NEW BLOG

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Hey, everyone. Sorry about this, but this blog has become a source for spam and hateful messages, and I have no choice but to abandon it. I’m going to leave up the site, so that if there are any posts you all are particularly attached to, you can feel free to read them whenever you’d like.

My new blog can be found at:

thelonelybrooklynelf.wordpress.com

 

Thanks, everyone.

xoxo

Aside

What, exactly, is the point of talk therapy? Is it to allow people a space to air their thoughts, to delve into their own selves, to find, with guidance, their own demons so as to exorcise or learn to live with them? Or is it a place for therapists, psychiatrists, or social workers to exercise their arrogant god complexes, to mould their patients into their own image, to place thoughts into vulnerable minds just to see what would happen? 

As I’ve mentioned repeatedly on this blog, I suffer from a smattering of mental illnesses. I have been in therapy for a fairly short time, a mere ten months. However, in that time, I have had a very wide range of experiences with mental health professionals. Over the course of my treatment, I have been studied by three therapists and two psychiatrists. I Have been asked questions, psychoanalysed, forced to free-talk, and placed on more drugs than should be allowed. 

Some of the therapists I’ve worked with have been phenomenal, bringing massive amounts of enlightenment to me about the things I do and why I do them. They’ve helped me work out coping skills for my very changeable moods and have expressed pride in me as their patient in my open-mindedness and resilience. 

Others have not been so helpful. Some have to decided to write off everything I have to say, prescribing bandaids for my past and disorders. These medications have far more side effects than any doctor would ever explain. These medications made me cloudy, depressed, stifled my creativity, gave me some bouts of extreme narcolepsy, and caused me to gain weight, among other, lesser things. These side effects really did a number on my life. As a writer, having no solid ideas and no motivation to create is itself a depressant. Since coming off the meds, albeit dangerously as I did so on my own, I’ve been myself again, writing voraciously and really feeling things again. Finding myself is somewhat challenging, because it’s been so long since my feelings were really mine that now that they are, it’s incredibly overwhelming. I’ve cried a lot the last few weeks, but perhaps that isn’t a bad thing.

If this was happening to me a year ago, it would have been the end of me, I think. I was weaker then, less certain of myself, substantially. I often looked for an easy outlet, and easy and painless escape from being overwhelmed, from feeling so much. I am extremely empathic and emotional. Not only are my own feelings tidal waves and F5 tornadoes, but I can feel the emotions of others in an only slightly lesser degree. Feelings are powerful things, so powerful that they can cause very violent reactions in one susceptible to them. A younger me would have run away, would have been much more interested in contemplating suicide or vanishing without a trace. Me, now, however, those things hold much less interest. I have come to terms with the fact that I have been placed here: this broken body in this broken country for a reason. And, while I may not yet know what that reason is, I am certain it’s worth fighting for. Death holds no meaning for me, and there’s no appeal in it now, not until I’ve done whatever it is that I’m supposed to have done. 

I have dumped my therapist and am seeking her replacement. My hubris often suggests that I should not bother finding a new therapist, that I can do it on my own without the help of a stranger. But, I know this is only hubris and hubris alone. I will find someone else and I will not be manipulated again.

Observations in McKenna Square

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He sat on a bench, basking in the midsummer sun, the bright light reflecting off of the bare flesh at the crown of his head, making that sea of age spots far more obvious. His wrinkled nose was buried to the bridge in the binding of an old book. He was so engrossed by whatever treasures lay within those pages that he was wholly oblivious to what happened in the world around him.

His briefcase and stack of papers toppled from the bench onto the dirt path beneath it. An elderly, haggardly woman, clothed in a dress of rags carried with her a plastic cup, begging for a handful of spare change; he could not hear her.A young Hispanic woman brought her small children to play in the warm, green grass. They screamed and ran and jumped; he was unfazed. A group of intellectually stimulated doctors sat eating bowls of salads and foil-wrapped bodega sandwiches; he was unaware of their existence. I snapped a picture from where I sat across the park; he did not seem to mind.

Epiphanies on Personal Limitations

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Forgive me for this post and its possible incoherence, but my thoughts are kind of a blur, and I’d like to share them, perhaps get some kind of feedback if any is due. 

A lot of very interesting things have been occurring in my life over the past several weeks. There has been heartbreak, deceit, joy, self-harm, confusion, reconciliation, and separation, to name a few. My moral center and need for personal privacy prevents me from explaining in detail all of the things that have occurred, but the details are rather unimportant to the point of this post. 

As I’ve discussed in detail previously, I suffer from several mental illnesses. Never have I, and never will I use any one of them as a crutch or as exoneration for any crime I may commit, because that goes against one of my most fundamental principles: personal responsibility and honesty. When someone I care about used their mental/emotional imbalance as an excuse for engaging in a physical relationship with me, I was floored and disgusted, to say the least. But it got me thinking. What are mental illnesses? Are mental illnesses really disabilities? Or are they alternative realities, bordering on superpowers? Obviously, a paranoid schizophrenic is sick and their lives are probably incredibly difficult; I am not a paranoid schizophrenic. In my case, while my illnesses are frustrating and make me feel powerless against my own brain chemistry, I am much more aware of what’s happening to me. I can tell how I’m feeling, I know how my moods affect my behaviour. I can separate my true self from the changeable nature of my moods. In that sense, I do have a superpower. 

I’ve also been working a lot on my self-love and self-image. I’ve spent so long feeling worthless and ugly and powerless in making myself better. As sad as it is, it took the really wounding statement I mentioned before to realize that no, I’m better than that. I’m not a mistake, even if everyone in my life would like me to believe that sometimes, no. I am pure, unadulterated power. I have influence, I have gifts, I am the child of Freyja, the possessor of self-awareness and magick. There is no being stronger than me. There is no obstacle I can’t face. There is no aspect of my life that I can’t change (except the temperature, but I could technically change that if I really wanted to by changing my location). I may be stuck with the body I was given, but it’s mine, and there’s very little it can’t do with the right amount of training. That’s what I have to do with things I’m not happy with, work on them. Beyond that, I am infinite. 

The Writer Pours Out Her Soul One Last Time

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And after, she shall be silent. A poem.

This is a conversation I have far too often/yet I never expect it/it comes from nowhere and hits me like a truck/I’m gifted at keeping my composure, pretending I don’t care/I’ve had entirely too much practice/with every new one, I tell myself/this one will be different/but none are.

There was a time I would have been a bad Rose/I would gladly have let Jack go after a talk like that/but somehow I’ve gone soft/with a grip of baby Hercules/I don’t know how to quit you.

I’d like to think that an objective observer/would have not a qualm for this/They must see how beautiful you are/ there’s something about you that is impossible to detach from/but maybe that’s just me/I’m often tempted to call you cruel/though I know you don’t mean to be/what gives you the right?/what gives you the right to subject me to that conversation/to cut out my heart for your consumption/and yet you can’t walk away/how can I be expected to let go if you don’t either?

But, my gods, I can’t take my eyes off of you/you are magnificent/gloriously splendiferously phantasmagoric/ I can’t stand you/but I need you so much closer.

I don’t want to look at you/but I can’t look away/I love the way your hair tumbles over your shoulder when you’re typing, eating, on your phone, cooking/I love the way you look in profile, focused on something important to you/I love the peculiar way you dress/skirts that remind me of mermaids, wolf paw slippers, olive greens, leather jackets, dragon t-shirts/Your eyes are unlike anything I’ve ever seen on a human/I love the way they illuminate when you’re happy/if only I could be the bulb/when you arms surround me/and I feel your intense warmth/it radiates through me like reverse chills/ I am overcome by desire to fuse into that embrace/that it may never end/and no one/not a single person could tear us apart/we have a special kinship/you and I/bound by something larger than I could ever explain.

You are not mine/and neither are you/two beautiful creatures I cannot possess/but a large part of me is yours/no matter what happens in this life/I love you/I love you/I love you.

I am unworthy/this I know/but you’re a fool when you say you are/I don’t think I ever love you more completely than when you tell me not to/now and forever/I love you/I love you/I love you.

A Letter to an Unborn Child

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Hi, baby. Today could have been your first birthday. You could be learning to walk, calling me mama, growing little blonde ringlets. I don’t know where we’d be if you were alive. I think we’d probably be living here, off the grid, our names changed beyond recognition to protect you from your deadbeat dad and abusive grandparents.

As scary as it seems to me now, I think we would have been okay. I have so many wonderful people in my life now that would have helped me raise you and keep you safe. One of them would have loved you, maybe even more than he loves me, and you him. He’s excellent at making funny faces. Sometimes, in my head, I can hear you giggle when he makes those faces and my heart breaks. Another of them would have called you “little shit” and made you the best baby food you’d ever tasted. You would have been happy.

But I’m glad you’re dead. I’m glad you never got to the point where I could find out your sex or have someone try to tell me at an abortion clinic that you have fingernails as a way to dissuade me from removing you. It would have been so much harder, losing you, had I thought of you at the time as a baby, a really baby, as opposed to a parasite planted inside of me through terrible trauma. For what it’s worth, I didn’t do anything outright to get rid of you. There were no pills, no wire hangers, no clinics. You committed suicide. You killed yourself. You didn’t want to be born. Thank you.

When I see cute babies in public, I think of what you would look like. Would you be dark haired and dark eyed like my rapist? Or would you be fair and elfin like me? Would you have malformed legs like me? Six fingers on your left hand, the way I always wanted when I was a kid? Would you have been a boy or girl? Or somewhere in between? Would you cry when I pierced your ears? Would you be a tiny baby? Or would you be one of those really big ones? Would I wear you in a baby sling? Would you perpetually suckle your binkie?

Would you have hated the name I gave you, the way I imagine celebrity babies do (the newest is North West)? Would Lennon Abigayle or Peter Christopher have been to your liking? Would you have worn your names with pride, even if you didn’t realize the gravity of them?

Sometimes, I wonder what you would have been like when you grew up. Would you have been an artist, musician, mathematician, chemist, lawyer, professional nerd? Would you be a good older sibling to the children I’ll undoubtedly have in ten or twenty years? Would you like me?

These questions are all irrelevant, and I know that. You’re dead. Not even just dead but a secret. Only three people on earth know that you ever existed, and they didn’t know until you were long gone. And you’re gone forever. My first-born child will always be my second, though you were only a bloody glob of cells when you were “born.” I don’t know when fetuses are equipped with souls or if you even ever had one, but if you did, I hope it was placed in a baby born to a far better mother than I could ever have been. 

And with the end of this letter, I wish I could say that all memory would die with the signature, but it won’t. My memory is far too photographic. But I guess, if you exist somewhere beyond my mind, I’m sorry and thank you.

 

Goodbye, my love,

Mom