These, part practice for my Halloween costume but more specifically a tribute to how I’ve felt nearly this entire year, that my pain,
unknown yet monstrous, was obvious and plainly on my face every day, minute, second, when I talked and laughed, when I stopped dancing.
Congratulations. I’ve listened to this song a million times this year.
You can only let venom bounce inside of you for so long before it starts to eat at who you are and who you will be.
I don’t know how to do this or where to start.
Diana canceled my hair appointment yesterday because she’s sick too. WTF. I got over whatever I had and now I have something new.
HAHAHA. I shouldn’t have wished so hard for a new plague. Sorry.
I feel like I’m already dead. I wish I could describe the pain that I feel so that I could manage it but there isn’t a way to do that.
I have reviewed all of my earlier posts about my suicidal thoughts and the steps I took in that direction. It isn’t that those thoughts, those urges and ideation are still present, every day, every hour almost. I am not ignoring them but I am trying to live with them until they clear up.
Why aren’t the flies dead yet? Annoying shits.
My blog has been hot and cold, off and on, most of this year. I don’t even know where to begin or where to end but this is going to be a huge rambling mess. I guarantee that and I also apologize to whoever reads this if it is incoherent at times. I just have a lot of screaming in my head all the time now.
I haven’t had the flu like this in over 5 years.
Tea and honey – and many naps. <3
I became fascinated with this theory from Freud years back. Probably because of the attempts of some* men to shame me for my sexual behavior, etc. and the way I was raised (the way we were all raised) and it has stuck with me.
T H E W H O R E
In psychoanalytic literature, a Madonna–whore complex is the inability to maintain sexual arousal within a committed, loving relationship. First identified by Sigmund Freud, under the rubric of psychic impotence, this psychological complex is said to develop in men who see women as either saintly Madonnas or debased prostitutes. Men with this complex desire a sexual partner who has been degraded (the whore) while they cannot desire the respected partner (the Madonna). Freud wrote: "Where such men love they have no desire and where they desire they cannot love."
The more academic outline: Madonna-whore complex | Applied Social Psychology (ASP)
I took more as the Madonna than I did as the Whore but the whore ones were the ones I kept more of either because I was wearing more makeup or because they were darker.
It was trying to force myself to recognize that people see me two ways, maybe at the same time causing confusion or maybe changing their minds when it is convenient to them or when they wish to be cruel without conscience.
I have other collections of pictures like these but with different themes. It was something I did throughout the end of summer into the fall when I felt chaotic and it helped me focus on the present and not the rawness of my emotions and their spiraling.
These were taken after I came home a day early from San Francisco where I had drank too much, wandered the streets alone, drunk as fuck, and stopping to make friends with a homeless woman and her dog at nearly 1 AM.
You gotta get out, go far away.
Pendulum – Witchcraft
Tonight my therapist told me that I should not go to San Francisco, that I should probably check myself into a hospital for suicide watch.
I am going to San Francisco. And I will not be checking myself into a hospital.
The tunnel is gone for now.
“Confession is always weakness. The grave soul keeps its own secrets, and takes its own punishment in silence.” ~Dorothy Dix
*Silverscreen effect added for visibility*
My first pictures inspired by La Llorona, the weeping woman. (Also filed in “Shit my dad used to tell me to scare the shit out of me”.) She inspired the sorrow, the fury, and the regret of a woman in love and scorned as well as parts of my childhood that remind me that half of me came from Mexico.
Also Countess Bathory, who has fascinated me since I was 6 or 7 years old. She inspired the vanity in these pictures.
The veil is not a wedding veil. It is a Catholic mass veil. This is another element of my childhood. Being raised in a strict Protestant religion through some of my earlier childhood and into my early teens, I was forced to believe that the Catholic religion was the religion that would bring the Anti-Christ out, that everything done in the name of the religion was both evil and against the Bible.
Because of this, I have grown to have a strange fascination with the religion and the practices. Though I have long left my childhood religion and believe all structured religion to be a cancer on humanity, there are certain things that I was told that have stuck with me, that I sometimes rebel against. And that is why the veil is in these pictures.
I was sitting in my area (clown room) and swear I heard someone lightly tapping or drumming their fingers on the metal front door. Creeped out.
Three talks with three friends this week expressing my feelings and raising the flag of defeat in some ill attempt to let them know that I am not okay. This is not okay.
this is not a monster; not something to be hidden in the dark for an eternity
or something you put in your mouth to choke on or swallow – this cannot be
Every 5 weeks I get my hair touched up. Again with the freaking waterworks. Holy shit. My stylist was asking me about how things have been and I started crying in the middle of the salon and told her I was sorry, I didn’t mean to cry.
I think some of the worst things I’ve forced myself to do in the last two or three months is to tell people I love them and that it isn’t their fault.
The only part of the eclipse I enjoyed today was when the day seemed to darken around me and the temperature dropped.
The last six months have been shitty.
I thought I would start a blog to track my depression outside of my DFIU journal. I should have started tracking the spiral but I thought I was okay.
We are our mothers. I am my mother.
I thought I understood your pain before. I did not.
I am not just holding the fringes. Mother,
I have your pain wrapped around my neck.
It is mine.
I understand, momma, I get it. Love cannot be
described in words that you make up yourself, like
trying to describe every ocean in the world with
a handful of words that should only be used
to describe one shitty pond.
Possession owns the gateway leading to the trap
of his hands and the heart of a woman, my heart,
is the prison. I know, mom, I have spent years wading
through my flesh and the flesh of others. How many times
have I confused the flesh of man for the flesh
of his heart, I can’t count.
When I was trying to make up my words, I saw
my reflection and saw my mother with the torment
over her head, reminding me of the definition
of a filthy woman being teased with the possibilities
of redemption and being clean again. We were
never born clean, mother. Faulty humans who
lie and steal out of desperation that life might
mean something beyond the fight against
being dragged again and again.
What’s coming up for me, mom? Children that I leave
because I don’t want to expose them to the terrible
person I might become when my heart decides that
it will explode if I can’t run, the quiet slip into
domestication where I become fused with cleaning
products and a mop. I know you don’t know.
You knew what I know, nothing about how
to save yourself. Everyone else goes first,
Mother, we are too kind for escape plans.
Tuesday this week would have been my mom’s 60 birthday.
I feel like I have had to quiet my real feelings for so long. I used to be so open. Due to feeling like I was under constant surveillance, I kept my words watered down for fear of people acting like nuts. Unfortunately apologies mean nothing when you can’t be sure what falsified actions were created surrounding situations and feelings.
Fundamental attribution error: our tendency to explain someone’s behavior based on internal factors, such as personality or disposition, and to underestimate the influence that external factors, such as situational influences, have on another person’s behavior.
Let’s explore that.
Devising a list of ways to discourage more missionaries from coming to my door. I can’t be impolite but probably going to have to in this case.
I knew coming into this community I was probably going to be targeted but the salespeople (of course) assured me that it was a diverse community. It is not lacking diversity, however, I have noticed in our community group that many LDS children are not allowed to play with non-LDS children.
I wouldn’t say that if the situation was a one-off. It hasn’t been. I have a lot of exes. One hits me up on LinkedIn every once in a while to ask me how I am or congratulate me on a promotion or a new certification. The couple of times have been weird though.