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Call it the crazy, not feminism in the song. "Now you Know" - Icon For Hire

"So tell me, what's a woman to do? No, scratch that
Tell me what's a human being to with the fact that
What gets us ahead just holds us back more!
- Icon For Hire "Now you Know"

Cuz if I'm rational, I know that's exactly what the Crazy does. It gives me an advantage above all the FB'rs, lets me sail higher than the average journaler who talks about their days cooking and shopping. It sure as hell sends me above the Youtubers who "unbox" and the intensity shoots me ahead into the stratosphere. It is my gift.

I can make you feel what make I feel. I can make you feel like YOU feel like. That's my power. I can lure you with my words and keep you caught, keep you watching for years. I know this is my gift, my power, and I could not have it have without The Crazy.

It also holds me back, the weeks when I cannot write at all or write about the mundane. The weeks that I'm stuck in padded rooms, no access to the public and their view. The days when the crazy pours out without the pretty, just insanity and babble. When the gift is lost in the endless pouring of insanity without closure.

What's the balance here? Where's the place where I can have the two meet? The intensity and the beauty without the mess that makes it unreadable from any sane perspective.

"The if the truth ain't pretty,
will you love me, love me, ugly.
" Cuz some of this ain't pretty. It's flat out hideous. Oh, maybe the words paint a picture worth giving a glance, but the colors and forms make it hard to stare at it without a sliding glance.

I make them just as uncomfortable as I do relatable. On purpose sometimes. Make you feel something just as I am feeling something. That's what whole this point of sharing this do, a feedback loop between me and you.

I've got a gift with chains and sometimes I can use it to bitchsmack the words and the people reading it. Other times the only thing it does is wrap me in shiny silver links.

What am I supposed to be about?
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It turns out there's a reason I feel better off the Cellcept (that one kidney drug I keep railing about.) Cellcept is a motherfucking chemomotherapy treatment. It's basically a daily dose of chemo, in pill form. No wonder I get so sick on it.

Also, you know what's more aggravating than hold music? Hold music that breaks in every 15 seconds to let you know you're still on hold. I can hear your hold music. I already know I'm on hold. And that pre-recorded voice always leads to a brief but irritating hope that I've finally gotten ahold of a real person.

Penlessej, that explanation of how the potassium blocker works makes PERFECT sense. So apparently I'd been overworking my kidneys and my body prioritized the focus on my kidneys instead of my heart (leaving it to work harder to cover the slack). I had no idea. It's annoying, but of understandable dire necessity, that our bodies triage themselves. Potassium is one of the most difficult electrolytes for me to not over-consume and it was showing.

Thank you for explaining that.

And Cinema, I've been thinking about your question. About how to define "better." I really haven't figured that one out yet. I know I want a...an acceptance, I guess. A better way of learning how to live with this disease. How to schedule around it, how to be less anxious and frustrated with all the treatments, how to make it simply something that I deal with (like my bipolar) instead of something that DEFINES me.

I know this will take time. Lots of time. Like you said with your own experience, the symptoms are so goddamn prevalent. And right now, it is soooo easy to feel like just a series of symptoms and setbacks. "Better" would be feeling like a person most of the time.

That's as far as I've gotten with the idea. But it was a profound question you asked and made me start thinking about how "the small moments" are brief respites that my mind and body so desperately needs. A kind of "take what you can get and know that as time goes on, you'll get more" sort of attitude.

There are so many other comments to get to. I am making a concerted effort as I can, day by day, to get to them. Ben, you've written so much about your own health issues and I feel you are such a great source of comfort and solace. And yep, Tom, the dude is the most coldest and clueless of anyone I've ever met. I can - and will at some point - go on and on and on.

Fairy, Gonzo, Harvey, Blozor, so many friends. So, so many of you. I am blessed to have so many friends that it can actually take time and effort to catch up on the support I'm being given.

Of all the things in life to be "over-burdened" with, this is the best kind that anyone could ever want.
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Ohhh geeeez. I hadn't realized AT ALL that THAT bullshit was what I was agreeing to. I'm already on DW and automatically cross posting to LJ, but LJ comments don't cross post onto DW.

And I can't lose all of the comments from you guys. I just can't. There are SO MANY TIMES that I'll go back years in my journal, read a comment, and go OMG I JUST GOT THAT!. It's a tool I can never give up.

I'll have to figure out a way to back all this up, since deleting my DW and just recopying the entire thing will take days and leave me to manually search for all my DW contacts. (DW is smart and always opens its doors for free when LJ has a major upset, but there's a long line piling up, I've heard).


That's what I've used in the past. It opens in Adobe Reader as a full PDF, comments and everything. I'm not sure if it's still a viable tool, though I'll find out later when I try to use it.

Livejournal is my home. I'll be here until they turn off the lights for good. But this is such an uncertain set of rules to be posting under that for the first time in 13 years, I'm wondering if I'll have to find a new home.

Like you said, Cinema - leave a back door wide open in case you have to flee screaming.

Besides, there's only ONE Federation that's ever been worthy of such a name. That name? Star Fleet. Go meet some Romulans and maybe, just maybe, I'll be happy to apply the word "federation" to a country.
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There's been an influx of people moving from LJ to DW due to LJ implementing new policies. I saw there was a new Terms of Service and just clicked Yes because I was tired as shit.

Was there something offensive or worrisome I missed in all that fine print??? Did I somehow give away the content of my own writing to some massively creepy Putin-esque corporation or something????
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Makes my joints hurt like hell. (I wanted to say "it pours", because of the power of cliche, but really, it's not raining that hard outside and things have been relatively calm the last few days. No need to say "it pours." Yet, anyways.)

Also at the end of the post, something very important for me to tell all of you.

Some lupus stuff. Responses about McDonalds. Goals. )

I managed to get my regular goal done yesterday. I finished painting my nails. How is it that I can take DAYS to finish painting my nails? I like nail art and that can get complicated. Also, as the lupus ravages my nails and hair, I have to put on, like, FOUR coats of clear topping polish to keep them from breaking at a glance. I usually wind up, between the colors, top coats, and the art themselves, with seven or so coats of polish on.

Today's regular goal: To have the physical and mental wherewithal to hang out with Pat. Today's Bucket List goal: Wash the bedding. Alternatively, dust something. One bookshelf. The tv. SOMETHING. I haven't dusted since August when I got sick. The reaching high and low is a lot to ask of either Jesse or me. Its GOT to be done, though.

I think our house is now comprised of more cat dander and cigarette ash than actual matter or mass.

Something else...something I don't tell you guys near enough. Your emotional support is invaluable, but there's something else you guys give me that is also invaluable.

You make me laugh. You make me smile, you make me giggle, you make me double over with laughter so hard that I am gasping and turning to Jesse and telling him what you guys wrote. Among all of the other things I am given by your support, you also bring delight.

I never much thought of humor being an essential part of life before. Not that I didn't enjoy it, but these days, I am recognizing its part in healing. So you guys make jokes, Jesse will put on stand-up comedy, and suddenly, even if I don't want to, I'm LAUGHING. And for a while, everything feels less overwhelming.

And that's good, because left to my own devices, I'd never do anything but brood and watch dark tv shows. The joy you guys bring into my life through laughter is something I've always needed. I just didn't know it until now.

Thank you guys for that. SO MUCH. SO FUCKING MUCH. I don't say that near enough. THANK ALL OF YOU FOR MAKING ME LAUGH.

12 years

Apr. 19th, 2016 11:46 pm
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This is me, 17 years old to 24 years old )

That is what lines the bulkheads of this ship. It is what comprises the anchor. These are the moors, the masts, the sails. Those pages, scattered and yellowing with age, often seem so much more the relevant foundation of who I am today than any of the 3,000+ entries I've written on Livejournal. Such a short time of my life, comparatively. Only seven years as opposed to the 12 years I have here.

It's easy to see why. Those were the years after I'd torn myself away from my family, the years I tore my own skin with razors and needles. They were also the years I finally began to get help and sought stable people. The effort was an immense undertaking, the results of which would not fully show themselves for years. But I had to take any brief cessation of pain as proof that it would get better someday, if I just kept trying.

Sometimes I think that's the hardest part of looking at those scrawled pages, the haphazard shoved together folders - the day by day, minute, blow by blow account of every goddamn banal, terrifying, beautiful, and impatient word - I was trying. Either I was trying to kill myself in the most sideways, cliched ways I could or else I was trying so desperately to make all of the pain count for something.

It counts. It counts so greatly that they have not yet invented the number that could describe the weight of its importance.

I'm just not always sure what it counts for. This is the struggle today, the words that both haunt and comfort. What was it worth? Does it matter so long as my life is my own? Is it okay to want to know the price paid for what you have?

But that's why I have the last 12 years. That's why I have all of you. The journey took a decidedly different turn the day I put my writing in the public sphere. Those seven years in that picture built me.

The last 12 years, the next 12 years, is what completes me.
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FINALLY, a Youtube Ad I will watch. A "Dear Kitten" advertisment. I love this series. SO CUTE! Then again, I'll watch damn near anything if it's got cats in it.

Jarn, I was thinking about your comment a couple of weeks ago. About how when even our safe spaces feel like they're not safe, a therapist is a good place to go. It would have been nice to have that.

I did have a therapist, but had to cancel her services the second week. This is a Monday to Friday job. 8-5. In other words, I get to work right when therapist offices open and I get off work right when therapists offices close. I can't afford to miss work on a weekly basis, so I had to cancel services altogether.

I thought about a weekend therapist, but as I have no health insurance, I'd be seeking free services - and free services do not offer weekend psych sessions. So I was thinking maybe with the advent of health care, next year sometime, I could go back to therapy.

I miss having a talk therapist. They are beneficial in ways that medication never can be.

There is only one true negative about this job. Thanks to now working full time, a great deal of the inner turmoil has settled. I have a daily purpose. I have a schedule. I have something to assign daily meaning to.

But it also means that psychological services are cut off to me now. I'm not quite sure what to replace it with, except to write more, which as we've seen, doesn't always turn out the way I want it to. But it's what I have. It's what I've always had. At least I know it's here.

At least I know you are here.
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Eyelid's right. I need to let this go. To which I will do, as of after this entry, because this is my journal and I can write what I want because fuckyouthat'swhy.

I get so upset and feel so untrusted, like you guys don't trust me not to relapse or do unhealthy things. But when I think about it from your perspective, like -

Bart, remember that time in 2013, when David had frittered away 7 grand and Pat couldn't help and I didn't know what to do for rent? And remember how I thought the only way to get through was sex work, and I messaged you asking you how to do it safely?

Do you remember that? No? That's alright. It's because that never happened.

And Simon, when Cassie lost her kids, and I was helping her pack her house, and I found out she was sneaking meth in her bedroom, and I lost it and begged her for some dope? Do you remember how it got so bad that she actually had to kick ME out of HER home?

Do you remember that? No. That's alright, too. It's because that never happened.

And do you guys remember how, when Jesse was a dick to me about not going into work, I broke down and cut myself because I was so hurt and angry? Do you remember how ashamed I felt afterwards?

No. You don't remember that, because once again, that never happened.

Not only did those things not happen then, but they haven't happened in decades. Is that not something I can stand on and say "Hey, I have it on good word that those things aren't going to happen, because, like, they haven't happened IN OVER HALF MY LIFE.??

And maybe for other people that doesn't count. Maybe for other people that isn't enough to give someone some faith, some trust.

I thought it was for you guys. Or at least the few who have been arguing with me. I guess it's not. We have YEARS, here, guys - at least, again, the older folks here - fucking YEARS - of me continuing to do the right thing, over and over again, no matter what.

One disabled dude who smokes weed and suddenly that all goes away? Did nothing out of the last eleven years I've been here prove that maybe, just maybe, I might be okay? That maybe, just maybe, I know how to reach and work for GOOD, HEALTHY things? That maybe, just maybe, I won't destroy myself?

Am I really that weak? Do you guys really think that? Do you trust me? Do you trust me to live and love without relapsing, whoring, or any number of things I haven't done in fucking decades anyways?

You're right, Eyelid. This isn't about Jesse anymore. Now it's about me. I don't feel hurt on Jesse's behalf.

I feel hurt on mine. Now THIS?

This has never happened, either. Not here. If I'm getting snarky, maybe there really is a first time for everything. But honestly?

I'm too tired for snark. And hurt, too. Anyways, Jesse's made dinner. Maybe that will be the thing that causes me to relapse. I hate it when he uses too much salt.

(Okay, so obviously not too tired for snark. But too tired for continued snark.) Srsly, guise, like, srsly...I dunno.

I guess this time around I trust me more than you do. And I guess that's okay. It has to be. What else is there to do???????????????
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Y'know, Bart, it hadn't even occurred to me that what I wrote could have been taken as a subtle but real cry for help. Your reaction makes a lot more sense now - and I thank you for that. I didn't realize that that is how it might have sounded.

I am lucky to have friends like you.

I think, to explain this better, is that I have been on the defensive about Jesse and the things Jesse does. I feel defensive because I feel some of you guys have gone on the offensive.

For months and months on end, I've heard nothing but how great you guys think Jesse is for me. That he sounds like such a respectful guy, such a caring guy, etc etc. Nothing but lauding Jesse. I then write two entries - two entries out of a year - about the one time Jesse was a real asshole.

And from that, suddenly he was not a great guy, but someone who was going to lead me down a path of ruin, financially, emotionally, and completely. A path of ruin that I can only assume you guys think is worse than David, as (at least those of you with me at the time), never even bothered to say things like that while David was actually, actively IN THE PROCESS of abusing me.

This leads me to think that one of three things are true.

(1) That that ONE time of Jesse being an asshole really is enough to make people think he is going to ruin me. To this I would which request everyone whose ever been an asshole once please remove themselves from my list, since we all know that people can't have bad days, or react badly to someone else having a bad day, or else you will ruin someone else's life.

(This is sarcasm. Please do not remove yourselves from my list.)

(2) That you guys have thought all along Jesse was this bad for me and have been lying to me every time you said how awesome you thought he was. Lying to me and just WAITING for me to write the inevitable bitchy entry to share it with me.

Or (3) You guys got pissed off as hell when Jesse hurt me and you reacted, knee-jerk, in that anger.

You guys are smart enough to not fall under Number 1. You guys are honest enough not to fall under Number 2. So that leaves Number 3.

We all knew from the beginning that he was disabled and would have difficulty working, if he was able to at all. We all knew from the beginning that he smoked weed. We all knew that sometimes he had trouble walking.

If we all knew this before, and it was nothing but compliments up until the day I bitched about him, then why the change? And why was it not "Wow, what a dick", but "charity case", "hospice care", "prostitution", "relapse", etc? Why did one day of Jesse being a dick warrant more harshness than all of the entries I wrote about David, for years?

It confused me. Then it angered me. Then it hurt my feelings. I didn't understand the sudden and vicious change - at least not until Jarn said something to the effect of that sometimes we just get mad at the people who hurt our loved ones, even if it's over relatively normal relationship squabbles.

I know by putting this out there, I'm just stirring the pot and inviting more comments about how Jesse isn't good for me. The very idea of posting this is making my heart race because I don't like being out of sorts, of out line, with you guys. But with months and months of "Jesse is so great, I'm so glad you found him!" to "He's going to ruin you because he was an insistent ass one, single day!" makes me feel like you guys are out of line with ME.

It was so sudden, eclipsing everything you guys had said before, and eclipsing rational reactions, that I'm still reeling. I know that each and every single one of you has been an asshole to someone, a REAL asshole, a MONUMENTAL asshole, at least one day out of your life. Every. Damn. One. Of. You. Myself included, no less. And I know each and every one of you is not going to ruin me or your loved ones for that.

And I know that each and every one of you is not a liar, that you haven't been telling me how great Jesse is, while anticipating a time in which you could tell me how you really felt.

So I'm hoping that clears some things up. Or at least, how I feel about it.
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Frank, holy shit was that really the guy's name? That invented the Pap smear? That is a NAME! If I were him, I'd shorten that to "Pap", too!

My name is unusual enough that people have come up with nicknames. It's Teressa, but pronounced like Clarissa. Like "Ter-AH-sa". I've been named Tressa, Tress, T, Tess, and Ann (my middle name.) As a child, mispronunciations of my name drove me bonkers. Not so much these days. I joke and tell people "I'll respond to anything but cursewords, and even then that depends on how close we are."

It's something I discussed with Rayhawk and Sistersolace, actually. Names, especially online names, and how they often eclipse our actual names. It makes sense - if you've been calling someone one thing for years, (say by LJ moniker) - it's going to feel a little unnatural to call them by their real name. So in meeting these people who are terrifically close to me, it's funny to note that using real names, personal names, is tricky. I mean, you'd think someone so close could easily be called by their first name. Not so in the world of online relationships.

Although it turned out Rayhawk IS Rayhawk's actual name. I remember being incredulous when I found that out. It's such a cool name that I was like "Really? How is that possible? NEAT!"

I don't clearly remember how "Quirkytizzy" came about. Maybe from an old friend who said something along the lines of "you're quirky and you're always in a tizzy." A fair and accurate statement. And as Rayhawk said, "You're always going to be Tizzy to me." Given the amount of material, work, and intimacy I've shared in this journal, under the name Quirkytizzy, I find it a term of honor and endearment.

Recently Pat joked about LJ being full of angsty 14 year olds. I corrected him, saying that if they are still on LJ today, those 14 year olds are now in their late 20's and generally less angsty. I don't think there are ANY 14 year olds on here today. Livejournal hasn't been relevant in a long time.

But I find that okay, as it means those of us who ARE still here, who DID stick around, are in a very tight-knit community. Even outside of our Flist, the site itself is small and we circle each other. The Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon abounds on LJ. And the nice thing is that no matter who I've talked to, if I disagree with that person's content or not, everyone seems to recognize that about LJ. We've drawn in on ourselves and as a result, the threads that connect us are strong.

Plus, the current managers of LJ are finally doin' it right. That's a relief.

And yeah, Cm, I am pretty much a crazy cat lady. My happy place is four cats. It would probably be five or six or ten, but space is an issue. I find cats to be regal. I know one of the draws of dogs is that they can be very human and connect on a very emotive, human level. I find the general alien-ness of cats comforting. And I like how independent they are. I generally have no need to entertain my cats (save for kittens, but kittens need the extra interaction), as cats entertain themselves. They are not needy. They also don't bark, which I appreciate. Loud and sudden noises upset me.

It's not that I dislike dogs. Dogs can't help but be needy and loud, that's just what they do. Can't blame them for it. It's just that they have characteristics that I'm not a fan of. Besides, apartment living is hell on dogs - even the little ones. There are scores of people in my building who have dogs. Big dogs. Even if you are walking them twice a day, it's not fair to confine a dog like that.

Cats have been, in more desperate years, my sole connection to this planet. Who would take care of them if I were to simply sign off one day? I have a responsibility, an obligation, to stay and be alive, be healthy, if nothing else to care for these animals I've taken under my care.

I do not want to be a mother to human children. That level of sacrifice in caring for something is far beyond my wish to do so. But I do like caring for living things, especially living furry things you can cuddle. Seeing as I don't want a dog and I have a black thumb when it comes to plants, cats are it.

I would have rodents (I looove mice and rats!) but there's no way to have rodents AND cats in a small apartment without stressing out the poor rodents. Not only would the cats be constantly staring at their cage, wondering why I've put their meal in such a complicated lunchbox, rodents need to be handled by their owners. They need interaction, too. Couldn't do that without risking the cats jumping in and biting off their little heads.

And a decapitated pet is just not something I think I could handle. Couldn't blame the cats for it if that happened, either - that's just what cats do. Best to just avoid the whole situation altogether.

God, I ramble about the most pointless things. It's part of the morning process, though, writing. Even if it is inane, banal, babble-y, it's still necessary to do so. This is the one part of "practice" that occasionally makes me laugh. I hold so dearly to the concept of practice, but in reality, my "practice" is and has been just decades of rambling. Writing down every passing thought in that self-obsessed way that journaling requires.

It doesn't always sound special. And while yes, it's work in that I occasionally have to force myself to write, it also feels like the most natural and welcome form of discipline in the world. Like, from the first journal entry I wrote in my first journal at 12 years old, it felt like I was coming home. I was excited to write every day - and did so, religiously. And I have continued to do so, religiously.

Is that practice or is that just finding the right thing? I guess it could be both. I consider myself exceedingly lucky that I found the "right thing" so young.

In a moment of infuriating irony, my stepfather once told me that God told him to get me that first journal at the age of 12. In my head, I went "Did God tell you to burn all of my journals when I was 17, too?" Yeah. I'll always carry a grudge about that. Wouldn't have been so bad but for the fact that they knew, they knew that those journals were the most treasured of all my things.

I have no doubt had I held something above those journals, that's what they would have burned. My books, my clothes, were returned to me in shreds. But the absolutely violent act of fire? Of burning something? It was the years of the loudest abuse that they reduced to ashes. The effigy of me, of what I lived through, of what they put me through. A shame it doesn't ACTUALLY erase those years. Then they would have been doing me a favor.

Oh well. In a most delicious irony, it was their burning of my words that made me hold fast to all the future words I would pen. They did tell me that they burned my journals - told me only a year or two afterwards, no less. My mother's voice held with it a sense of glee, of waiting for validation that their act of destruction had in some way destroyed ME.

But it was I who was gleeful in telling her that what they did only made me write more, only made me more willing to share what I wrote, made me all the more verbose. She actually sputtered. I mean, honest-to-God sputtered. It was glorious.

There but for the grace of God and abusive parents go I. Or at least, I and my continued need to write. I know enough to know that I would never have wandered away from words completely. But in their desperate attempt to make the words go away, it made the words all the more important to reach for.

Never let it be said that all things done out of spite are bad. What they did jolted the enjoyment of writing into a need to write. Out of spite, out of rebellion, out of a dawning understanding that words have POWER - power so strong as to make others respond to it with fire.

In my case, literal fire. They may have burned those journals. They may have destroyed my words into complete oblivion. What they did not destroy was the healing power of words. What they did not destroy was me.
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Tuesday night I had the pleasure of meeting Rayhawk and Sistersolace! I was so excited! And VERY grateful for the dinner you guys paid for! I'm still in the whole "catching up" phase of my paychecks, so a heavy, hot, and plentiful meal is still a wild treat.

Rayhawk's icon (or at least the last I checked his icon) is outdated, y'all. (Granted, so is mine.) His hair is no longer short and dark, but instead this beautiful light blonde, streaked with gray, long and in a ponytail. He has a beard the same color. Way, seriously hot. I mean it, Rayhawk, you TOTALLY have the silver fox thing going on. And your voice sounded EXACTLY how I thought it would!

Sistersolace turned out to be Rayhawk's perfect foil. She was one of the friendliest, outgoing people I've ever met. I mean, Solace, if you can manage to be that gregarious after an 8 hour car drive, I am so STOKED to see you roll when you're all caught up on sleep and food. And her hair was purple AND blue! And she's got such a hellaciously hot figure! I don't mean to describe you guys in such objectifying ways, but...good goddam people, you guys are FINE AS HELL!

Conversation flowed naturally and easily. That has been the case with all four of my Livejournal friends that I've now met in person. There's always that worry, that slight fear that the closeness on paper will not translate to ease in person. But thanks to the very nature of LJ, being so intimate as is, there is no lack of things to talk about. No lack of things to reminisce about, no less, which always makes conversation easier.

I will take a look at the licking-a-toilet thread this evening when I'm at Pat's, Rayhawk! My god that sounds incredibly entertaining! It never fails to amaze just how real-life online living can get, especially in the age of easy-share-pictures.

Jesse apologizes for being so quiet. He was nervous as hell to meet this man that I've talked up for years. But he really has no immediate context to you in the same way I do. And he'd spent a lot of spoons moving some heavy boxes out the living room into the closet. (Ha. The "living" room. The ONLY room!)

I'm still processing the night's conversations, but it was amazing, in some ways healing, and the most fun I've had in awhile.

Elizabeth once asked me if I truly felt close to you guys. As she is 85 years old, she doesn't get living a life online. I paused and then said "Imagine if you had written a letter to someone almost every day for 10 years. And imagine if they had written a letter BACK almost every day for 10 years. Even if you've never met them, would you still feel close to them?"

She paused and then answered "Yes." That is what Livejournal is. It is sending a letter to each of you, almost every day, for 10 years now. (Well, 11 years, but still.) And with all of you posting your own entries, commenting on my entries, those are your letters BACK to me.

I started this journal for a really ridiculous reason. Pat and his brother had blogs on the site Suicide Girls. They didn't write much, but the idea of writing on a public forum, writing exclusively your own life, intrigued me. I'd been journaling for most of my life, but never thought to make it public. Not like I had a clue how to tailor personal writing INTO something public. That part did take some adjusting. Like, for serious, folks, my first entry is "I'm jealous of ColiWalli's and SuperG's blog on Suicide Girls. So what's next?"

But had I any idea at the time what this would develop into....well, I couldn't have fathomed how important this and all of you would become. So immense, so vast, so vital has the support been over the years.

I remember once reading a story about a young woman who decided to travel her entire FB friends page to see if they were really friends. Fuck Facebook, I say. I know without a doubt that all of my Livejournal (and when I say, LJ, I am also including DW) friends ARE friends. I could meet each of you and know immediately I would be among true companions. This is the power of The Share. This is the power of The Journal.

This is the power of us.

Short fuses

Aug. 3rd, 2015 07:13 am
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Ahahaha Matrix! I hadn't thought of that at all - but you're RIGHT! Animals can and do take on characteristics and habits of their owners. Like that one cat in Japan who rode the bus everyday, without fail, just as his owner had (and even after his owner had passed away). That cat has now unfortunately passed away as well, but it shows that animals can observe and mimic human behavior.

And in my case, it means my cats are very, very lazy.

Getting internet back into the home, now that I have this job, is on the horizon. I'd mentioned to Jesse that we might add another phone line to my account, as he currently has just a small burner phone. He instead said he'd prefer if we got internet first. I would also prefer we get internet back first. I have no doubt, not even the smallest shred of doubt, that part of the crazy lately has been the inability to have instant online communications.

See, while LJ/DW is often me talking TO you guys, it is also a CONVERSATION with you guys. Or at least, it should be. I am bereft without that. Without the ability to kick things back and forth quickly, without the ease of ability to share what's going on in my head, there becomes a...gear of some kind...missing. Something like 80% of my support is online. This isn't me bemoaning the lack of FB, this is me being without one of my largest, most well-practiced, most reliable forms of coping skills.

Speaking of which, I haven't been trying to ignore you, Bart or Ben!!! I'm sorry about the FB messages piling up. And your email as well, Noss. My phone has been hit or miss with getting and sending messages of any kind lately. But I am receiving transmissions and I do aim to get back to them - and you.

I miss seeing you guys write about your lives. If I can get internet back then I will have YOU guys back - not just you guys in what you say to me, but you guys in what you say to YOURSELVES.

That part is way, way important.

Jesse and I had an argument yesterday. I don't really remember what started it (as these types of arguments tend to go), but in the end, it came out that he's been feeling like he has to walk on eggshells with me the last couple of months. While I haven't noticed that part, even I had to admit that my fuse has been ridiculously short lately. Irritation, sharp words, curtness - these have all abounded recently and in spades.

Granted, I've had a rough couple of months. A rough couple of months that are rough and chaotic even for me - and as my life is usually rough and chaotic, that says something. Things that maybe roll off other's backs do not roll off mine, and it is foolish of me to act as if they will. The reasons for being so irritable lately are clear and understandable. The consequences of acting so irritable, in how it makes Jesse feel, are less acceptable.

(And don't say anything stupid like "DURRRHHH you can't make Jesse feel anything without his permission." Yes. Yes, I can. It's called "being a normal human being who is affected by those around you.")

It has all made him nervous about opening up to me, which is not an unfair accusation. I get short, snarky, and roll my eyes far too often. These are not things that make a loved one feel safe in conversation. I understand this. I apologized and vowed to work on it. I'm not entirely sure HOW one goes about working on this, except to beat back, bite back sarcastic responses and just focus on active listening.

I could stand to do more listening and less snark in general, so this will be a good way to learn so. A part of this makes ME nervous, because again, when others have said I'm not letting them in (or not letting them let THEMSELVES in), it's always been with some ulterior motive. I understand Jesse is not like that and I understand part of the very problem itself is that I often treat Jesse as if he were one of those people.

But it's taking time to work through that knee jerk reaction. A lot of time. The last person who did all that - it'll be YEARS before I'm over it entirely. I'm trying, I really am, but there needs to be given some leeway for how sensitive the alarm off, for how it tends to go off at the slightest whiff of smoke, regardless if the danger is real or not.

I did, however, make a note to make a note of going through the DSMV soon. All of this comes at a rough time, yes, but also during the time of the year when I am at most danger of slipping into mania. Dysphoric mania, at that. (Which is mania, but instead of being all WHEEEEE you wind up all GRRRRR). Maybe there's a spike in the crazy. Maybe it's been pushed by losing my cat, my job, the endlessly defeating job search - hell, maybe even the GOOD parts like finding another job or being able to hold honest conversations with Jesse.

I'm not entirely sure which is which or what goes where. I can think about it today at work. That's one of the reasons I love manual labor jobs. As they require no neurons, I am free all day to think upon whatever I'd like.

And I like that. I like that A LOT.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
It has been nine days since I had to end Giles's life. It feels much longer and yet, much shorter, as Time does when you're in grief. I look back at the last entry before he died, only two days before. I look back and I choke, thinking "Oh god, if only I'd known."

Managing grief )

And I need to get to responding to individual comments, because you won't know HOW you've helped me until I tell you. This is my goal this week - to respond, to let you know, specifically, because this process - and you guys - deserve that.

As happens on a semi-regular basis, Jesse brought up my writing again. He continues to expound on this magical gift he thinks I have and continues to insist that I need to do something with it.

Here's the thing: Do I think I write well? Yes. Do I want to be published? Sure, in some vague way. Do I want to put in the work and discipline to produce publishable material?............Not really. I don't even care what you call it anymore. Call it laziness. Call it a fear of success. Call it a genuine lack of expendable energy. Whatever you call it, it sits square in the middle of me and the rat-race-that-is-modern-publishing, let alone the effort to continually pound out words about the same subject day after day.

(Cuz that's the thing about memoir writing - you can't just toss out a life story. Good memoir writing is a flashlight shone over AN ASPECT of your life, not the whole damn thing.)

He's jealous and freely, without prompting, admits as much. It seems silly to me for him to be jealous, as his own writing is beautiful. He simply doesn't do much of it. I understand part of his own insistence about my writing is fueled by his difficulties to write himself, but it's still a strange turn of topic when it arises.

I appreciate every wonderful thing he says about my writing. Make no mistake, I'm a writer and we have MONSTROUSLY hungry egos. Hell, in some petty way, I even appreciate his jealousy. I just wish that the world - and he - were okay with the writing I do. I know it's not much. But it DOES reach people. It reaches all of you. It reaches me. My ego may very well daydream of reaching millions of people - but my ego is also allergic to the kind of work it would take to do that.

I know it's a small corner of the world here on LJ and DW. But it's a corner of the world where all of you live. That's where I need to be. There's no saying I couldn't be here and other places, too, but I'm just not up for the rigors of travel. Here is good. Here is beautiful.

Here is here, and it's where I want to be.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
After having skated relatively unscathed through the children's catastrophic illness over Christmas, I am now sick. Patrick's lingering cold resides in my body. So far it is sticking to a "neck up" illness. Let's hope it stays that way. I also have a new cavity that's causing tooth pain. After the Great Tooth Debacle of last year, it's made me twice as nervous.

Disappointing, as with the Depo, I'd planned on merrily fucking my way through yesterday. Instead, Jesse and I sat and spent most of the day talking. It may be much the same today.

We got to talking about my writing again. I figured out part of what makes the conversation - part of what's ALWAYS made the conversation - so frustrating. I've been told for decades now that I have a gift. I'm naturally talented. I'm this, I'm that. It's all very flattering and make no mistake, I LIVE for compliments like that.

But the flip side to those compliments is....that I'm wasting it. Wasting this grand gift that I was both born for and have worked for. I don't have any publishable material. I don't have a novel in the works. I don't have anything but ungodly amounts of pages stacked up in journal entries.

That's less than impressive and far less than what one should do with "a gift." And I HAAAATE being told that, even in implication.

Maybe that's not what's really being said. Maybe I'm just paranoid. But it raises my hackles anyways. Sure, I want to be published, but that requires work. Work that I'm not sure I have in me. I keep trying to impress upon people that journal writing and novel writing are not the same kind of writing. Jesse himself is a writer - he should understand this.

But with over 20 years of people telling me that I should DO something with this, and with me having done NOTHING with this, I feel....it makes me feel like a failure.

And no human being likes feeling like a failure.

I recognize that this is my problem, not anyone else's. I recognize that if I really, really wanted to, I'd write that damn novel. But I think I really don't want to or else I'd have written it by now.

The saddest thing of all this is that as much as the conversations frustrate me, I feel like I need to keep having them. I feel like with every turn of phrase used in these talks, some wall is being chipped away. Something inside of me is becoming more receptive to doing the work.

Which sounds even more ridiculous. I hate these conversations.

But I kinda feel like I need to keep having them. I don't get it. What worries me is the thought that I'm using these conversations as a way for fishing for compliments. But if I were, they wouldn't frustrate me so much, would they?

I don't know. It's 4:36 AM and I just don't know.

Perhaps there will be something more to write later.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Christmas, outside of one child getting over the flu and the other developing the flu, was wonderful. Rayhawk, you're getting a direct thank-you card for your efforts. THANK YOU.

But that's not what I want to talk about. I don't even know what I want to talk about, except that I need to write. Hand to keyboard, nails to plastic, thoughts to words. About how once in a while I forget the quiet that writing brings, and about how once in a while, I have to write at night specifically for that reason.

It's not always the words themselves that are important. It's the effort. It's the ritual. We are creatures of comfort and I am no different. It's writing. It's always writing.

The thoughts are slowing down, as is everything Awful And Latuda Related. Totes awesome. Still lots on my mind. Love and loss. Lust and loneliness. Isolation and infatuation. Time. Time is on my mind.

We've all been here a long time.

Can we all stay here a long time, too? I'd like that. I'd really, really like that.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I hate to ask this, but can anyone kick me a few bucks for the week? I desperately need gas for the car, cigarettes to keep me sane, and cat litter. And maybe some toilet paper. Normally I just steal it from the school, but with the holiday, school is closed. Pat had to help me with rent this month (spent way more of my loan on the kids than I had planned) and can't do anything else for me right now.

I also took out a 2 week advance from Pat's grandma to help pay for Audrey's birthday and to drive them home this weekend. (They live about about an hour way, so it's a two trip round trip.)

I'm really sorry to ask this. I know I should leave this sort of asking for emergencies, which this is NOT. This is not an emergency, it is emphatically NOT an emergency. I'm just....really broke and not sure how to get through the next week or so. I don't have anything I can sell for some quick cash. Last time I tried to sell my clothes, they were returned to me with a gentle "I'm sorry, but your clothes are a little behind the times."

Relic of the late 90's, I am.

So, if anyone has any cash to spare, my email address for Paypal is quirkytizzy@gmail.com

That's all I need for Paypal, right? Just the email address for your guys? And I am cool if no one can do this - I get that, or if it's literally just a few bucks. Right now, in the temporary eye of the storm, I'm just out of options to scrape up enough for the next week.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
After a spat on LJ Secrets last night, and after a spat with David about Gamergate last night, my meds finally kicked in and I was able to sleep. (I know, I know. Whhhhy? Because I am dumb, that's why). I went to bed feeling annoyed and with a headache and I wake up feeling annoyed with a headache.

But still, it's a new day, with all its possibilities. I could have a really awesome nap. I could discover a new song to fall in love with. I could spontaneously develop super powers that would allow me to save everyone in the world.

Okay, that last one is wishful thinking. Still. It'd be nice.

I'm tired of the dreaming. I'm always tired of the dreaming, but lately, of course, it's all had one theme and one theme only. It's feeling like a broken record. It IS a broken record. I'm even fairly certain the psychology of it, like literally in my brain matter, is a broken record. Synapses and neurons firing over a scratched piece of my brain.

You guys are right in that in she is dragging me down, though I don't believe she is doing it intentionally. When a person hits a certain low, the hurricane is inevitable and the gravity well naturally increases. It's just the way sickness works. It's why I restarted therapy.

And it's why I have you guys, to help keep me on the up and up. There needs to be some distancing, though I'm not sure what or how or when I want to do so. Closer than I think, I'm sure.

Yeah, it's not appropriate to have the foster parents come pick up the kids things. I just don't know what else I can do. I'm out of money and don't want to drag anyone else into this thing. And those who have already been involved have become uncomfortable anyways. But maybe I can think of something to get at least the kids stuff out. Somehow.

In the end, though, like you said Franklanguage, this is in part (or else completely) the result of her believing that someone else will always cover her ass. When people are doing everything in their power (or at least most things in their power) to help themselves, I'm willing to go to the ends of the earth to help them.

And I realize that I'm going to the ends of the earth to help her, even though she has actively done nothing - and in fact has repeatedly done harmful things - to herself. Over and over again.

And Cinema, you are right about waiting for her dealers to show up that day. It didn't occur to me what we were waiting for. But when I did (it was like "hey, I know what this kind of waiting is") I promptly excused myself to go do some shopping.

About the suicide attempts as manipulation - you guys are right. About the suicide attempts at manipulation to her kids - you guys are also probably right. Mom and Jim did that to us. A lot. As far as I know, Cassie has yet to directly tell the kids it's their fault, but then, this doesn't need to be explicitly stated for them to feel like it's their fault.

I'd say it's a blessing that THAT part of the piece is missing, that THAT pattern that Mom and Jim did to us is not there. They would actively and in direct words threaten suicide and then blame us for it.

But then, the bar needs to be higher, doesn't it? And they've been witness to Cassie screaming suicide, in direct words and plain view, enough times to make it manipulation towards them. Cassie probably doesn't even notice her kids in those times.

But they see it. They've always seen it.

I'm tired today. I will rest more, do some chores, watch some Supernatural. The sibling angst is something I relate to. Also, Dean. I know a lot of girls are Sam fans.

Give me Dean anyday. Plus, that whole deal with the devil thing is also a concept I am familiar with. Sure, these devils might be metaphorical, but they are there nonetheless.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Rule Number 1: Do not drink any coffee, any at all, after 2 PM. And certainly do not drink 2 cups of coffee at 8 PM, no matter how enjoyable the dinner or company is when Amanda takes you out for pumpkin pancakes.

Yeeeah, no amount of Trazadone in the world could have helped with that. So I need to actually go to bed soon. Or rather, sleep, as I had faithfully spent the last 6 hours in bed, eyes closed, but no sleep.

Rule Number 2: If you are using DW's crossposting options and you decide to change your passwords, you not only need to MATCH the passwords between the two sites, but also need to put the CORRECT password into DW's crossposting....whatever it is when they set it up. Parameters? Directions? Little robot helpers?

Rule Number 3: Shall you forget that somewhere along the line the art of password making has breached the lines of insanity, no site shall let you forget this. Livejournal requires six characters, a capital letter, AND a number. Gmail requires EIGHT characters, a capital letter, and a number.

How I yearn for the glorious, future day of biometric recognition technology....

Yeah, Gmail was hacked and a ton of passwords put on Bitcoin. Or something like that. They tried.


Also, Bitcoin is still a thing? Didn't that go under?

But my real reason for changing all my passwords was that when I thought about it, I couldn't remember if I'd ever put in my logins on the computer I gave Cassie. I'd cleared the caches and the stored passwords, but who knows? Maybe I missed something.

Sure, it's about a month too late if she has been dicking around in my online life, but this would prevent any real damage, as no damage has currently been done.

Also, who the FUCK uses a different password for every site they use? Do they assume this is 1998 and no one is using more than their AOL mail and Geocities? I regularly use no less than 10 sites. If I had to think of a different one for every site, I'd forever lock myself out of the internet entirely.

Anyways. Cassie herself is not net-savvy. At all. She has difficulty navigating her own email and Facebook. But that doesn't mean her friends wouldn't be more savvy than she is.

I really don't anticipate anything nasty would happen IF for some reason my accounts were accessed. But....with her track record of playing nice and then flying off the handle...better safe than sorry.

You guys are being so awesome lately. I know I've mostly just been writing and not doing any responding at all. Thanks for putting up with all this.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I feel calmer.

And sadder.

The hope that I would have felt in years passed, that something like this might lead to any real healing...is small. So much smaller than it would have rung out years ago.

What hope there is wraps itself around reality and cringes. It looks at the decade of words behind itself, smiles sadly, and settles itself on the edge of the bed.

It knows. I know.

There is nothing to fear here. What she will read is not much more than what she would have found if she'd stumbled onto the live link. What she could say to hurt me....will hurt.

And will just be more words to carry through the next decade. That's all it will be. Something else that will hurt.

It's not as if I don't know how to handle what hurts.

And at least this time, my words are not something that can be taken away. They cannot be burned. They cannot be erased. They can be twisted, they can be used as weapons.

But I won't lose them. They are here. They are with all of you.

So I'm sad. I'm grieving. Nervous. And yes, afraid. But I am also here. I've carried the words like a lifeline, like chains, for all of myself, and have done so since the very first journal I penned a beginning date in.

Nothing can take that away. Not pain. Not hope. Not anything.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Soooo you know how last month I was talking about giving Cassie my entire Livejournal? And how we all decided that was a bad idea?

Yeah. Well. It kinda turns out that happened.

I gave Cassie my old laptop a couple of days ago. I thought I'd cleared the hard drive. Thought I'd gotten it all onto my external hard drive.

Turns out I didn't so much "clear" the damn computer as I did just copy all of the files. The original files are still there.....

My poetry, much of which concerns her.

Sidewritings, a brief journal of which definitely concerns her.

And my fucking Livejournal Back Up file, of which....

oh god, I wasn't freaking out so bad until writing this and now I think I'm going to throw up. Great. GREAT. THANK YOU BODY.

It's only up to July 30, 2012. But it's enough.

She was like "I thought you left it there for me to read." And I was like "OH GOD NO, NO, THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT."


Jesus. This is why I have ALWAYS had someone else handle clearing my computers, because I apparently don't know what the FUCK I am doing.

Single Teressa is STUPID TERESSA.

I can't....the damage is done, whatever will be will be. She's gonna read every word. I have no control over that anymore.

How did I even find out she had it? Pat and I were taking her and the kids out shopping for school supplies and she sort of rambled it out. I blinked and was like "Uh, what?"

She started talking about an entry where I was saying Goodbye, that she was going to die. I know exactly which entry that is, I know exactly which entry she's talking about.

I was feeling pretty calm about it until about an hour ago. Now I'm not feeling so calm about it AT FUCKING ALL.


God, why am I so STUPID?! Check the fucking computer, Teressa. CHECK IT.

I don't want her to have access to these things. All it does is hurt me in the end, and her being able to read those things is just going make the empty place where I wish she was that much harder to handle.

I don't want her to be that close.


quirkytizzy: (Default)

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