that he wasn't the prime Minister of Japan anymore. I know nothing of politics, especially not of the chinks, I just had the sense that he was a good and worthwhile man, probably one of the few worthwhile people in politics. I was also forever bonded to him with this song, which notified me of his existence in the first place:
FREE HORSE!!!! // Fri., July 1st, 2,022 Horse1 Horse2

A beautiful horse approached me and welcomed in July for me. I hope he's not a Trojan. His name is Dill Pickle. Soon I'm going to paint him and breathe in fresh life.
Limerence and Dread // Sun., June 19th, 2,022 The more I look into limerence, the more I find it to be inaccurate to the specific physical reaction I'm talking about, even though it does accurately portray the feeling of all-encompassing infatuation and excitability. Or rather, I was just uneducated about what limererence actually is.
"Limerence is characterized by intrusive thinking and pronounced sensitivity to external events that reflect the disposition of the limerent object towards the individual. It can be experienced as intense joy or as extreme despair, depending on whether the feelings are reciprocated. It is the state of being completely carried away by unreasoned passion or love, even to the point of addictive-type behavior. Usually, one is inspired with an intense passion or admiration for someone. Limerence can be difficult to understand for those who have never experienced it, and it is thus often dismissed by non-limerents as ridiculous fantasy or a construct of romantic fiction."

There's an intense physical feeling attached to limerence, though I haven't really seen this mentioned anywhere to the extent that I've felt it. It's an euphoric and exhilirating feeling, my heart wells up and retreats into my throat, it's like you lose your breath and your composition as it zig-zags throughout your body, not leaving an inch of you untouched. When I first felt it, I felt like I could just die, and it'd be fine.It's frustrating to try to explain it in words, it is not something that can be accurately and poignantly described, in a way that you can emphasize with it. You must feel it for yourself. It feels like dread, except it's up. It's hope.

Lately I've felt incredibly guilty that I don't experience this in the same way anymore, and even then only sparingly. Of course, I yearn for such a feeling to upwell my heart and fly me away again, wrapping me in that infectious joy. Sometimes it devastatingly makes me think that I don't love them anymore, that I felt only a quick-kindling infatuation that gradually burned away and eventually extinguished somewhere along the line. Though, I think this physical limerence stems mainly from uncertainty. You're desperate for your limerent to reciprocate your adoration, and when they do, your body reacts accordingly; flooding you with a wave of serotonin and all those happy things, I suppose, further steeping you in your obsession. When they requit you for long enough, you grow confident in your shared connection and believe them more and more. You aren't as thoroughly shocked when they say you love you anymore, because you have the assurance that there's actually some truth and finality within those words. Their love transforms into a warm cocoon, rather than a cold shower (which is to say it's refreshing and novel and thrilling, yet still somewhat uncomfortable and unsteady). While it feels better to shed off a layer of my neuroticism, oftentimes I miss such an overwhelming and almost painful confirmation of my affection. Occasionally I still do feel this limerence, but not in such a disorienting fashion...I suppose in some instances it's better to move on from it. I think it's funny, also, how closely tied limerence is to that of dread. Dread appears also as a massive upwelling of the heart, except it's faced downwards, instead of towards the heavens. Maybe I'm the only one whose anxiety manifests in this way, I don't know. I enter into a feverish haze, feeling sickness from my head to my toes, and it controls me wholly in the same way limerence can. Sometimes, it's hard to differentiate between the two. Maybe they really are just the same phenomeneon, as they both stem from an abrupt confirmation of your fears and/or desires.
Allium ripped apart
The Relentless Defilement of Adulthood // Wed., June 16th, 2,022 Adulthood is corrupted by the pursuit of wealth, encompassing the mere strive for survival, and wealth is corrupted by pettiness. Adults grow weary and violently shed themselves of their childishness, the naivety they falsely think makes them weak. Despite this, a child's spirit actually fills you with strength, willing you to keep fighting, and filling you with the vigor to wake up again, even if just to futilely fight against an unbeatable foe. Rotten adults sometimes also try to inundate the younger generation with their misery, forebodingly telling them to "enjoy their youth," and then detailing all the morosities of their impending future. I think childishness is a virtue and should be appropriately cherished, that hopeful, raw, and innocent desire to hope and wish and then achieve. Yet such a thing is often labelled as "immaturity," and their hopeful spirit gets crushed into nothingness. There is nothing wrong with finding joy in simple, seemingly trivial joys, there is nothing wrong with enjoying yourself and throwing your ego to the wind. It's okay to smile and laugh and perhaps be disruptive, perhaps make other people somewhat uncomfortable in your happiness. This is something I hope I can maintain throughout my life, despite the constant and looming depression that threatens to ruin me. Atleast, I think autism aides me in maintaining my childishness a bit more than most.

[Paragraph fragment: Nothing is fun anymore, there's no place to retreat from this madness. And this cannot even serve only the purpose of merely lining their pockets with golden thread, a more nefarious and conniving purpose drives them into our collective despair.]

I often cannot comprehend why people concern themselves with tidings such as gas being thirty cents extra a gallon, or this color of cup costing a dollar less than the shinier one, though I understand that sometimes it's out of necessity. I cannot stand to see my soul corrupted by these evil forces as well, those forces that crush and crumple and demoralize a person's heart, their soul, their body. Despite my often pedantic and intense analysis of things, I pray to never stress myself out over the cost of necessities, though I know I almost certainly will given my temperament. It makes me feel really depressed, like this soul-crushing is almost inevitable. With my chronic lowly self-esteem, I struggle enough to deal with the guilt of anything given to me, let alone knowing the true costs of it myself and having to bargain with myself on whether I truly deserve what I have, or not. I find myself wincing when people offer to pay for me, or nonchalantly buy me a gift, even if internally I can appreciate the gesture. Their money and kindness feels wasted on me, yet sometimes I feel like I take advantage of it, too. Sometimes I think I should make sure my mother buys me most of the essentials you need to get through life now, and so I won't need to worry about them as much later. I struggle to understand how people can be so flippant with their kindness or with their money, like how recently my grandma bought me a $50 woolly mammoth plushie. While I acknowledged that he was cute and I liked him, I did not expect her to actually buy this for me, considering the luxury of it all. But she did, and I felt too flabbergasted and confused to express true gratitude. I do not part myself easily with my kindness or with my money. I don't give people gifts, except on the off-chance that I create something and strongly feel it belongs to someone else.

I just want to keep creating. I hate it when I concern myself with what I am living for and the overarching purpose of life, because really there is no purpose, no rhyme and reason to it all. Trying to make sense of it will only plunge you further into insanity. Life has no express purpose by itself; it has always been here, even when it was not. Cherish the absurdity of it all and revel in this rotten world, with all its boons and bounties and tragedies and traumas. There's nothing you can do about it. I don't know, atleast it cheers me up a little bit after consuming all that doomer news. There's infinite bliss in ignorance.
I want my skin to touch the grass // Tues., June 14th, 2, 022 Lately I've had an almost irresistible, all-consuming urge to burn all my clothes or just do away with them in some similarly destructive fashion...It's a tiresome burden, almost a physical weight, the weight of my clothes. A part of me immediately reverts back to nudity, and sometimes I really wish it was that simple. Being naked feels great, and I can feel everything more...but apparently this is not appropriate for the fragile publics' eyes, and so if I dared to do such a thing I'd be shackled in the backseat of a cop car and then be charged for "sexual harassment" the subsequent day. They fear the unknown, and they fear our God-given primality, and a certain liberty and easiness comes in nudity. Though with this I fear, as I am painfully shy and want to reveal myself only to my lovely, though nobody would ever know me or my body like my lovely does, so it's a moot point, I suppose. Even though I would say I have less clothes than most people on average, the amount I have still makes me feel uncomfortable and trapped in my own possessions. And so, in some futile attempt to mitigate this uncomfortablity, I overstuffed a garbage bag I had in my closet full of clothes I hope to never wear again. Many of them I have never worn out in public, mostly because the fit and texture of them feels unbearable against my skin. A pink jacket with a fuzzy ruffled fabric, kind of akin to dense alpaca fur. Shirts made of scratchy, abrasive material that stabs into my skin, despite claiming to be "seriously soft." Oversized knit sweaters in pastel colors, with the same biting material. I would've liked them if they were more forgiving and not as big.

Historically I've always been picky and squeamish regarding clothes. For a period in second grade I remember wearing little else but white long-sleeve shirts and baggy blue sweatpants. During most of middle-school, I wore horrendously over-sized clothes (some of my dad's shirts and a mangy old sweater I stole from a construction worker) paired with thin, rippable leggings and old shoes. Often times I wrote a gigantic black sweater that probably smelt so strongly of musk, wore a shirt under it and then pushed the sleeves of the sweater to my elbows. It must've looked horrible and sloppy. Only towards the end of my time there did I gain any modicum of common sense. I couldn't bear wearing dresses, or skirts, or jeans, or anything with buttons. I did not wear jeans until the 9th grade, and even then they were more like jeggings. Even wearing bras or underwear was a struggle, and still I valiantly battle against those wretched bras...but I've gotten much better with such things and now yearn for lace and ruffles and filigree. Now I want long lwy skirts and dresses. Ornate and intricate designs, with their touch of monumentality, attract me like gnats flock to a flickering lamp-post. Especially with jewelry, I learned I have quite an expensive and obscure taste and it's agonizing.

I looked up information about capsule wardrobes in my frantic distress, but everything anyone wrote about them was nonsense. What is a "shacket", exactly? Silly fashion articles never get to the point, and I discovered it's mostly just advertising through associate's links, I suppose. No, I will not wear white sneakers, defeating the entire purpose of footwear, for it to get dirty and stand through all life's trials. No, I won't spend $128 on a basic top, even if it's a "staple", and I wear it a thousand times over. It's not like you're even paying for the quality of it, anyhow.  In the future--when I have the capacity to buy my own clothes and be mostly financially independent--I think I'll buy mainly simple pieces (even if I long for complexity) from the thrift store that I actually thoroughly enjoy, and keep my wardrobe concise and manageable. I do love jewelry, though, and do not stress over the quantity I have, so this is a more viable option for my aesthetic enjoyment. There's also logistics involved in the amount of clothing you have: the time it takes to wash, put away, and maintain these clothes. And the overarching cost. Especially for me, who does not yet know how to use a washing machine and only organizes clothes through heaping piles of them in my closet and drawers, having a small wardrobe is probably the best option.

I find that there's also a certain philosophy thst comes in the wearing of clothes. What you wear often defines how constricted you are, how you act, and how you feel around others. Wearing "professional" garb instantly gives you the aura of professionalism, amiablity, and trustworthiness, atleast it does to normies. Long-sleeved shirts make me feel more milded, sedated, and sometimes you need that. I wear them often when I feel sad or frustrated, perhaps because I want to hide in them and cower under their inherent weight. T-shirts and things of a similar sleeve length make me feel more passionate, and I often get the manic-akin "fire eyes" feeling, but they also make me more prone to anger, irratibaility, anxiousness and restlessness. Moving comes easier and feels more fluid, naturally, in a shirt like this. I wonder how much of what we wear can affect our psychology.
sorry that I haven't been around // Sun., June 12th, 2, 022 Me heart
sorry that I haven't been around working on stuffs... I'm just a bit tired but I have a lot of ideas and things I want to work on so hopefully you get to see them come to fruition with me. I have ample time to develop my concepts now, but I fear I'm not using my time very wisely. I love you frens, it's always an uphill battle.
Babbling, trying to explain myself // 2:04 AM Fri., May 27th, 2,022
Sound of Sounds
Jinczinka, Salkah
will transcribe later
Aripiprazole // Sun., May 22nd, 2,022 I threw away five of my sister's antipsychotics. Aripiprazole, an atypical antipsychotic meant for the most severely of schizophrenic and most major of depressives.That's 5 pills out of 13 1/2, translating to 27 days of medication remaining. This is the most I could do without such an act being noticeable, but I actually didn't destroy these accursed things, not yet. They're rotting away in one of my drawers, the scent of fetid old paint almost unbearable, so maybe I'll burn them or keep them in a glass bottle I have. Of course, I felt tempted just to dump all of these pills out and crush them into nothingness, but I have to exercise some restraint. I would be punished to the worst possible degree, this I am sure of.

Took that orange translucent bottle of sin down to my room. I dumped the pills into the cup of my hand and counted them. There was 18 1/2 pills, I think. I heard over the phone how the doctor had told her to reduce the dosage from 10 mg to 5 mg, so all those pills were to be cut in half. Because her hand tremors were too bad, apparently, but what tangible benefit, exactly, have you observed from these drops of hell? None, I imagine, I see only the terrifying symptoms. At first I resolved to take only four, then I thought six should suffice, and so I took five. This entire ordeal was probably useless, though. I doubt it will affect anything.

My goal in this was to reduce the time it takes for her to "need" a refill, which for a medication as insidious as this, is not filled automatically. She will consult with her psychiatrist and her doctor again, and I am praying that some ounce of nicety will overpower them, and they will clearly see that she does not need this poison. They are trying to kill her, this I know. These antipsychotics in particular are known to act as a "chemical lobotomy," stripping away any and all disinhibition, any and all personality and spunk. They sedate you, make you a less careening threat, make you dull and apathetic. I'd like to tell her that these small pink pills are poisonous, plea with her to stick them under her tongue and spit them out when no berating eyes are watching, but I fear the consequences of this. Maybe at this point she is too far gone, and I know she will not take heed of my advice. Maybe I should stop caring. Surely she will recoil in disgust and shun me, that I am trying to sabotage her medical and mental recovery. I am trying to sabotage her, in a sense, but it is done benevolently, through my innate compulsion to protect and secure and stabilize. Then, she'll tell our mother how repulsive and malicious I am, and then dear mother shall insult me and beat me down and perhaps she will threaten to admit me to a group home (as she did for years and years in my youth) or even worse, the psych ward. Ever since I took these five pills away, I've been invaded with these tortuous thoughts that I will be forced into the psych ward and that my autonomy will be ravished and cruelly stripped away, leaving me naked and bare in captivity. Their sickly sweet affirmations assault my ears and... I just cannot describe it all. It's just awful. Their passive-aggressiveness, their injurious questions, it is all just grating away at me. Maybe I will explain these thoughts in more detail later on, because in simple terms I cannot explain how awful this daydream is.
LEAVE ME ALONE! YOU HURT ME! // 11:24 PM Sat., May 21st, 2,022 Go away Go away again
Autistic Inferno // 1:14 PM Wed., May 18th, 2,022 I really contemplated making myself throw up, forcing my useless fingers down my throat and expelling all my shame. I haven't thrown up in probably over a decade, and I can't do it when I try, either. I'll gag and gag, but nothing horrible will come out. There's a extreme need to hide away from everything stewing within me, and so I'll really have to trudge through these last three weeks of school with a primal and suspicious fear just lingering within me. It's kind of unbearable, so naturally I was exhausted this morning and struggled to go through those motions which normies find come to them so incredibly easily. Forced to look at myself in the mirror and draw myself inaccurately, drawing someone uncomfortably uncommon, yet adjacent to me. I've felt on-edge, paranoid, dazed all this morning and I don't even know what I can do to heal from this.

For my English class, my teacher professed that she would be gone the entire week. I was hoping that I could get out of these excruciating book discussions, but she insisted that we record our discussions and send them to her. Whatever, I could care less about "participation points". I'd rather be crucified. I'd rather be failed, than to be amounted to so little. We were to go to the gym for our class, because our school has grown so absent of teachers, they really have no room to occupy these abandoned classes. I was only informed by this lean blonde as I walked past, I know her as Lauren, she called me by name and told me our class was in the gym again. It stings, to hear your name, when you try so desperately to veil yourself in anonymity. I had no idea that she knew my name before, and I wish that she had never taken note of it. I don't want to be that distinctive, to the point where I'm almost wholly unnoticeable, but people somehow still know my name?

In the gym, I just didn't bother to find my group and talk petty woes with them. They never seeked me out in the first place, so I took to reading this godforsaken book I was probably a hundred pages behind on, anyhow. So it went smoothly for a while, and nobody bothered to bother me; Until that sinewy blonde girl called me once again by name, asking why I wasn't with my group. To hear her say it such, twice in a day as if she was familiar with me, pierced my scrambled brain like leaden daggers. Mumbled out something like, no, I was just reading, and hopefully motioned for her to give up her necessary concern. At least, they always feel the need to fake their worry.

It seems like I am always in contention with these blonde girls. With my stringy russeted hair and unassuming appearances, I really try to make myself small. Why the fuck isn't it working? I'm wearing crumpled black jeans, probably two sizes too small, and a brown turtleneck with a litany of bronze buttons flanking the left shoulder. At moments like this I really wish not to exist at all, not even to die, just to raisin into nothingness and save myself from the shame of being here. Please, I'd rather you cut my ribcage open with a circular saw and rip out my pathetic heart before you saw my name so flippantly, so unassumingly casual. Let me wallflower alone, forget I exist.

I am just so very tired, and I feel as if I cannot run away from this or violently choke this fact down anymore. I'll tie my veins into knots for all I care, I'm walking sluggishly and carelessly. This all caught up to me with an unforgiving vigor, I cannot escape nor easily battle against such a cruel chronological tiredness, as it compounds with everything else. I'm still trying to hold on, but today I don't feel like it's worth it, and not even the most joyous of thoughts can stir me from such pathetic wallowing today. Oh, well.

Now the same lean blonde sits kitty-corner from me in math, scrolling through her phone and shaking her leg with such an unimaginable, cool ease. As if nothing had ever happened! Everything happened, and yet you sit here oblivious! Now I'm "hiding" away from that other blonde girl, I truly did not know that I was so painfully exposed there, or that people took genuine notice of me more than a passing glance. I'll hide as long as necessary.

I'm hoping, moreso feverishly praying, that this recent notice of me does not create a worrying precedent. I can imagine it now, insecere people cuddling up to me and trying to draw suicidal thoughts out of me, just so that they can feel righteous in their delusionment that they helped put back together a broken angel. Maybe it is conceited for me to even think of the possibility of strangers taking so much interest in me, but I've seen it happen before. They will flock to you, and try to silence your ocean of despair, so that they can fish out a sardine of morality and carry it with them eternally, positively glowing at the thought that they coddled those disturbed. Despicable, really.
I Can't Kill My Ego :( // Tues., May 17th, 2,022 During my lunch hours, I sit on these great big wooden stairs that overlook the cafeteria. They costed half a million or a million to build, they say. I took note of, once again, how I usually sit on these stairs completely alone, with people sometimes cowering at the outskirts of them, usually out of my vision. This turned out to be painfully ironic...A girl sat beside me and naturally I was quite alarmed, but I tried to just ignore it... It didn't matter to me where she sat as long as she left me alone. She asked me, "are you okay?" and already my hands started to involuntarily tremble. I figured that maybe she saw the vaguely suicidal face I drew on my forearm, clearly visible to anyone who sees it. His brain explodes in a flurry of red, blue, and green, so maybe it could appear like I'd wanna kill myself. Well, she really made me wanna kill myself right there, atleast. I told her that I was fine, I don't know why she would ask that. (paraphrased) "Well, some people have been saying that you don't eat at lunch. Why? Do you want me to buy you something?" At this point my pathetic little heart was reeling, fluttering her pathetic little wings to try and keep up with my certain dread. I felt as if I would faint. I don't even remember the order these things happened in, but she subtly tried to push her salad towards me as well, trying to offer some to me. And so I told her that no, I am fine, I don't get hungry at school and that I just eat at home. She insisted, "aren't you starving at this time?" No, and I wouldn't have cared if I was. I don't like eating in front of people, I hardly have any appetite for it. Then she asked me if I liked anime, which seemed kind of out-of-the-blue to me, so I paused for a second trying to understand what would give her that impression. Maybe the angel drawing on my left hand, but that's not particularly weebish. "Yeah, I guess..." So she inquired about one kind of anime, and again I got all choked up. I didn't like that she was forcibly prying my powerlevel out of me, I felt trapped in this dreadful conversation as if I were a wild dog, terrified and primordial. Eventually I drily admitted that I liked slice-of-life anime, only hoping she wouldn't pry into the specifics. "Honestly, same" with a peculiar little giggle that somehow served to disturb me even further. Atleast she knew what it was, and I didn't have to painfully explain that I liked watching little anime girls have their petty tea parties, and looking up their skirts. She kept rambling on, but I hardly had the heart to focus on all those words that dripped out of her throat. I averted my eyes the entire time, hopelessly attempting to mask my social ineptness by continuing to color the angel on my hand. I did so sloppily, as I was using my non-dominant hand, that was pathetically shaking no matter how hard I tried to steady it.

She said something akin to "People at this school immediately look down on you if you watch anime, you know, don't you agree?" I mumbled out a yes, for as headstrong as I thought I was, as I had killed my mighty ego, I am but a meek leech. She then went on to notice my arte-trees, curving down the entirety of my forearms, and I had just redone them as well. I remember how she faintly touched my arm with her cold, but supple fingertips, and how I extended my arm out so she would stop touching me. Asked me if I could draw one on her arm too, and this is something I've actually had fantasies about, but of course I didn't have the time to do a full tree and I told her as much. She insisted that it could just be a short tree, so I spent five or so minutes tracing her veins and fleshing out the roots. When I finished, I asked of her approval, and she said something in response.

She asked for my phone number, and I repeated "my phone number....?", internally questioning why she would need such a thing. But I felt too powerless to refuse, and so I repeated those accursed digits of my phone number...She saved my contact and drifted off. I felt as if I was waking up from sudden fainting spell, the event came off as so incredulous and bizarre to me. I could not steady myself or make sense of my thoughts for several minutes after, just staring at the place she had gone away from me.

You must understand that a stranger has not talked to me in this manner for probably four years, probably longer. While I felt desperate for somebody's, anybody's, attention after my friends had abandoned me in middle school, this desire for closeness and validation gradually waned. Now but a pittance of this desire remains, and only fleetingly. Most of it has been converted into this stupid fear, making himself known even at the slightest provocation, when someone walks slightly too close to me, or stares at me for a second too long.

And now I find myself disturbed by every glance, by every group that clusters next to me. I feel myself paranoid and wrapped within my seizing terror. There is not even no good reason for it, because I can sense they have no intention to hurt me. Yet their rather innocuous words make me want to gouge out my eyeballs and cry and shrink away from this all. Thoughts also invaded me, of how I somehow went to this girl's house, she would sexually assault me when I was most vulnerable, prone and oblivious. She would stick her hand into my underwear, and her fingers would come out slick with some degenerate and shameful fluids. Of course, I would awake, but I would pretend I didn't and lay there stiff as a corpse, weeping within my soul. Then I could not face her, and would shun her and retract back inside myself. Because what good am I to people if they're not just exploring me, anyhow? I cannot trust this girl. I cannot talk to her again.

Cry cry cry cry cry. CRY.
Song of my Death // Wed., May 11th, 2,022 Waking up around 12 AM, I felt nauseous physically and mentally. A burning headache rose up beyond my temples and I felt if I had to deal with anything difficult today, I might vomit my guts out. Gradually those fluorescent lights that line the ceiling of my school will wear on me. The endless torrents of people streaming past each other as bonified sardines, the exhaustion of attempting to navigate these nonsensical patterns and escape unscathed will wear on me. Constantly being imbued with shrill, girly bells and booming obtuse voices will wear on me... Voices most of all, I recognize well and listen to intently. Just felt pretty miserable, I knew that going to school was a pointless endeavor, even if I wasn't too severely sick. If I could've focused, I would've refused to, anyhow. Close the curtains, entertain that damp dimness, heave under the weight of my weighted blankets and just let go, for once. So I decided then I would not go to school, even if I had to scratch and bite my way into it, and took to soothing myself with childish scribbles for awhile. Yeah, I've done that before, sometimes I needed a break so desperately that I was willing to violently act out and cry just to prove my point. Guess I should look forward to my own autonomy.

My grandma asked me around 5 AM at what time was I going to school, so I told her that I felt really nauseous and didn't think I could make it to school. I slept intermittently in disorienting bouts, waiting, as my brain seemed to not be able to give up until my abscense was wholly assured. Around 7 AM I heard as she called my mom and discussed my condition, and I sat listening with a devilish smile. I felt so grateful that I could retreat back under my blankets without having to get out of bed to beg for my absence once again.

Listened to that rythymic menagerie of bird songs...Woodpecker, owl, chickadees, a hawk, some other birds. It meshes really well with sprinkling rain. They really seem to be thriving, too. Unfortunately, I slept fitfully until noon... I guess it might be from the brightness of the sun. My eyes can only filter out half the light or so, I still see it swimming beyond my Vision. Kept waking up, also, because I have these inalienable ideas I don't want to lose, and so everytime I must wake up and write them down. Tracing my rib cage, that upside-down V, over and over.

Rest of the day was appropriately mediocre, though I wished I spent more time cuddling in bed and working on some of my journals. My mom's new boyfriend came over, and I gained some new respect for him, because he's generally pretty thoughtful and considerate. He pointed out to me and my sister everything that was vegetarian, and specifically highlighted the spicy tofu curry he got. It wasn't spicy in the slightest, but it was pretty good. I mistaked the pineapple chunks for potatoes, I've never really tasted a food like that before... Eating them was somewhat uncomfortable, but they were good, and it gave me some hope that I could mediate some of my picky eating habits. There was also tofu Pad Thai and egg rolls, though I didn't bother with the egg rolls. He talked about how he used to frequent Chinese buffets that a week thereafter would get closed for health code violations, and how he would stay out in the early morning grazing in Minneapolis, a self-proclaimed "foodie."

Went outside with my little brother, he wanted to "fight" my older brother and the boyfriend's son on the trampoline. I didn't really know what he meant, but I'll play along with him anyways. Playing tag on a trampoline really isn't that fun, because you're always within 5 feet of each other, but that's what they like. My younger brother cried that they wouldn't accept "tag-backs" and after a while I had to drag him off the trampoline, kicking and screaming.

As we welcome summer, we've flown right past spring. A storm was rolling in, I luxoriously kept my window open, basking in those crashing waves of thunder. Tornado warning ringed out on my phone, almost exactly a year after the last one... Of course, this is nothing I usually care to worry about, but I did indeed close my window as a precaution. My family filed down the narrow stairs of my house and I heard them playing card games. When I decided to stare out the window as the storm thickened, a rare sense of terror overcame me...The sky seized, lighting up in blinding flashes of white. It reminded me of how in nuclear incidents, they speak of how they could see the bones spring out of their skin like an X-ray. A sort of collection of dust and rain swelled up on the periphery of my vision, I heard a sound akin to metal clinking against the ceiling. My heart went absolutely insane and I started to shake uncontrollably, something I thought would never happen to someone like me. I really felt as if I might die, so I sent out my apologies and love-yous to who I loved... And to think, just a couple hours earlier, I considered myself to be secure and accepting of my death. Perhaps I am, just perhaps not YET. I have more to live for and I don't want to die prematurely, as surprising as I find for me to say that now. A couple months ago I would've told you that I'm passively suicidal, that I wasn't likely to run out in front of a car, but I also wasn't likely to get out of its way. Everyday is difficult and perpetually it will challenge my waning endurance, but the joy of creating and the joy of accepting is too great to just relinquish life so easily. I guess we will see how I feel on that in the future.

Sky still seizing
I say I'm not afraid to die, yet my
filigree of veins runs cold and my
pathetic heart breathes acid

A song to celebrate summer (while I'm still mourning spring!)
Griddle Egg // Mon., May 9th, 2,022 I really wonder why people ever feel inclined towards drugs, when really a bout of crippling social anxiety has the same effect. For my entire English class, I was cracked out at the prospect that I'd have to sheepishly insert myself into a group, and gain the bitterness of everyone involved. Group work has my disdain, anyhow, for being so terribly inefficient and petty. Most of the time, people refuse to cope with the work they have to do, and I end up silently doing most of the work (I enjoy it usually anyhow, as I know I'm the only one who can do it right) or frustratingly languishing in their incompetence. But whatever, they were assigned groups, I felt some immediate relief but I was still ridiculously wired. Relaxing seems an almost impossible task, my mind is always buzzing and pulling me here and there. Once I get an idea in my head, it fails to abandon me until I complete it to fruition and sometimes it's just excruciating.

When we finally got into groups, I was amazed by how that girl stared straight past me... She stared right past me. Her eyes took on the hue of golden bark, her loooong eyelashes adorn her eyelids. Certainly she was staring at anything but me. Of course, this is something that happens frequently, I was just shocked at how blatantly she erased my existence. Most normies will accept my actualization, but really only selectively, whenever they view it as convenient to them. Usually I am invisible, I camouflage into the surroundings even as I speak. Not even in a pitiful way, actually, lately I've been so grateful that I'm so inconspicuous. Rarely do I desire to talk to people anymore, especially not an endless throng of whores. If someone ever tries to initiate a conversation with me, I'm likely to attempt to shut it down as I really cannot hold my interest or theirs, either.

I was sandwiched in between this blatant girl and another guy, and they relayed back and forth on how many pages they should read per day, and so forth. I don't really know why it was important for them to plan this out so severely. Not interested with this book in the slightest, not with this essay, not with these vapid children. Usually I love school, as I know it's exponentially and unfathomably easier than me ever holding a job. I'd hold myself in this cradle of feigned education forever, if I could.

The German substitute teacher had some sort of meltdown, going on a rant about how people stared at her, gave her dirty looks, rolled her eyes at her. She demands respect, but I don't think she has ever considered whether she deserves it or not. I find it impossible to respect her as an authority, I admit I'm guilty also of staring her down and subtly making known my distaste. She's wholly incompetent, no idea how she maintains her teaching license, but still acts haughtily and as if she maintains any tangible authority. "Someone asked me, (mean voice) 'why were you gone?' that's so very disrespectful, my daughter was very sick..." Well, honestly, I thought that you had quit, and it would've been hilarious if you actually did. She insists that people can't talk about anything but German and can't be on their phones during downtime, contradicting what she said about twenty minutes ago. She really spins me in damn spirals, but it's entertaining to see her falter and crack. We're really wearing her down, it seems. She now routinely goes into routs, complaining about how we should just do what she says and do it quietly. Constantly threatens to bring the dean in and lecture us endlessly...like that's ever motivated anyone to change. Can't wait for her to be gone, I so dearly miss the encompassing compassion and understanding of my lovely German teacher. She knows how to be stern, without turning herself into a laughing stock.

Sister's back today... Multiple people reccomended me I should give her a hug, or talk to her, but I found myself unable to as I got home. Unconsciously, I cheerfully greet my dog but fail to acknowledge my sister. She seemed offended by this, as she pointed it out, but still I didn't say "hi" to her... She wanted to show me some of the collages she made in the pysch ward, all monochromatic expressions of her psyche. All these arts and crafts projects she collected... It really seems more like a daycare for angsty teenagers, rather than a legitimate mental health institution. But there's hardly anything "legitimate" when concerning mental health assistance. Mostly just a scam, mostly just a ploy to keep people in their misery and coming back to drily swallow more happy pills. I couldn't hug her, I couldn't talk to her. The thought of touching someone, or someone touching me, made me want to drill pathetic, gory holes into my head and transfigure my skin into glass spikes. I don't desire touch, except from the one I love. Really my condition was so miserable at the time that all I could muster was slipping back into unconsciousness. Felt such an inevitable hopleness spread throughout my godforsaken body again. It's been getting to me lately, I feel like I haven't don't enough in my life and I feel like I do everything too slowly and sometimes when I see what I make I feel so viscerally repulsed and genuinely disgusted. I paralyzed myself again with, I think, my soaring expectations for myself. Though really, it shouldn't matter if I'm useless. Yeah, I'm useless, and? Do you have anything to berate me for? I've burnt myself out, I think, and the worst part of it all is that you just have to keep going... Rest is something I'm never able to attain, the concept of a vacation feels completely foreign to me. Carrying out all the varying ideas in my head likely is my vacation, even if I'm continuously stressing out over it, it's enough to soothe my soul for just a little bit. So really, I don't have the ability to relax and slow to a crawl like others can. Working on this new animatic project straightens out the loose wires, but inversely endlessly frustrates me when I cannot properly carry out my plans. This neuroticism carries with it this endless tug-of-war I've mentioned previously... It can be really difficult to stay afloat.

Stayed up late, entertaining myself with quite useless things, I drove myself wild with inane things. Took a shower, actually felt quite elated... Sung my soul out and danced according to my autistic impulses, really. I don't care if I slip and crack my skull open, for everything is right with the world again. All the vicious gnawing shall calm itself for a bit, and I'm gonna heal again. I wanna pace around my backyard, basking in that crepuscular gaze, listening to the passionate musings of someone else... I've found myself to be pacing around a lot, lately. Never realized it felt so nice and fulfilling.
Tiredness 2.0, Stubborn Depressions // Tues., May 3rd, 2,022 Today I gained a better understanding of tiredness. I was awake for more than a day, not by choice, and it still feels just as painful and harrowing. A kind of dull stringing that makes you wince, and temporarily a stunted alertness will return... Through tiredness comes an unfathomable alertness, and my inhibition melted away. Dull needles plunged continuously into my brain, mercilessly...I feel like throwing up and also have the premonition that I'm going to die. My breathing is sporadic and ironically I'm almost hyperaware and paranoid of my surroundings, as opposed to being blissfully unaware...Consciousness seems to come in and out with a violent opening.. I'm soaked in fog and diabetes, despair...Really, it's the antithesis to recovery and emotional healing.

I worked so diligently on my speech because I felt as if they purposefully made me the last one to sign the sign-up sheet, and did it out of ire. That they purposefully made me be the first or second speaker because they wanted to laugh at how I faltered and stuttered, as I didn't have the assurance of analyzing other people's speeches prior. Thinking back on it now, this is totally illogical and I have no idea why I felt this so passionately. I realized that in my speech, I didn't consider my audience and how undigestible the content would be for them, so it was essentially a mad scramble to create something presentable while also struggling with this perilous descent into madness (I'm being dramatic, but really, disassociation just Hurts).

While I'm going through this, every couple minutes I tend to pace around my room and look at myself in the floor-length mirror, perhaps to remind myself that I still exist. At one point I felt too overwhelmed with the creative process of writing a speech and had to whip out my oil pastels, frantically scribbling my emotions on this thin, fragile paper. While it didn't come out exactly how I imagined, which was meant to be a complex array of the nervous system with the silhouette of a person surrounding it, radiating outwards with differing colors, I believe my emotions were still satisfactorily displayed. Then I went back to working on my speech for a couple minutes, but the unmistakable urge to create a triptych on my door, ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY HAVING TO HAPPEN RIGHT RIGHT THIS SECOND, tore me from this task.

My thoughts: "Have to get up and locate where my drawings are and where my crucifix is and where this tape is and it feels so immediately crucial in this moment its impossible to separate my brain from it."

I looked around everywhere for some tape, knowing that the clear Scotch tape I had wasn't sufficiently sticky enough to put stuff on the walls. All I could find was gorilla tape sitting on my grandma's counter, I remember not being keen at the thought of using it, but it appeared as if I had no other choice. (soundclip of me ranting about tape)

Otherwise, the thought of this stupid triptych would claw away at my stupid brain, leaving me unable to focus on finishing writing. During this time also, I was slamming these mini diet Cokes my mom got me for Easter, even though I know caffeine has no effect on me whatsoever. I just felt so determined to shake that inescapable blanket of sleepiness from my shoulders. Wrote my speech as I went on notecards, pulling from the drafts someone wrote for me (thank you, by the way, I am still eternally grateful for that) and the lengthy exalations I wrote earlier. My handwriting grew gradually more illegible and sloppy as the number of cards grew in tandem. My original speech read more like an essay than a fluid and interesting presentation, and I realized that it also might be difficult to force out all that delicate wording while I'm talking. Between feverishly ranting about my mental state and half-heartedly writing out my speech, I didn't finish with it until 6:30 AM. I started working on it at 9 PM, so obviously most of this time fell victim to my erratic, distracted state. I caught about maybe 30 minutes of rest, not true sleep, before I had to get ready and be on my way...Wore the fanciest shirt I own, frills decorating the collar and the cuffs, but unfortunately the clasp on the back was broken, so I had to search around for a safety pin. My grandma suggested taking a safety pin from my sister's Doc Martens (they have a chain with safety pins attached) but those safety pins WERE NOT REAL. Life give me modesty.

When I realized that we would get to stand behind a podium, I felt instantly relieved.  My atrocious body language could be masked somewhat, and subsequently I shook my leg, hard, the entire time just to focus. Through the first girls speech, I kept adjusting my notecards and my hair, my crucifix. Could hardly keep my head on straight, I really was proud of the speech I concocted. Her speech was on Elizabeth Short, she said that the media made capitalizing on her death (The Black Dahlia, The Black Dahlia Murder, etc) was disgusting. I almost couldn't stop myself from laughing because would she think I'm a disgusting person if she knew I read that book and listen to that band?

My heart felt as if it would explode out of my chest, in a good way. Excited. I really thought I would piss myself and collapse to that unforgiving floor. They say it's carpet, but really it's concrete. The first few sentences, I struggled a bit to force them out of my mouth, because of how quickly my heart beat. I could hear it in my ears and in my head. My voice relaxed eventually, and I put effort into making my incantations loud and inflectious, to not mumble my words or pull them beneath my throat. I'm not sure how successful I was with this, as I found it impossible to gauge their reactions in the sparse seconds I looked up from my notecards. Throughout the course of the speech, I fumbled only a bit, by struggling to pull my slides up and momentarily losing my place in my notecards. I did my best, and the best is the best you can do, really. Don't regret it if you genuinely tried.

Does anyone else gauge the quality of their speech or presentation by the loudness of their applause? I do, and the applause struck louder for me than anyone else that day. Though it could just be out of pity, or a convoluted sense of pride that the meek girl spilled out her thoughts so boldly. Somehow I might not have made it apparent that I was done, as there was about a 3-second delay before they started to applaude.

Immense relief flowed through me as I walked away... I had done better than I thought I would, and a period of stringent nervousness finally subsided. I listened intently as a sleep-deprived retard could, but most of the other speeches really failed to capture my interest. Multiple girls complimented me on my work, and the insufferable aspie asked me how I was even allowed to present my speech. Are you that afraid of artistic nudity? Also, half-way into one of the girl's speeches, I believe that it talked of Usain Bolt, the fire alarm went off and the class funneled out the door and outside. Honestly, what a dreadful thing to happen. I felt bad for her.

Sleepiness will leave you alone occasionally if you act out aggressively. I stomped my feet as I walked and took the longer way to my classrooms to keep awake. After my English class, the sleepiness was tolerable and I got through the rest of the day with no evident wounds.

I've been feeling better lately, but it's a sort of paradox, as I still rarely exercise my... contentedness? I feel the beaming confidence of a person who knows that someone loves them unconditionally, a love to me that will never be truly comprehensible. Motivation is still hard to come by, and it's confounding to feel so self-assured for the first time in a long time, but still so often languish in my bed. I wear the same dilapidated pink shorts when I get home, there's cat vomit on one of my puzzle boxes for like a week now, and my floor is littered with various oddities and garbage. I'm doing my best, but sometimes my best doesn't really concern the most favorable of things, like cleaning up or studying. Sometimes all it means is staring at your grody popcorn ceiling with music blaring, with the assurance that you'll be better tommorow. At this point, I'm convinced this sorrow will inevitably stick with me forever. When someone first told me that my depressive state might last eternally, I really prayed for death to come take me. Life felt so hopeless and inevitable. I've come to terms with it, though, as depression can be pacified simply by swallowing it back down. It's a bit of a never-ending tug-of-war, and if you stumble into the mud, it'll be hard to recover and lose your footing again. I try to be violently optimistic in spite of it all, to prove it to myself, to prove it to those miserable normies, to prove it to you. Wallowing in that inexplicableness does no good, honestly. Not that doing so is unforgivable, though, as sometimes it's necessary to let yourself go through it. No feeling is inherently a bad thing to feel, you don't need to force it away, just let it wash over you and accept that it's there. Think of if you'd like to keep experiencing it, or not. Maybe that's a bit contradictory to what I said of being violently optimistic, but those philosophies can exist simultaneously. Admittedly I'm still not the best of adhering to my own principles, but that's always a struggle you have to contest with.

I've been busy and genuinely stressed lately, so hopefully sometime soon I'll scrape together more time to work on my website and art. Sometimes, I worry that someday I will say every conceivable thing I feel the need to say, and I'll become redundant and loopy. Hopefully that never happens... I want to keep writing journals. It's almost a necessity for my stability at this point.
She Said I was Sunshiny // Wed., April 27th, 2,022 Yesterday, my sister stayed home from school because she claimed she was having a panic attack. I didn't know this at first, I went to go wake her up for school and she acted really snappy at me... "I'm not going to school," with no real reason for it. I wasn't even sure if my mother had approved of that yet, but I just left her alone.

I wake up today and I'm eavesdropping on my mother's call with someone. For some reason she refuses to tell me about these important family matters directly, so I just have to deduce what I can from the snippets of conversations I catch from her calls. She was talking about how my sister was being admitted to the pysch ward again, and all the issues that come with that.

Here's an important piece of advice when dealing with "mental health professionals" or anyone that would divulge this information to them:

Do not tell them that you feel suicidal in any capacity. Do not say you want to hurt yourself or others, even as a joke.

Even if it's true, you should lie to them.

They will strip away all rights that you think you have. Any "help" that they can provide is not worth the pain and humiliation it will cause. You can still open up to therapists and psychiatrists if you feel so inclined, just never report on suicidal or harmful feelings. They're legally required to report on this, for your "protection". I knew this keenly when I was in therapy, and refused to say anything of my suicidal ideations or intrusive thoughts of hurting others. If I had of ever said anything of the sort, I would've surely been dead meat.

I overheard that the holding period would only start when a bed opened up. All I can assume from this is that she told someone she was suicidal, and there's a mandatory 3-day stay in the pysch ward for anyone who dares to say this. This means there's such a glut of mentally ill teenagers that they literally don't have room to house any more. This also wouldn't be her first time in the pysch ward. I believe she's been admitted two times before, and they lasted longer than two weeks each I'm sure. My memory of it is fuzzy, partially because I can't care that severely.

In January 2021, I remember when my mom tried to buy her snacks and such because she was confusingly open about her eating disorder. Most anorexics are appropriately horrified at the prospect of their parents knowing they were ill, but my sister talked freely of how she hated her body, the amount of calories she has eaten, all that kind of muck. I never made any comment upon it, as I was very secretive about my past eating problems. My sister was always naturally skinny and gracefully beautiful, though. I never saw why she thought she had to lose weight. She used to compete in beauty pageants, and when I was a child I envied her beauty. She was (and still is, she just doesn't want to admit it) a social butterfly, and exuded kindness and warmth when she was younger. We're completely different people, and we really look nothing alike, despite us being Irish twins. I'm afraid she's going down the wrong path now, but I can elaborate on that further later...

School opened completely during the third quarter of last year, and she was absent for the entirety of it. She was at an eating disorder clinic, and she was monitored every hour of the day. It sounds so controlling that I have no idea how she coped with it, or proudly talks about all her experiences there. They watched her piss and closely observed every bite she ate, every calorie she happened to consume. Such a restricted environment sounds like hell for an anorexic, whose life revolves around their own self-control. I know it would've been hell for me, to have my autonomy ripped away from me, even if it benefitted me healthily. I'm not sure how long she will be gone, and while she is of course an attention-seeking faggot, I'm gonna miss her. She's probably my closest family member and she really doesn't deserve to suffer like that.

Since I'm technically disabled (mentally), my family can make money off of me by prospect of "caring" for me. Still I am considered a dependent This wouldn't even bother me that much if they weren't so secretive and inaccurate in their time card reports. I was never aware that they did this until a couple months ago, and I asked my grandma what they were for and she gave me an extremely evading answer. "Oh, it's just what we have to fill out for taking care of you..." or something along those lines. Maybe I'm just being dramatic, but it really feels like it's an act of financial exploitation. Is it selfish that I would rather my family have less money to use, rather than be exploited and humiliated like this? All of the money provided from those time-cards serves to take care of myself and my needs, but I know hardly any of this goes towards me personally.

An infuriating part of this time-cards is that they write down nonsensical times and nonsensical activities. They do not help me with grooming, bathing, dressing, or "behavior", and I find it frankly insulting that they think that I am not wholly independent in those areas. The things that they actually do help me with to some extent--cleaning, laundry, and cooking--they don't even write these down, which is really confusing. She writes down three hours a day, adding up to twenty-one hours a week... I rarely even see you ten hours in a week. I would be absolutely fine with having less money if it meant I wouldn't have to be exploited in this way, but that extra income mostly supports my siblings, not me. When I'm gone, I guess they won't get to use me as a crutch anymore. It even would have been enough to be direct with me and tell me honestly the purpose of this. I still wouldn't agree with it, but I would feel as if that baseline respect was granted and that in some way I help support my family. Lately, my mom had to get a part-time cleaning job to cope with the price increase of groceries. That's on top of her full-time job, child support from 2 or 3 fathers, my disability money, and my grandma paying a portion of the rent and other bills. I kind of feel like a leech. While I theoretically could get a job to help her with expenses, why the hell should I, besides for the assurance of my sibling's safety? She has never done anything for me out of genuine appreciation or affection, it's feigned at best or non-existent at worst. Maybe it seems vindictive, but I really feel no need to return the favor. Despite all of this retarded rambling, no, I don't hate my mother. I can forgive her for all the distraught she has caused me, but I still acknowledge that she is often a malicious and cowardly person, and I definitely won't seek out a relationship with her in the future. When I'm gone, I guess she won't get to use me as a crutch anymore. I realized recently that this might actually be the reason why my mom discourages me from moving away for college, or learning how to drive. I'm not sure how much money it provides, maybe in the range of $1k-2k, but whatever the amount, it proves well enough to try and keep me here. It's just something I felt like writing about because it makes me feel angry, dejected. I don't want to carry that hate around in my small heart.

Of course billions of others have been worse off than me, and maybe it's selfish to spill about my petty complaints, but I find it cruel to quantify suffering like that. We all are suffering as we live, it is only quantified by how quickly we heal. This depends on several factors, and does not rely entirely on the perceived severity of the suffering. We can only hope to heal and help others to do the same. There should lie no bitterness in the fact that someone cut deeper than you.

I feel depressed lately, but paradoxically I'm also unfathomably happy and satisfied. I guess that it cannot really be helped. There's a million different things I'd like to do rolling as their respective marbles in my mind, but I am scatterbrained and I become paralyzed when I try to make a choice of what I should do first. So half the time I end up wallowing in bed doing nothing, because I figure that half an hour or so of fucking around will give me some rest. It really doesn't and I end up splayed out like that eternally. Maybe I need more structure when it comes to stuff like that. I usually plan out the things I want to do at home, but I rarely ever achieve all of those things... I'm not really sure if I'm doing my best or if I think that I'm doing my best, lately.

There was also this absurd and appropriately mortifying moment that took place today. My autistic ass can't drive, so I was waiting for my mom to pick me up outside. It was pretty breezy out, but I found the wind felt nice and was waiting there. There's this black mammy type school supervisor, I remember that she called me her princess once. She's a sweet person and I know that she means well, but I really dread her presence. I heard her shout "hey, little girl!" about three times and I was so desperately ignoring it in the hopes that she was talking about me... She couldn't possibly be talking about me, right? Just how old do you think I am? To my absolute despair, she came over to me and was like, "hey honey, you really got to go inside. It's cold out here and you're just so pale." I contemplated explaining that I'm not cold or sickly, and that is just my natural skin color... but I gave up that notion and just blabbered out "ahhh... no I'm good, really." However, Aunt Jemima persisted and told me once again I should go back inside to wait for my ride to get here. It was such an utterly dejecting and baffling experience. I told my family about it and I don't think I'm ever going to live that down. I'll hear the echoing of "pale little girl" ringing in my ears for all my decades on Earth.

During my reality breaking period earlier this week, I was drawing the veins on my arm and eventually freestyling into trees and roots. Especially 'cause I wanted to hurt myself, the slight bitterness of those pen pricks was pretty satisfying and soothing, without actually having to cause injury. It's kind of grounding really, tracing my veins and palms out like that reminded me that I really do exist. I think I'll keep redrawing them over and over again, like permanent tattoos. It's nice to have something you always know is gonna be there, or is atleast easily recoverable. I love you

Napping in Clouds // Tues., April 26th, 2,022 Yesterday, I stayed up most of the night with my body perilously separated from reality. I did end up able to steal maybe 45 minutes of sleep or so, just before I had to go to school. Yeah, refusing to sleep undoubtedly exacerbated my condition, but I really felt as if I couldn't. Something bad would've happened if I had went to bed so easily, and even in my short nap I wasn't fully unaware. My heart stayed open, listening...Still, I cannot place what exactly this catastrophe was supposed to be, but I knew that it would surely happen if I fell asleep. It's a strange feeling, and I'm not sure exactly whether I should follow my premonitions or not. Though in this circumstance, it wasn't really a choice, as my mind refused to allow me rest with such a threat looming over me. I wasn't as hellishly tired as I thought I would be, walking or wandering around for a while pretty much disperses that foggy gauze of sleepiness. This doesn't eliminate the brainfog or apathy, but it does reinstate the elixir of life for some short while.

When I got home, I took a nap for what I wish was 2 hours. It was actually only about an hour because I felt too uneasy listening to my mother's voice and couldn't fall asleep while she was there. I fell asleep again at 3:20ish AM, and slept for probably three and a bit hours... I'm not that tired right now, but I really can't keep doing this, even if this was a special set of circumstances I couldn't really escape from. The concept and sensation of rest is pretty fascinating within itself. I explored an analogy earlier that was comparing tiredness to that of newspaper boats on the river. Only the gentle rocking of the waves can sway you, pushing you this way and that way, and you're prone to drowning. A certain kind of tiredness can also appear as swathes of invisible molasses, encasing you in some miserable stickiness and slowness. I remember that this image really stuck to me...

It's the kind of tired that sleep can't fix

There's really three forms of exhaustivity at play simultaneously; that of physical, that of emotional, that of chronological. Physical tiredness is self-explanatory and is temporarily resolved by sleeping. But sometimes that still isn't enough. Shitty diet, sleep too much, sleep too little, don't exercise, cry alot... Yeah, you're still gonna be tired. Emotional tiredness entails how with every spark of feeling, no matter how insignificant or joyous, will inevitably deteriorate the pysche and exhaust it. I'm sorry, that's pretty fatalistic, and I really wish that it wasn't true...Bleating, painful emotions will wound much more harshly, so be cautious of the things you care about. This tiredness also depends on how strong your spirit is, how willing you are to accept the past, Chronological tiredness wears on the ragged soul with every passing second. Perhaps a few seconds ago, you were more alert and responsible than you'll ever be again. The everlasting pressure and stress of all the moments you've ever experienced will beat down on the spirit and try to silence it. You cannot let this happen, that's how you die prematurely. A lot of the times when you're feeling the effects of this, you're really not going to know why you feel so awful. It also encompasses the pain of yearning. Although this exhaustion is inescapable, the spirit can be revitalized and heal from the salts of time. Is time more of a river, or more of a mountain?

Won't you be ever so much more exhausted with every passing day? Especially as you gain more responsibilities, more reliabilities...As you get older, your skin withers and your bones despair from the weight of enduring decades of abuse. Really, as respectfully as possible, how do old people manage? They must be much stronger than I am, as just going through the typical motion of life is enough to demoralize me and I'm still only coasting through life...or maybe that's strength gained from their wisdom? I will be honest and say that the prospect terrifies me. I do not fear death, actually I embrace its cold, civil arms, but the erosion of life might be too much to bear.

Honestly, sometimes I wish I could write more poetically. I deliberate over a lot of these sentences, and wonder if I'm portraying what I mean well and pleasantly... It really doesn't matter, I guess. I've never been much of a writer.

On a side note, I have found my precious ring again. I was rummaging through my backpack pocket to look for a different ring, and this one happened to appear before the other. I was so utterly amazed, genuinely excited. I felt as if I have healed that sore on my heart. When I searched that pocket before when I had initially lost it, it was not there. Unmistakably, someone or something must've snuck it back in there and I cannot show them my all-encompassing appreciation and thanks. Thank you. I remember even praying for it's return... Thank you dearly, my guardian angel. Still, the appearance has become sort of foreign and I'm not fully convinced that this ring was really the one I've had before. It's white gold, but it doesn't really have the glint that it has anymore. It has a different weight. I gave up on the possibility of wearing rings again today, especially that one. They're all too loose and move freely around my fingers. So for now, it will lay safely in my jewelry stand. I'm so unfathomably grateful.

"Hey Engel"


"Hey, Engel!"

"My name's Angel, not Engel"

"Well, you're not an angel."

Poems from Fifth Grade // Sat., April 23rd, 2,022 Some poems I wrote in fifth grade when I was digging around in my school Google Drive. I'm kinda surprised at the quality of them, I thought that they would be worse. "Storm" is my favorite. There's something so intoxicating and pure about such a childish writing style.


Foxes are sneaky
In the dead of the night.
They are often shy
In the bright morning light.
Foxes are stealthy
When they are out for a bite.
You will never see their soft fur
Quiver with fright!
Foxes are spectacular,
So with a spirited smile,
They scampered away silently,
Into the moonlight.


Roses were red,
Violets were blue,
But now all I see
Is orange,red and yellow.
As the temperature drops,
School will begin.
The desks will be stocked
With books and papers again.
Our days will grow shorter,
And birds and butterflies,
Will fly away and wait
For a much warmer day.


The night was so peaceful,
Just a second ago.
But a powerful raptor,
Has awoken in rage.
With his angry talons,
He pierces the clouds.
His furious wings beat
And rain crashes down.
Thunder booms in the sky,
And with a frightened cry,
The mysterious bird has gone.


Balloons are often sold,
At festivals and fairs.
Balloons can be different colors,
Like yellow,blue and red.
When they are left alone,
They will fly into the air.


The car engine wheezed,
Coughing black smoke.
It fell silent for a moment,
But soon after it revved up.
The car moved slowly,
Its tires treading on the path.
Grunting with effort,
It continued on.
When the sun sank under the sea,
The car sighed with relief.
After a while it thought,
How lucky I am to be free.
My Favorite Time of Day is the Early Morning and War // Thurs., April 21st, 2,022 So my APUSH teacher this morning, asked us all our favorite time of day. I'm the only one who says early morning, 4 to 7 o'clock. Everyone else says 3 PM, when school ends, or sometime into the evening or night. Here I am to explain that the morning is an ethereal, unescapable time uncomparable to the rest of the day. Nights are still, and abundantly common.

But really, I think a wealth of my favorite memories happened early in the morning. Dragging my feet in the moist soil, rocking back and forth to the inaudible tune of the rain's rhythm. Watching the sun gently part across those morose rainclouds... It felt nice to be alone in that moment, I felt like an adult, like I didn't have to be a leech on anyone else.

Outside with Scarlett, it's probably August or September. Leafing through those supple stalks of morning dew while Scarlett soundly nestles herself into a bundle of catnip and lavender. This rainbow stretches across the sky, it's still basically gray and littered with the dimples of clouds. It was just really beautiful and solemn, I'm grateful that I got to share that with her.

I believe my first memory, also, happened early in the morning. Such a memory could also be completely fabricated by my mind, though. My mom was holding me, with my tiny head nestled into the nape of her neck. It was at the Como Zoo, they have just this breathtaking arboretum type place. (Ive looked it up, it's actually called the Marjorie McNeely Conservatory.) It's such a beautiful place, I can't believe that I took it for granted. I haven't been there in years. The warmth of the sun shining through the wiring, the lush expanses of ferns and grass and flowers, the dazzling spectacle that are those butterflies... That's really all I remember, I was happy to be taken care of at that time. I just felt so extraordinarily comforted in that moment. So really, isn't this the first time Estynia's conscious sprung into action? A blossoming of me? Pretty poetic if you think about it, surrounded by all those flowers and florid vegetation.

Como Zoo

There's also quite a lot of potential for future memories. I love how the birds sing and flutter in the morning. It seems like that's the time they feel most comfortable being themselves. Sometimes I wish I could wake up earlier, and sit outside with that spring breeze dancing across my face and getting caught up in my clothes... Though, I think it's better to limit experiencing that too often. It'll lose its glorious edge, and venture back into mundanity. That's why it's my favorite time of day, it's the bosom of all things vulnerable and blossoming.

In English class, our teacher wanted us to share what our perception of a soldier was, and a lot of their views seemed pretty provincial. I wrote some of them down as they were sharing them out:
"Willing to do anything to fight for their country"

"Stoic and emotionless, a strong mindset"

"Willing to leave family members behind, but they come back broken"

"Willing to deal with the consequences of wars but also the consequence of after war"

"Disciplined, someone who is mentally and physically strong"

"Willing to die for their country"

"Brave individual who leaves their whole life behind to fight for their country"

"Willing to risk everything just to get home"

"Fights for a cause that they themselves or other people believe in"

It's incredibly hard to generalize something like that, honestly, I struggled to say anything that actually held any truth. But I said "They're usually self-sacrificial, but often oblivious to the kind of things that they're getting into. They're intelligent and wise people, but bear the scars of what they've suffered." Even this feels pretty silly to say (I'm reluctant to even admit that I did), what kind of soldier was she wanting us to envision, anyhow? A metaphorical soldier, as in someone who has suffered through a lot of internal conflicts as such, "battling" with them, or just about anyone in the military? I used to view people who joined the military as absolutely idiotic and stupidly suicidal, as it's basically an act of stripping all your rights away, even more so than they are already. This one guy I knew, he believed that just because he had a high ASVAB score, he would never get into a war, and that he would never get hurt. He wanted to go to university for free and buy a Tesla. This man also demanded that I give him a logically sound, morally right argument on why he shouldn't rape Japanese girls in Okinawa (as there's a military base there), seriously... Does the idea of ripping away someone's autonomy tittilate you that much that you're willing to argue with me for hours? He was Indian or Paki, or both, and I told him that Punjab and Urdu are really the same damn language.  I haven't spoken to him in years, good riddance, but I'm curious as to where that idiot is now.

Anyway, I understand better the sentiment of being in the military to some degree...I would still never do something like that, myself. I believe people in the past, maybe even to some extent in the present, really had faith that they were on the right side of history, that their government would praise and protect them after all is said and done. Even with all the money the American government sinks into military spending and such, they couldn't really give a shit about the people who fight their petty wars.

Then my English teacher put us in groups to discuss this short story we read, basically about how the war was reflected in Madrid, and I was just listening to these girls talk, how nonchalantly they're willing to talk shit and break bridges.

"She posted this on Facebook, which is a red flag in the first place"

"She wrote this long ass paragraph about her Bible invitations, like I'm all for being super religious, but I don't care."

I'm sitting across from them, wearing my huge-ass crucifix, by the way, so it's kinda ironic. I can't say that I'm definitively Christian, but it's really comical to say that so obliviously in front of someone like me. Most of them don't even recognize my existence, or maybe they purposefully rid my perception from their imagination. A lot of girls seem to be naturally vindictive..One girl even asked if anyone was friends with this girl before she started spewing about her... What's the point of saying anything you won't say to her face?

"I know you fuck everything that moves you're not taking it to heart, girl!"

First of all, you guys are fucking? Second, isn't it pretty bizarre that you even know that? I'm not a fan of whoring around either, but why are you prying into her sexual life like that?

The girl shakes both legs at once, discordantly. Her legs are pretty lean. I'm pretty sure her name is Lauren. She's blonde, petty, and pretty tanned right now. The guy in front of her also shakes his leg, but just his left leg.
Identity Politics // Mon., April 18th, 2,022 Detransistioners are almost always disregarded, or violently rejected by the transgender community. I hope presenting my growing pains will hope illustrate my point. I considered myself to be trans male or FTM from the ages of 12 to 14. Problems with self identity, autism, and a desperate need for a community influenced my superfluous, albeit intense, gender dysphoria. Ironically, strict adherence to gender roles pushed me over the edge into transgenderism. In my childhood, I was always regarded to be a tomboy and relished in what people considered to be more masculine habits and infatuation. Socially, I struggled to fit in with girls my age and couldn't comprehend most of the things they commonly enjoyed. This, mixed with my unmonitored and unlimited internet access allowed me to entertain the possibility that I wasn't who I was always said to be.

I felt as if it was necessary to mutilate my body, if I was ever to be happy and comfortable within my own skin. I debated cutting my newly-budding breasts off with a sharp kitchen knife and even confided in this with other people. In a painfully embarrassing conversation with my mother, I even told her that I wanted a phalloplasty (a surgery that constructs a faux penis using a large skin graft from the thigh or forearm) so that "my body would reflect who I am inside." She responded with confusion and disbelief, of course. I wrote letters about my transgender ism and consumed a lot of FTM content on YouTube,and looking back at those videos, they all look incredibly miserable.

My "transitioning" was minimal and mostly social. I'm thankful that it wasn't worse, and my mother was sane enough to reject the possibility of hormone blockers or testosterone. I'm grateful everyday for this, otherwise I fear I would be dead by now. I attempted to appear more boyishly by cutting my hair myself and wearing looser, more "masculine" clothing. I employed some bizzare binder trick where I would wear two bras, one the opposing way, in an attempt to minimize the appearance of my breasts. I never really washed them and they were appropriately disgusting. I also tried to wear my leggings down lower, so that it would appear as a bulge... not like they really fit anyway. I never realized how skinny and weak I was until I look back at that time.

I came out to my friends in middle school. One of them began to excitedly babble about what my new name should be, and how cute I would be as a boy. Though, I think her attention slipped and she subsequently didn't mention it much after that. My temper milded after my confrontations with my friends and my mother, and I didn't keep people privvy to my gender identity. But I remember that I often fantasized as if my mental malfunctions would magically be cured, that women would love me, that I woils be successful, all because I would be a man. It all comes down to my. desperate desire, almost my need, for love, just to be appreciated by someone... Loneliness and the confusion caused by autism and social anxiety will definitely exacerbate these issues. In fact, I read that transgender children and adults are about 7x more likely to be autistic... That's not a fucking coincidence. I can understand quite well why they wouldn't be happy in their bodies, but being the wrong sex usually isnt at play. Sometimes it is, but that's really rare.

Online the presence of my gender was much more substantial. I ran around in transgender discord groups and other small cliques, where I insisted on being called "Reuben". I was also struggling with an eating disorder at the time, and ran a moderately popular pro-ana Tumblr account. It was like a double-fisting of misery. My body dysphoria (I really thought I was big; I only weighed 100 pounds...) intensified with my eating disorder, only to be compounded by my socialized gender dysphoria. My eating disorder is a disgusting and tragic story for another time, though...

I started to relax in this obsession and allowed my hair to grow out again and transition back to my natural name and identity. The lessening of my anorexia and dysphoric issues also coincided with this transition, and I felt as if I was finally coming back into my own. For years after this, I still found it hard to embrace myself how I am. Nothing is really more crucial for your growth than understanding that you are who you are... If that makes sense? I've personally divorced myself from the arbitrary expectations and ideals of others, yet I still uphold a lot of them voluntarily if such a person is important to me... Anyway, this alone should be indicative of how damaging pushing these ideals on children can be. My heart aches for the children of the narcisstic and abusive parents who forcibly push transgenderism, permanently mutilating their bodies and denying them the right to a natural puberty. Later, I'll probably go into this issue more in depth, because such blatant and ubiquotious abuse on all levels is just so... There's no words to really describe it. It makes me feel viscerally angry and hateful, and I hate feeling like that. I hope that my painful childhood experiences can convince just one person that you don't need to be estranged in other people's perceptions of your identity... Words are really difficult, what I mean is, I just don't want you to suffer like I did. Take it as a lesson.
Recounting Some Painful Childhood Memories // Fri., April 15th, 2,022 When I was younger, probably between the ages of 6 and 9, I'm not sure...I used to have these autistic meltdowns as I was still learning how to cope with the world around me. My mother did not respond well to this, she often berated me while I cried and screamed until my voice went hoarse. It wasn't fit to move me out of an overstimulating environment, or let me wear myself out, no... I remember that she often sat (?) on me and this instilled a primal and fierce panic within me. She's so heavy, I often struggled to breathe, I felt like I was suffocating and I cried out in pure agony and hopelessness. Sometimes, I was able to escape her grasp just from the sheer power of my rage, but then she'd deadlock me again. Yeah... I don't envy little Estynia.

Another tragic, absurd story... In fifth grade, I got my first period. It was February 13th, I remember because I felt too humiliated to go to the Valentine's party at school the next day. I never really wore underwear at the time and the leggings I was wearing were really, really thin. A recipe for disaster. I first noticed that I was bleeding out when I was in gym class and thought, "well, fuck... guess I'll just try to make it through the day like this." Surprisingly, this water-proof plan fell through! I bled through my chair in math class, and I saw as I walked away how all the boys were gawking at it. Then I went to my one special ed class, with this awful soulless rotund lady, I suppose that she noticed the blood and kept prodding me, asking if I had a cut or something else. I sat on my knees to try and minimize myself. She eventually made me go to the nurse and I cried and cried while the nurse instructed me on how to use a pad and got me a change of clothes. I begged my mom to let me skip the next day (it was a Friday, so maybe I'd get three days of relief.) Gosh, I'm so glad all that shit is over now.

One time when I was around 10 or 11, I was sleeping after school and my mom decided that the best way to wake me up for my useless and demoralizing "occupational therapy" was to drag me by the hair and then smash my face into the stairs... I wasn't even really awake then, I remember only being cognizant of what was happening when she made me stagger up those stairs with blood gushing out of my nose. I was crying so hard it was difficult to see an inch in front of me, and she put a tissue or towel to my face to stop the bleeding... I felt so utterly humiliated and confused. She was upset that I wouldn't wake up because she still has to pay for missed therapy appointments, but the irony is I couldn't even go because of this injury she sustained me. Is your money really worth my trust and respect in you? Is it worth degrading and stealing a part of a struggling child's happiness? To this day, I'm still not sure of what to make of the whole ordeal.. It feels a bit much to say I was "abused",  but it's left a lasting impact on me. I really cannot trust her, even as I grow older, who knows if she fancies hurting me again? You act nice to me now, but what really are your motives? Funnily enough, I like ryona and guro, but one thing I'm never EVER able to look at without shuddering is anything to do with nosebleeds, or breaking the nose, or teeth, or bleeding from the mouth.

Since I'm considering all this physical "abuse", I've realized how she has treated me emotionally as well. While she can and does say that she loves me, it's never in that honey-dripping voice of genuine infatuation or affection. It's flat, monotone, even I can pick up on it. While she always praised me by calling me smart, calling me independent, she never said all the things I wanted to hear from her. Maybe it's a petty complaint, but I never heard her call me pretty, or lovely, or kind, or things of that nature? She never really seemed to take joy or interest in the things I enjoyed. On this part though, I could be wrong, I don't remember my childhood well and my interpretation of other people's emotions is pretty ambiguous. I never really felt loved, and I was adverse to being touched by her or anyone else. I was adverse to interacting my family, I always shyed away with almost complete disinterest and distrust. Did these issues come up with my upbringing, or just with my meek, defective nature? I never wanted to be this way, I wish I wasn't so avoidant and fearful in all kinds of relationships.. wish I wasn't so meek, so small and pathetic. You really think, ya know, "Estynia's really cool, and pretty, yeah she's the goddamned cat's pajamas! She's really all that!" You probably weren't, but maybe you were. I'm really not so cool as you think I am, I shrink away at every little threat and retreat back into myself, like a baby bird desperately trying to crawl itself back into its cracked eggshell. I wish things could be different, I think I'd like my voice to be heard for once, and for it to actually matter.

I loathe her for putting me into therapy and classes to help "treat" my autism, anyhow. They were almost entirely unnecessary, and my issues would've milded naturally. I felt completely mortified and resentful about the whole ordeal. I was put into special ed classes in fifth grade, and when I was pulled out of class during our morning meetings, that's when I realized I didn't get the privilege of being like everyone else. I believe that I was purposefully denied and alienated.

When I went into middle school, I thought I would finally be awarded the respect I deserved. But in lieu of the electives everyone else got to entertain, I was stuck back into infantilizing special ed classes. The anger I felt at that time was absolutely indescribable. I hated normie adults, I hated them for thinking that I'm not palatable enough for the general population. That somehow, I'm defective, and need to be ferociously beat back into shape like a bent nail. I couldn't even relate to the people in there, anyway. I felt like I was doing the work of a pre-schooler, we watched videos about "self-advocacy" and worksheets about metaphors and similes. How to understand facial expressions, "appropriate" social behavior, a bunch of meaningless garbage like that. Unfortunately I cannot tell you too much about it because I feel that I have repressed a good portion of it. The way this teacher talked to me felt utterly demeaning, like she viewed me as an inferior. I'm not fucking inferior and I refuse to believe otherwise!

In my actual occupational therapy sessions, it was more of the same shit. They tried to teach me how to care for my hair, brush my teeth, and tie my shoelaces properly, and I'll admit that is the only way in which I benefitted. But really, shouldn't my mother have been teaching me those things anyway? Sure, outsource your responsibilities at the expense of my happiness. I remember one of my therapists just massaged me, and that was kinda strange... I don't know why that was a thing. They also made me exercise, I guess to aid in the poor muscle coordination a lot of autistic people have. They made me jump on this little trampoline or would swing me around in this cloth hammock, completely enveloping me in this tulle-adjacent fabric. I'll admit that was kind of nice, too.

I also had a therapist that came to my house, his name was David. He was a lot more helpful and sympathetic than the other soulless sorrugators, but I still often enough felt humiliated. He drew a picture of me once and I felt like he made me look really ugly. I was also denied the chance to go to Chuck-E-Cheese because of my therapy appointment, and as an 11-year old, you can imagine that I was absolutely crestfallen.

when I finally got out of this therapy when I was 12, I suppose they finally considered me socially acceptable enough, I had a breakdown around two weeks later. I could hardly be consoled by anyone, I was angry at the world and I was angry at myself. I wanted to flay myself alive and die horribly. In that moment, life was just so revolting, so uncompatible. I threw shoes and other things when they got close to me, and I'm sure I wouldn't have hesitated to bite or kick or claw or whatever I had to do. The police was called on me since I was deemed to be "a danger to myself and others." They forced me crying into an ambulance, and the nurse lady threatened to tranquilize me if I didn't calm down. I could hear the deafening blare of sirens in my ears, the stark bleakness of those vacant white walls... Just an awful experience, just awful, really! They ushered me into a room for a while and made me lay on a bed, maybe they took a questionnaire of me, my memory's all fuzzy. My mom called my aunt to come over and this just compounded my embarrassment. I ended up calming down after about two hours or so, and my mom took me back home at 12 am... I still think I had to go to school in the morning. There was really no cause for this breakdown, but maybe I really just broke under all I was going through. Thankfully, such a thing has never happened again... I was enrolled back into therapy however.

I didn't write all of this so you could pity me. I don't want you to coddle me and stroke my hair and hold me close, 'cause poor Estynia has her mommy issues. I simply wanted to explore more of some of the pivotal moments that likely profoundly changed my life and personality. I still don't know how to feel about my mother. Was she doing what she believed was best for me, or was she being blatantly abusive and malicious? I think it's a mix of both, to be honest. She doesn't hurt me anymore, but I'm still really distant with her, I find myself unable to bond with her at all. I'm neutral at the thought of her death or getting hurt, I might even laugh. I wonder, would I have been different, would I have been a better person if all these painful things didn't happen? Can't I just erase it all from my memory? It's so fascinating how severely abuse or traumatic events in childhood will affect you. It's such a fundamental growing period, isn't it? This is one of the reasons I feel apprehensive and fearful about ever having children, I fear that I will be as neglectful and damaging as my mother is. But if I ever have children, I dream of cherishing them and celebrating them and giving them all the love and affection I was never able to get. Children deserve better, they are so vulnerable and innocent... I actually don't know if I could cope with even the possibility of a child of mine getting hurt. Maybe I'd be overbearing. I'm afraid that I would repeat this cycle of abuse through all my repressed, undivulged hurt. Maybe they'd be just as autistic and ill as I am... I just can't condone knowing that they would suffer like I did. I know a little suffering is healthy and vital for growth, but how much can someone tolerate before it starts to leave these irreparable, ugly scars? I think I've spillt too much spaghetti for now. I think I went too far... bye! I feel like I have more to say, but how much more important is it to say compared to everything else I already said?

I love you. you can heal too.
Vomit // 1:26 PM Mon., April 11th, 2,022

Today has not been going well, as I've expected... I've felt like vomiting all damn say. It's not from nausea, just from my self-imposed anxiety. After my English class I was really unsure which lunch period I was meant to go to.. I went to the area where my math class is and waited and hopelessly scoured my phone for the lunch schedule... like fuck, why don't they ever post this thing anywhere remotely accessible? So then I walked from there to the end of the hall, and then I walked back down the stairs and down the hallway. It's hard to call it a hallway, because it's a massive school, but I think you get the point. I was searching for the lunch schedule on the walls or anywhere and I just felt so pathetic that I couldn't muster up the courage to ask anybody... Not to mention that asking somebody would be pathetic within itself! I knew that I should have made sure I knew where to go before I even went to school, but it slipped my mind and I feigned this assumed confidence... I found the lunch schedule and I did miss my math class, so I really have no other choice but to skip it now. It's also a split lunch! Fuck, who does that? Tommorow when I come back there's probably assigned seats, and I won't know where to sit, and I'll spill spaghetti everywhere and that feeling of nausea and dread will rise up again and exhaust me. Maybe I should just kill myself now so I can spare myself the embarrassment.. It's also pathetic of how petty and trivial my worries are, but they also practically immobilize me... just awful... put me down already. Just vomit-inducing, honestly! And now I'll have to sit here for another fucking hour and wallow in my own shame.

I really wanna murder my conscious! I don't need it! I wanna rip it apart and pummel it into the ground because I'm so tired of being abused and tormented by my own fucking thoughts...But no, I'm still not taking your overpriced happy pills! It's quite regrettable how much I esteem being unapologetically yourself, but I crumble like a Rust Belt factory as soon as I'm out naked and vulnerable in the open! It makes me wanna be sick and vomit out my pathetic guts all over the floor. I've been listening to Gezebelle Gaburgably all day today, in some desperate attempt to pacify myself, I guess... I think I'll work on her shrine today when I get home. She really deserves to be enshrined, considering how passionate and talented she is... I know I really shouldn't idolize people, but I can't help but wish I'd be more like her, minus her degeneracy with drugs.

Is it really too much to ask to feel okay, even for just a handful of days? Everyday I'm cutting through throngs of cobwebs and vines and wires, but I'm still not getting anywhere. I wanna get somewhere. The nausea is just too much to bear, it's really not worth it, if I never ever get anywhere.

Phantom Wings and Divinity // Sat., April 9th, 2,022 Sure, I've been wasting all my time between Tuesday and today. I was really meant to write about this more than a week ago. When I lost my special ring, I realized that it's still there. I can still feel it on my finger and imagine my finger rolling against its smooth gold surface over and over again. I make the gesture to take it off and it feels quite frustrating when you just can't shake that feeling away. Since probably mid-July, I've also had phantom wings and occasionally a phantom halo. I could feel them sprouting out of my back one day, one vigorous summer day. The sensation hurt quite a bit, like a backache but sharper and not tangibly 'real'. The right wing is much larger and better developed than the left wing. I will expand on their appearances and qualities later. Such an experience was obviously quite exhilirating and exciting, but I also wondered if my mind was slipping away...sure, phantom sensations are probably a delusion, but I feel that they are actually real. They are not tangibly a part of me, but they represent myself in a way that is undisputably real. These wings can flutter, stretch, and flex. My halo can hover, distort, bobble. Every feeling felt within these phantom apparatuses are transferred into my soul and cherished forever. I used to be quite embarassed to tell people this, and to some extent I am still reluctant. However, I cannot deny my true self. It would be unethical and limiting. Having phantom limbs and such can still be overwhelmingly overstimulating and annoying. Sometimes, I wish I could rip these wings to pieces. Rip myself apart as readily as I come.

Estynia is the guardian angel of leprosy, the protector of the meek, the savior of minnows and those other vulnerable creatures. It's only natural for wings to proliferate, and for souls to surround. When I tell people things related to my angelicism, many of them call me narcissistic, stuck-up, delusional. However, the angelpill path is not the path of navel-gazing. Being an angel actually entails accepting a lower status in life, to walk behind others and keenly watch over them, to sacrifice some of your own enjoyment for the greater good of those who need your protection. I did not choose this path, I was just made aware of my spirit. My wings and halo serve to remind me of my unearthliness. After my death, I will return to the ethereal plane and continue my journey as an ascended angel. You can ascend too, if you open your heart to such an endeavour and rid yourself of hatefulness. Commit yourself to protecting those things which call out to you. Embrace the ephemeral, cherish the concrete.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth.
Rakka spreading her wings
Respite // Tue., April 5th, 2,022 I just took a really violent shower...scratching all my skin off over again. It's a really bitter, painful feeling. It's fresh like daisies but burns like battery acid. Finger-nails are really soft and easy to rip off when they get wet, you know? I scratch all the dead skin away, prying open the new...I rip out bundles of curly dark, almost black, hair. I usually don't get far. It's the fifth day of spring break, I think, and the despair set in a couple days ago anyway...more days spent doing nothing and being nothing. I detached myself from all my "friends". I'm not really sure whether to call them that, I don't think they see me that way. Also, my Twitter account finally got suspended today. It's a double-edged sword...I lose my main source of socialization, but at the same time these sites are designed to mould you into a monster that you'd never wanna be. A spiteful, anxious, and biting person, a soul so violently ripped out that they resemble the bots and fake people that infest that hell hole. I don't want that to become of me, but I still feel lonely. I still feel wrathful and suicidal, like I wanna flay all my skin off. Even when I'm meant to relax I feel a never-ending whirring in my head, a tiredness that's unable to be cured by simply sleep. Trying to stay positive, trying to be so fericiously self-benefittal. But with no one to talk to, and no one to flame, hopefully I am better able to focus on myself and achieve all the things I'd like to do. I'm tired of thinking that they're isn't enough hours in a day, when in reality I'm just wasting them all doing things that don't serve to help me. Sorry.
On Meaningful Rings and Despair // Mon., March 25th, 2, 022

Today, I lost a ring that's really important to me. I think I felt it the moment it slipped off and into the void, and it filled me with complete dread. I keep playing it over and over again in my head, a terrible moment full of shocking dread. I really should've got on the ground and started to look for it th moment I realized that it was gone, but I was shell-shocked and panicked. Yeah, it does sound really pathetic to say all that over a ring, but the ring was bought to celebrate my birth and it felt like it was a part of me. I feel like a chunk of my soul got ripped out of me, like it was a sort of family heirloom. I asked my math teacher about it after school, which is somewhere around where I dropped it, and I couldn;t help but have a voice choked from despair and anxiety. I tried so hard to prevent my voice from coming out like that but it spilled out regardless. All day I've struggled to swallow my tears and distract myself from it...The ring itself slipped off so easily because I had lost a lot of weight from when I had the Kung Flu, but I was always keenly aware of their positions on my fingers to make sure that any of my rings wouldn't fall off. I regret not just leaving it at home...If only I had known. I actually do remember slightly struggling to find it this morning, I guess that was a sign. Now, I so desperately wish I could turn back the time and had left it at home, or something, because it's awful for my self-imposed high to be ruined so abruptly and miserably. Here I am, rapidly acheiving mental clarity and emotional peace, and then all that I have cultivated erodes away quicker than I ever could have thought. I don't know when I'll be able to recover from this without it plaguing my thoughts incessantly, I really doubt my abilities to find it again. I'm sorry...I know that it's my fault for sure. And also, when I was walking, I overheard some people erroneously talking about ring sizes behind me. Whose to say if the world is just tormenting me or they actually perchance, stole my ring? I can't just accuse someone like that, but I felt really tempted to. I lost a piece of my history today. I hate being so clumsy and irresponsible. But still, I want to move on from it swiftly if it's possible. I'm dedicated to being better and I shouldn't let something like this bring me down. It's already gotten better with some time, I'm not crying over it anymore or tearing up at the mere thought of it...See you tommorow.

Of Daisies and Death // Mon., March 25th, 2,022

Something I commonly think about is buying bouquets of flowers, going to the graveyard, and peppering each and every grave with flowers and affection to the best of my ability. Maybe such is a far-away dream though. I don't know if you're even allowed to do such a thing, and most of these souls have already moved on. But they deserve to be remembered, just the same as I do, everywhere along the Earth, not just in those alloted burial sites. Death is the foundation of life. It's in the air you breathe and the ground you walk across. It's far from a sad or tragic thing. I don't really understand the fear of being forgotten when you die, but those that fear such a thing, deserve to be remembered and assured in their demise. But in the process of honoring life, aren't I also destroying another? Doesn't the flower deserve to love as much as I do, without being frivolously used for my petty solemnic purposes? Really some ideas to turn over in my head. Or maybe, I could make my own flowers, with dead leaves and sticks. The government can't stop me, after all. The sentimentality is still there, but maybe it's not as poetic, while also not being as outwardly destructive. I could also maybe plant flowers and other things at gravesites but maybe it's not my place to meddle with them like that. Regardless, I find graveyards to be fascinating places. Concentrated areas of death, misery, but also tranquility. I'd just like to pay my respects to all those deceased, in some meaningful way, someday.

"Rather, it's to say that I more or less understand what happened...how it happened, the wickedness that soaks into your blood and heats up and starts to sizzle. I know the boil that precedes butchery." Tim O'Brien, on the Earthly Plane.
journo 1~6// December 23rd, 2,020 to January 4th, 2021 1:11 pm december 23, 2020
don't mess up again or you will have to take meds or he will leave you...i'm just happy he will take me back.

2:25 pm december 26, 2020
it's been going ok so far. we haven't talked a lot but i am more than grateful for it

3:14 am december 29, 2020
really super sad today...couldn't get out of bed and we barely talked yesterday and we argued a little bit over something dumb. but it has been almost a week now and i think i'll be able to rprove myself to him

8:33 pm december 31, 2020
i'm pretty sure we had an argument yesterday and he unfriended me but i apologized and he said he is not mad anymore. i was being a bitch over game semantics. everything will be okay

7:33 pm january 2, 2021
we haven't talked a lot for the past two days which does make me kinda frustrated, butt i'm glad he is spending time with his frens. he asked me about if i think it counts as a messup, i was really hoping it wouldn't but if he thinks it is it's ok but i can't access this stuff so readily. i hope it all goes okay and damn i really need to do my fucking homework

7:38 pm january 4, 2021

REEEEEE 2 // 22:21 Thu., August 13th, 2,020 i did shower, i did not clean and at this point i feel too tired and diseased to draw gg..my kitty is so happy and i don't wanna leave her when she's been so cuddly but it seems like i must for some stupid ass reason. i won't enjoy it at all, i can say that much. got pretty asiatic baby cube.
REEEEEE 1 // 23:25 Wed., August 12th, 2,020 the days are melting by and i've done nothing that i've wanted to. it's hard to do anything but rot away and tend to my virtual lions. tommorw: SHOWER please, clean rm: do litter, clean up some trash and put it in a bag, u dont have to throw it away yet... draw: bird of paradise loli, argonian maid...pray for a better tommoroew' pls. stop scratching at your face, youre ugly already

my hair feels so gross gun gave me good advice: act like it happened in a different life. IT'S NOT YOU, AND YOU ALREADY KNOW THIS. it's not me.
The Ice Burns Me Too // 11:30 AM February 8th, 2, 020 Every instance in which I kiss or caress you encapsulated inside my own delusions, the ice burns me too.
Assorted Thoughts // 11:38 PM February 7th, 2, 020 [Intermittent thoughts, from the past few days. I’ve only had time to write them down now. I can’t tell you when I wrote these.]

What distincts me from the grotesque nature of the Spinifex, the primitive humans of Australia? Even though debatedly we configure the same species,

Contorting my face into furious labyrinthes, gazing into the mirror. Gazing upon the endless mazes of skin and wood cellulose that appear on the surface.

My anger relinquishes, the dryness in my throat solidifies and forms a desolate parched ring of Arabian dust around the interior. Morphemes choked on, swallowed by a sea of obstinacy. [All wasted tears, trapping my throat and allowing myself to succumb to the inevitably of an awful anaphylaxis.]

Frequently, the succeeding of time uncovers itself to me to be a difficult, absolutely abstract concept to grasp. The minute before last, the day before tomorrow, succumb to the melding of cognizance.

Everytime I touch the skin making up my face, it feels akin to the salt of the sea and the soft crashing of awful ocean tides.

I wish I were a mantis shrimp so I could see a fraction of the colors in the world.
Sister's Attempted Suicide // 3:50 AM February 5th, 2, 020 I woke up around 2:20 AM tonight and when I fell out of my room looking to scrounge around for a pop, and found myself right in the cross-fire of my sister detailing a supposed overdose to my grandma. She took them around 2:00 AM exactly, tried to reckon the amount, asked me to do the math for one-hundred-seventy divided by two, then twenty. This happens to be seven. Seven pills of fluoxetine, her antidepressant, one hundred and forty milligrams among one hundred and twelve pounds of body weight. Initially, I didn’t consider this to be unduly severe, relatively oblivious to the fact that you can overdose dangerously on psychoactive drugs such as that. My grandmother called both the pharmacist and the poison specialist to inquire about such matter, both telling her they should go to the ER immediately. I remember the “Oh, wow…” of the poison specialist, which proves mildly amusing anyhow. The guy pharmacist proved more straightforward.

Overdoses of fluoxetine in severe cases can occasionally result in tachycardia, seizures, heart attacks, maybe whatever else imaginable. They had already tried informing my mother several times before, who promptly dismissing it as a trivial matter. She became supremely pissed when they apprised her that indeed, this was something (name) needed to attend the hospital for, she chastised for being so extraordinarily reckless and compulsive. Though true, ranting doesn’t help and accomplishes naught when someone urgently requires medical care. This infuriates me and has the qualities of something genuinely repulsive, disgusting. I can’t genuinely conceive such contempt during a time of exigencies, to reprimand your own miserable kin when she needs your support the most. Unadulterated neglect and arrogance. Preceding this, I already offered to go with her, if she desired me to for benevolence and to check for symptoms but my mother already declined such. My “father” (well, of course) is begrudgingly driving her to the ER, grumbling and yelling throughout the process. Really an excellent evaluation of your ardor for your own kin, I suppose.

What (name) did, I acknowledge, was compulsive as hell and it’s evidential that she undoubtedly doesn’t want to die. The onslaught of insults my mother flinged at her, not all-encompassing, include: “You just had a friend over today. Depressed people don’t have friends over! [sic]” “They’re not just going to hold you for observation, they’re going to put you in the psych ward again,” and “You have so many resources at your disposal, all you needed to do was just tell me, but instead you pull this shit.” Some of these check out, I will admit, but this doesn’t conceive of anything productive and my mom is grossly mistaken on the subject of depression. I would privately consider (name)’s depression quite mild. There has never been an imaginable point in time when she has clearly yearned to ascend to the heavens, to the dust, wherever beings go when they decarnate. She’s simply misguided, everything to escort her down the proper path stands directly in front of her, not to dismiss her issues. By relative comparison, I am significantly more depressed than her, and my mother’s ordeals remain part of the reason my mental state goes largely unspoken besides for trivialities and noble lies. Depressed or not, I wish her well, notwithstanding the agreeableness of the stupidity in her actions. Update later when possible.

(4:46 AM: I’ll comment on other events earlier in the day, February fourth, but lack the time currently.)
min kjæreste // 12:16 AM February 3rd, 2,020 My outbreaks against (kjæreste) are so retarded and unfounded. I don’t want to hurt him and all I want is to be in between his aaaaaarms with the endless wringing of haaaandddssss. Thoughts and cognizance fall away to reveal the genuine rawness of our emotions, our primal disposition.

Jeg vil å laerer norsk, men jeg er ikke flink til det. Jeg ønsker å vaere ren, og der er alle for deg. Elske mitt for deg er kjempestor, jeg elsker deg, min kjæreste.

I’m disgusted with myself.
Untitled // 12:47 PM February 2nd, 2,020 What is it that I can possibly convey with coherence and sincerity? It’s already evident to you that there’s not exceedingly much.

Well, I was going to write something and I was going to write a lot but it seems I can’t even do that now.
edgy // February 1st, Thurs., February 1st, 2,018 This is a google document I had with a friend because we wanted to talk in English class.

fren: The teacher is rlly crappy imo :/ she’s super strict n she sucks
She gay’
Yea lmao’
me: Olivias not here b/c apparently shes having a “very heavy period” lol ok
Shaun’s face creeps me out
fren: Lmao yeah
me: He’s like a giant red tomato thats gonna rape u idk
fren: He does look like a rapist lol
So do all the band teachers, my science teacher nd like the PE teachers from both schools
Basically almost all the male teachers why do they keep hiring pedos
Don’t they tho lmao
me: Like mr [REDACTED]
fren: Yeh xd
My friend said he looks like a pumpkin, i agree
Wow everyone in this class is rlly frikn annoying
me: True and he DOES
fren: Sam is way too tall lmao he’s like 7 feet
me: Probably my sister is like 5’6” and shes fucking 11
fren: Ew what the fck
fren: Im dead inside :))) my dad yelled at me yesterday and I honestly was planning to kill myself in 2 weeks but we’ll see lol
me: Whatd he yell at u 4 fren: Not picking up my phone, he’s taking away all my electronics and not letting me go to my friends party (she’s moving to iowa)
He’s a fkin dick and he filed for divorce twice and he still expects me to love him or whatever
He literally told me I’m a rat and that court doesn’t care where I wanna be. His argument had so many fkin contradictions :/
I cried for 2 hours lmao he fkin sucks
me: Lmao wtf thats petty if he yells a t u for just not picking up ur phone and i think in court if youre 12 or older u get to decide who u go to or something??? Idfk he sounds awful
fren: He is and he told me they won’t care because my mom threw a bottle at me when I was 9 and apparently that’s abuse even tho he fkin hit her and he always puts me thru emotional abuse/ trauma :))))))
me: Throwing one bottle at someone isnt abuse abuse is like a continual thing hes retarded
fren: Yeah yeah he fkin yells at me all the time and he’s like “owo she’ll go to jail there were witnesses” he even said, word for word “I’m doing this because I love you” and I’m like ??????????????????? r u fucking sure?? Also he said I don’t have a choice and then immediately said he only cares about me and this is for the kids I was like BITCH U SURE ABT THAT. he always fucking does that im so tired of this :// he never asks where we want to be like. Fuck off
Ok sorry for bein edgy lmao ill stop
My Prized Possession - Scarlett the Stray // Wed., October 24th, 2,018

Scarlett the Stray

I still fondly remember the day I got my cat, Scarlett. The sky was clear, the day was bright. I remember naming her after a crayon I was coloring with at the time. She brings me back to simpler, nostalgic times. I don’t know what I would do without her, as she is one of my most prized possessions.

When I get home from school in the afternoon, she is always there waiting to greet me. My cat Scarlett is a lovely Siamese with happy blue eyes. Her fur is ruffled and soft, with a shiny gleam. She loves for me to spoil her and pay attention to her. I have had her for six or seven years now.

I won’t ever forget the day I got Scarlett. Years ago, when I was maybe only six or seven, I was visiting my grandparent’s house with my family. She was a stray cat that lived under their porch. When my dad was finally able to coax her out, I fell in love instantly and begged to keep her. My parents eventually relented and we kept her, and I’m so happy we did.

Even though some can argue that she is just a pet, she is so much more to me than that. To me, she is a loyal and beloved companion that I can always rely on. I love cuddling with her and just her presence is comforting. She is always there to comfort me when I am upset. I value her more than she will ever know.

I do not put value into objects. I put them into real living things I can remember even when they are long gone. I will always cherish my cat Scarlett as she is my most prized possession. She always makes my day better and she has helped me get through struggles in my life. I hope that she will still be here for a long time so I can make even more memories with her.
55 Word Fiction // Mon., June 4th, 2,018

Don’t Look Behind You

The swirl of snowflakes is a sight that enchants them all. They just couldn’t stop staring at the powdered white sky. How unfortunate for them that they failed to see the avalanche coming up behind them, and they were swallowed whole. They could never stop staring at the powdered white sky.

Alcoholic Dreams

The clinking of glasses, the talking of people, the taking of ecstasy all mixed together here. How fun! Cute margarita after cute margarita quickly turned into blackout after blackout. She was hurled out of the bar, took a good look at who she had become. I guess this is what life is really like, huh?

A Dirty Lining

How idyllic this place was, he never wanted to leave. The sun always shined and the flowers always bloomed. The food he ate was always terrific, the water he drank crystal clear. But nothing comes without a price. His amazing life was on account of the starving African children he forced to work for him.
"Free-write" // Wed., February 14th, 2,018 Social conformity looks like doing what everyone else is doing so you don’t stick out like a sore thumb. It can also be being pressured by others to fit into a certain group or do something they want you to do. Everyone conforms at least a little bit, obviously, they do so because they don’t want to look like a fool or to make sure they’re doing something correctly. Like if you don’t follow the directions on how to make macaroni, it’s not going to come out as you expected. The dangers of social conformity is that a person may feel so pressured to fit into a certain criteria that they do dangerous and illogical things that they would otherwise not do, like smoking a cigarette because everyone else is doing so. However, social conformity can also be a good thing. It can motivate you to be a better person and give you a sense of belonging. Conformity in the media would be voting for X even though you want to vote for Y, but everyone else is voting for X. Conformity at school would be studying for a retake test because everyone else got a good grade but you.

Even when people conform to society’s expectations, not everyone will act or look the same. They don’t stick out from everyone else, yet they are all different from each other. This is represented by the roses because the roses don’t all look exactly the same, as a duplication would. Even if they differ from each other, they don’t look out of place.
??? Something about truth and ignorance // Mon., February 12th, 2,018 People say ignorance is bliss but really, it is not. Lying to others is never the way to go. The truth can sting, but no matter how awful or wretched, it is unavoidable. No matter how fast someone can run, the truth will catch up without doubt. When someone lies, it’s like a festering wound that will only get worse over time.

Take for example, a couple who has been joyously married for twenty years but the foundation of their relationship is constructed of lies. When these lies are inevitably unraveled, they have a extensive argument that could have been prevented if they had simply told the truth in the first place. People cannot hide from the truth, they either end up with a scraped knee now or a bashed-in head later.

Truth trumps deceit without question. Lying doesn’t get anyone anywhere and is massively unproductive. A person spends all this time crafting this intricate lie that they likely made up for a nonsensical reason. It doesn’t matter how hard someone tries to deter a lie from being revealed, it will always undress itself eventually, slipping through hands like grains of sand.

Being honest and straightforward will get someone so much further in life than being deceitful and wicked. Honest people aren’t always filled with dread and anxiety over the fear that their lie will be uncovered. Even if lying benefits someone now, it has immensely serious consequences in the future. Telling the truth may be hard to do sometimes, but it is always worth it, truthfully
Dickens Imitation // Wed., January 10th, 2,018 This was an assignment where you had to write about someone in your life imitating Dickens' writing style. I wrote about my step-dad. I don't actually feel too fondly of him.

Oh! What a remarkable figure he was, as he was someone who had always stood out, seeming to blaze like the flame of a candle come nightfall. Not only did he catch the attention of others because of his altitudinous height and heavyset build, but also because of his jubilant spirit. No matter how many years that had passed, he refused to burn out. Never was he once seen without the same revitalizing vigor. He was like a daisy in a vast field of weeds, never wilting. Somehow he could always boost the morale of those around him, as he always had a great abundance of jokes to crack. He was amazingly always able to lighten the mood. He always managed to make others howl with the laughter of a hundred hyenas. Remarkably gregarious, he commonly struck up conversations with just about anyone. His spirit seemed to reflect in his appearance as well. The distinct scent of tobacco seemed to cling to him, being a smoker of many years. For some reason, he was never able to quite relinquish the drug. The hair on top of his head was still as black as charcoal, not a lick of cinereal to be seen. The tattoos etched into his skin were now fading. There were very few things in life that could bring him down. He remained indefinitely positive, no matter what life threw at him. People just seemed to be drawn towards him, like moths drawn towards light. He seeked out people, and people seeked out him.

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Anyone who can love me is the purest kind of angel.