Toxic relationships

Some relationships are toxic.

My most toxic relationship is the one I have with my mother.

I do my best to avoid toxic relationships, however it is very difficult to avoid the person I live in the same house with.

None of us is working right now and this means we spend a lot of time together. It's not quality time.

Many years ago, my mother decided to have a child in order to have someone to love and support her.

I am the 'lucky' child in person. 

She is not the first parent to make that mistake. A lot of parents think that a child will be a way to complete their happiness, expecting to receive a lot more than they are willing to give. A safe investment kind of thing. Make a child and it will make you happy.

Really?

Make a child and you will feel proud and completed.

If you want to feel proud and completed, nothing like taking a good shit to give you that warm and fuzzy feeling. Instead of making a child, add some fibre to your diet and drink lots of water. Satisfaction guaranteed.

I will never be good enough for my mother.

I am not good enough because my value as a human being is in direct relation to my weight. If I am thin and beautiful, I am good. I please her. Therefore she has to police my eating to make sure I'll keep pleasing her. Never mind the fact she is fifteen to twenty kilos overweight. That's another thing.

I am not good enough because I have friends she does not approve of. Right now, with me nearing my forties, she still expects me to spend time with her and not have friends. Or have friends, but you know, they should not be as important as she is in my life. And as she pointed out, what kind of person is happier to meet with her friends instead of spending time with her mother?

I am not good enough because I am stupid, I don't take notice of what's happening around me, a nonsensical immature little idiot who prefers cutting bits of paper and playing with stickers than doing something mature and more 'my age'. For example, watch TV by her side. Now that would be a mature and responsible thing to do, unlike writing letters and crafting.

I am not good enough because I am an introvert and I don't like mindless socialising. 

I am not good enough because I am 37 and still have not married and haven't had any children of my own. 

I am not good enough because it is perfectly okay to spend most of our monthly income feeding stray animals, but if I want to fix my glasses, go out for coffee or go to the doctor that's not really necessary or important. 

I am not good enough because my value as a human being is in direct relationship to how much I please her. Ideally we should be like conjoined twins and I should spend every hour of my day and every day of my life revolving around her, a blissful little planet orbiting around her pleasant personality.

You know what, mom?

Fuck you.

Fuck you and your ideas and your experiences and your understanding of reality.

Fuck you and your emotional blackmailing and your manipulation and your guilt trips.

Fuck your love under conditions.

Fuck your kindness under obligation.

Fuck you. I am going to find a way to do what I want.

I may not be good enough for you, but that's okay.

I am good enough for me.

I am good enough for my friends.

I am good enough for everyone except you, it seems.

And you know what?

I am perfectly happy with it. 

I don't need to be good enough for you.

I don't need you.

I just need me.

Love

What do you do to deal with the inadequacy of every day life?

What can you do to deal with the fact you are isolated inside a body and will be so for the rest of your life?

I thought I saved myself from danger and my own temperament that loves tragedy and impossible loves but in reality I opened the door and stepped out of life. I left everything behind, and as the piano pours out one melody after the next, I watch life from behind the window like a beggar outside a busy restaurant. I watch everyone else eat and have a good time. I cannot enter because I don't fit. I never did. Or so I used to think.

The line that 'killed' me came from an excellent TV series called True Detective. It was about how each of us considers ourselves to be something more than a collection of biological urges. Each of us considers ourselves to be more real than the rest, each of us thinks that our perception and life is more real than other people's. And we are all the same, a pitiful bundle of flesh and urges wanting to go on and condemned to die. We crave reproduction and power even when we claim that our causes are noble, even when we dress our desires with a higher meaning.

I crave the sky. I crave death. I crave freedom. I crave life. I crave godhood like the protagonist of 'Perfume'.

I am a bloody idiot.

I am no different than anyone else, just better at deceiving myself. Smarter than most, enough to muddle my thinking with my own mind games. I have exiled love from my life and feel comfortably numb, empty and safe, unfulfilled and manic. Yet I go on. I despise my own biology for condemning me to these urges because I have glimpsed something else, bigger, better, different. And at the same time I realise just how silly I am to despise something that is perfectly innocent, my body. And also because what I have glimpsed may be nothing else but Love. Love as in everlasting Love, that we try to bring down to our human size and try to live it as best as we could, reducing it and twisting it to something we can understand.

When the protagonist of True Detective briefly crossed over what he found was Love.

I am almost there. Almost at the point of understanding.

Almost at breaking point, where everything will make sense once more.

All I need is to take one more step, even if I have to crawl.

Open the door again, even if my hands are shaking and I am absolutely terrified.

Welcome back to the game.

Welcome back now that you know how everything is connected.

Breathe. You are safe.

Just breathe. The rest will follow.

Turning point

When I had gone to bed at 03.00 am the heat was stifling. Then I woke up at four, because a window was banging from the air. I sat up, groggy and disoriented, and tried to understand where the sound was coming from. I deducted that it was from the rooftop and decided to get up and close it. I was in my knickers, and in spite of my sleepiness thought it would be a good idea to put on something, like a t-shirt. I doubted anyone would see this bare-breasted woman on top of a building at four in the morning, but you know what they say... Better safe than sorry. Barefoot and sleepy I went up the single flight of marble stairs that leads to the rooftop, opened the metallic door with the misspelled sticker advertisement and stepped out.

The cement under my bare heels was still pleasantly warm from the scorching heat of the day. The wind was blowing on my face, rather warm but very strong, and my hair was flying everywhere at once. I walked to the window of the elevator shaft and closed it, then looked around. It was late and except for the wind, everything was quiet. Almost all windows were dark. The cypress trees in the garden were bending with the currents of air, the branches of the large pine trees shaking and moving in disquiet. I looked at the distant stars, glittering their eternal, monotonous song, and felt utterly alone. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling. It was like I was the only living soul on another world that night; maybe on the surface of the moon, or in an alien vista, on my own, scantily dressed, not a worry in the world. I was feeling alone, yes, but in a safe and exhilarating way. Those are the moments I am at perfect peace and I don't need someone to share them in order to validate them. My feet registered the uneven cement and the pieces of glass and small stones under them, the gale was ruffling my t-shirt and hair and caressing my entire body, and it felt like it carried something with it, like something had arrived together with the change in weather, riding the very currents of air that kissed me.

I stood there for a while, absorbing everything I could. My only regret was that my wings are not capable of carrying me into the night. Only in my fantasy and dreams. I would have given anything to be able to ride with the spirits that night, putting all thoughts of sleep and normality behind me. But I couldn't, and eventually I closed the door behind me and marched back into my room, where I landed in bed and slept again.

Maybe in my dreams I did ride with you.

The Weaver and the Destroyer

So what is this about?

One moment that can change everything.

Mistakes that could not be avoided.

Memories, some of them not made yet.

If I was to put on the one side of a scale the good humanity has done and on the other side the harm and heartbreak, what would the scale show?

Would it balance?

Or the one side would be so much heavier it would crash down and open a hole in the fabric of the universe?

And why can’t I stop wanting since I know what lies at the end of it?

“The Weaver is always at war with the Destroyer. Some say the Weaver is mad because sooner or later the Destroyer will pull everything apart, so it is useless to even try. But the Weaver can’t help but create, this is the only song She can sing. The Destroyer sings the other song. Together they make the universe. And the universe is beautiful even though one day it will be pulled apart. We need to see the beauty because there is death at the end. Do you understand?”

Everything matters. Just not enough to give me peace. I am the only one who can grant peace to myself. No-one and nothing else.

Empaths suck a donkey's ass.

There are days that I seriously wonder why the hell I keep trying.

It’s one of those days.

For the good things that will come in the future?

Yeah, right. Judging by how many good things have come my way already, I should have thrown in my towel years ago.

Come on then. Bring on the good stuff. I am already out of here mentally. I might be out of here literally unless something good happens. I am not referring to dreams or swaps or reading books or meeting with friends. I am talking about something tangible, practical, happening in real life. I am one step before I collapse and decide I don’t want to get out of bed anymore, because there is no point whatsoever.

Do something. There has to be something more to life than eating, bathing and dragging myself from one meaningless chore to another.

I am sick of this so-called life.

I am sick of everyone and everything.

There must be something I am doing wrong.

Some clue I have missed.

This can’t be real.

I feel dead,

cheated,

used up,

gone.

And even as I write this I know nothing is going to change. It's personal, isn't it?

Yes it is.

Hm.

Here is some Ian Somerhalder because it's a better option than taking pills and slitting my wrists or something equally melodramatic and stupid.

 

In and out

Tired again.

Slept late both on Sunday and Saturday and now I am sleepy and just a little bit cranky. :( I am cranky because I want to do things and as per usual there are one thousand obstacles, as if I am trying to kill someone. I don’t think that there are obstacles because what I am trying to do is wrong, but rather, because what I am trying to do is right. :( 

I am more than 84 kilos, which is not good. I ought to eat something sweet to drown my sorrows. ;D Ha ha!

Somehow everything is useless, and somehow everything matters. I do so many things, try so hard, and see no change whatsoever, no improvement in my life, nothing better, nothing different, as if I don’t try at all. 

The temptation not to try at all becomes very strong sometimes. Why try? It’s not like something is going to change anyway, so why even bother? But if I do nothing, I’ll most definitely go mad. 

Last year around this time I was trying to help a kitten live, and he didn’t make it. Don’t pat me on the back and tell me that I tried, I know I did. And just as he had started purring while we were feeding him, he died. 

Now don’t you dare fucking tell me that I tried and that’s what matters. I am going to rip your fucking throat out because what really matters is that no matter how much I try, it’s to no avail. And that matters a lot more than any effort I make. Result carries a lot more weight than merely trying and trying, and the result was, once more, death. For all my efforts, once more, death. And I tried so much with him.

Sometimes I am certain that the reason I came to this world was to have my heart broken into a million pieces again, and again, and again. I am not sure if I can find the pieces anymore, let alone put them together. I am just here so that someone can be amused, and use me as a chew toy. Beth thinks she is Loki’s chew toy and this enrages me, but it turns out I am no better. Just a chew toy. And no matter how much I try, and try, and try, nothing will ever change, and I’ll never find the one responsible and kick their ass until it gets wrapped around their heads. Unless I go, and then what’s the point? If I am already dead, there is obviously no point.

“I still catch myself being sad over things that don’t matter anymore.”

If that makes me human, what the fuck is it that makes me happy and whole?

At least the ‘Umbersun’ is playing, and it soothes my heart with its darkness. Thank fuck for Elend. I would have written, “thank god”, but tonight god can go fuck himself as far as I am concerned.   

There is one thing that can calm my heart, going to the rooftop again. Looking at the stars somehow makes it all better, and then once more nothing makes sense. In the rest of my life absolutely nothing makes sense. It never did, yet in the past I wasn’t as tired and sick of everything as I am now. I know right from wrong, I know the value of each thing and at the same time nothing of what I know by heart and by instinct applies to the world I live in. It just makes no sense. My inner compass is so strong, so certain of what I must do and why I must do it. So I follow my inner guidance and what happens is that I am merely saved in the nick of time, or put on waiting forever, or I am thrashed around perpetually for good measure. Nothing comes to fruition, nothing grows, nothing happens, I just exist to be used as someone’s amusement.

Is this fucking war? And if it is, where are my reinforcements?

If any of you knew how tired I am. All those people who chat with me and laugh at my jokes and thank me for my swaps. I am so, fucking, tired, that I hold it together by the skin of my teeth and not even that, I am slipping, slipping, slipping, and losing it, I am losing it all, meaning, purpose, sanity. Hope was the first to go. I try to function on an everyday basis for the sake of my own safety and sanity, I try to function and try to be polite, and try to be nice, but there is no end to my despair, no end to my anger. I am hollow and blackened and dead inside, disillusioned, dead, so fucking dead, I feel 90 years old and used and wasted and stupid, the only person who didn’t get the joke in a room of laughing people. There is nothing funny here, nothing funny at all, just stupidity and shallow, scared people, putting on a show for the sake of society, putting on a show for the sake of faces, and they are the real monsters, they are the real hollow ones, and I want to kill each and every one of them, I want to strangle them with their expensive handbags and crush their bones using their expensive cars, I want to flay them and tear their eyes out, I want to do terrible things to them and I keep it together, keep it down, keep it secret and cool and keep smiling and nodding and walking and eating and going to work every day as if it changes something, and it changes nothing. It changes nothing. And they won't let me be. He comes to me, blind, blind as the rest, lazy, chasing his own tail, pretending to be alternative, in reality just another pitiful junkie of his own self- loathing, and asks me for my opinion, and I want to be so mean, I want to spit on him and kick him away, and it’s not my place to be mean or to be his therapist and so I shut my mouth. And she comes to me demanding that I take my dog away, because her grandchildren are coming and they are afraid of a 15- year-old fat dog with arthritis that can barely move. And she demands that I take the dog away NOW, and I want to grab her by the hair and knock her head on the opposite wall, because she has turned her grandchildren into crippled, useless individuals. She lives in a country that you can’t go anywhere without coming across stray dogs, and unless they get familiarised with dogs they won't be able to go outside their home without being scared; still she claims I am the weird one and don’t understand. So I once more shut my mouth. But one day I won’t be able to shut my mouth anymore, and unless something happens to convince me that there is indeed some kind of universal, higher justice than the one I hold in my hands, someone will die or end up in hospital. And I try not to let that happen if I can. But if it continues going likewise, then I won’t be able to keep it together for much longer. So if there are indeed reinforcements on the way, now it would be a good time for them to show up. Or even better yesterday. Know what I mean?

The boss of this level

The boss is the villain you need to defeat to get to the next level in video games.

I don't really know if there's indeed a boss, levels, or I just have a very vivid imagination. The same kind of imagination that throws (seemingly) teenage boys on all fours and sexy vampire villains on top of them, and then havoc ensues. However, seeing parallels to video games and movies and books helps me make sense of reality.

Isn't that an awfully ambitious aspiration? Making sense of something presupposes that there is some kind of sense to be made. I have lots of doubts whether this reality can indeed make sense.

I have long, complex dreams. Oh, dreams I'm good at, I know how to unravel and interpret. Life, on the other hand, isn't that simple. It has no rules I am aware of.

I have two favourite hours in the day. One is very late at night, after three a.m., where everyone is asleep and I find myself looking at the sky, wishing I could make sense of my life, and the little pinpricks of light over the horizon seem to salute me or mock me, don't know which.

The other is when twilight falls and the entire palette of colours changes frequency and vibrates in altogether different notes. That is a time of endings, and for the past to be put to rest, and death.

I don't think there is one hour of the day I am not thinking about death. I am thinking about it more than I think about sex, which under normal circumstances should be alarming. It's not. Death is always there. Sometimes we hold hands and walk together. Time, on the other hand, isn't there to hold my hand, but to crush me under his heel.

So far I've been very, very resilient. Bits and pieces of me have broken and fallen off. The rest still stands.

Have I made my peace with the world?

Have I made my peace?

No.

I can't.

Fuck me

Art by Xiao Bai

Fuck me. Fuck me standing, sitting, lying, in any position possible, fuck me like you mean it, like we won't live to see another day. Fuck me hard, fuck me gently, fuck my brain for weeks before you seduce me out of my clothes. Fuck me by the way you touch your glass, fuck me by the way you play with your cufflinks while talking about your life. Fuck me with my clothes on because you smile that evil smile of yours and I melt to see it addressed to me only. Fuck me by getting up and moving into my space, asking me to dance with you, while your clean body’s scent makes my knees turn into jelly. Fuck me anywhere you want. Fuck me till I beg, fuck me till neither of us can move, fuck me until even fetching a glass of water means one of us crawling on all fours because walking is impossible. Fuck me until reality breaks down into pixels and colours explode inside our heads and when we try to talk we speak in tongues and all we can do is cry in each other's arms. Bite me, suck me, lick me, kiss me, eat me, tell me how good I taste, look at me with irrational wanting, like I’m the only person left on earth. Let me worship every square inch of your body with my mouth and my fingers. Let me hear you yell until the neighbours jump out of their beds in fright. Let me feel your fingers in my hair, hear your sharp gasp as you orgasm. Let me hear your breath catch in your throat as I lower your zipper with my eyes full of murder, feel your pulse race under my fingertips. Fuck me raw. Fuck me on all fours while strangling me and biting my back, fuck me slowly as I lower myself on you again and again, taking you in, keeping you my willing prisoner. Fuck me in bed, in the kitchen, in a public library, in the bar's toilet, in a back alley. Fuck me because you can second-guess me accurately enough to be frightening. Fuck me and let me drink from your sweet blood and seed and saliva like I am having communion from the living body of my personal Christ and saviour.

Be mine, be mine, be mine. 
STID:K

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Chemicals

 

Art taken from here

I am sad tonight.

It is silly to be sad about what doesn't matter.

It's silly to be sad about movies, books, music.

Those three things make me sad more than anything else.

Sadness is nothing but chemicals. The brains experiences a stimulus, gives the order to the appropriate glands, they saturate your blood in chemicals. Our very own tailor-made, fit to perfection drugs.

There you go, dear. Have a cuppa. All yours, choke on it.

Drink it down to the last drop.

I have no protection against art.

People I have protection against.

Art, I don't.

Solstice.

Biggest night of the year. Darkness knows no end tonight.

I am not afraid of darkness. It is a caress, a luxury, a friend.

There's a kitten in a box near my feet.

I don't know if he'll survive the night.

Let's hope it does.

[Sherlock]

Birthdays and namedays and keepsakes

So many people have lost me and they haven't realised I am not there anymore.

They 've lost me because they are petty and jealous and ungrateful. They are worse than ungrateful actually; they try to harm me while I have only done them good. But that's humans for you.

Most of the time that I press on I have no idea why.

I've settled in a life of quiet desperation and all I do is count my blessings.

I still love. I still care. Or I pretend I do. When I caress my cats, half of the time I do it because I know they need it and I don't want to let them down.

But I am so tired.

Tired to my bones. Tired to my very soul.

Tiredness is combined with bouts of mania and desire, where I do one million things to avoid thinking. Or I download pictures from the internet and look at the things, places, people I cannot have and get more depressed.

There are days I can see the world in all its ugliness, destruction and decomposition.

I see me for the disgusting sack of meat that I am, for the death waiting to happen, for the old age setting in, for wasted chances and potential and absolute lack of anything noteworthy. I think that if I was to die tomorrow, on my tombstone would be written, "she tried".  

Of course, we live in a society that success is not measured by effort, but achievement.

And there are days I look inside and it's so beautiful. Everything makes much more sense in there. Just next to the tower of abyss where my dark side is having one of her usual parties, there is so much beauty. I feel like a person deprived of speech that hosts paradise, and so I write, and write, and write, and pretty much nothing changes.

I just write. And then I read what I've written. And it's good, or I think it's good. And I pat myself on the back for it. Well done.

And I go back to my life of quiet desperation.

I wish I wasn't as strong and I had given up already.

I wish I was already dead.

And then my friend's words come to my mind, and she said to me, in one of her letters, we've crawled through every road in hell, and we never gave up.

And she said to me that all she has stayed back for are her rabbits, because she doesn't trust a single soul to take care of them. Don't laugh, that's as valid a reason as any.

I just wish I had given up already.

That's all.

But there are so many out there with less than I have.

And so I count my blessings and press on.

Yahoo, relationships, and the hermit's point of view.

It's  been five days that I have no access to my primary email account, the one I have registered for almost all social sites I use. Facebook, this blog, bookmooch, thealterium, twitter, tumblr, vistaprint and youtube are connected to it (to name the majority). If I permanently lose access to that account I have a lot of work ahead of me. It's not going to be fun. Let's hope the technicians will be able to fix whatever is wrong with it because I am not the only one who has a problem from what they say.

Sometimes I wonder why we do what we hate being done to us, like judging.

And sometimes I don't think. Judging is so tightly woven into human nature that it's impossible to avoid.

I've been in a void of partly my own choice. Away from erotic relationships. I don't want to change that.

It resembles unlearning to eat candy. If you unlearn it, you no longer feel the craving for it from a point onward.

It's not like I feel no craving.I just don't want to bother with all that ensue a relationship and intimacy with another person. It's not worth it. I am tired of the trial and error process relationships are. I want to keep my quiet, for the rest of my life if possible.  Not bother what this and that and the other means.

I look around me. I am not blind. Erotic relationships have an expiration date. Those that stay with the other person even after the interest has died out are pretty much buried alive. They stay because they have a child, or joined bank accounts, or they are afraid, or whatever really. Is any of that a valid reason to stay with a person for the rest of your life? Or is it better to stay with one person and cheat on them because you still want to have interesting sex?

We never really get to know anyone. People are like moons, with a hidden side.

We always think we know others and ourselves.

In reality we know shit.

We make relationships with strangers that remain strangers throughout and even after the end of the relationship.

And how surprised we are when we find out we knew nothing about them and never found out anything, even after years.

All this makes me sick.

There must be a way I can play by different rules, or failing that, not play at all.

I am seeing strange dreams.

I always see strange dreams.

I don't want to do what any of the rest of you do.

I want to play with your perception of reality.

I want to fuck with you and fuck off.

And I am outta here.