I don’t usually have recurring dreams. Apparently my brain seeks to change that. Despite not watching any horror movies (cry) or playing any horror games (tears) I keep having dreams about zombies. Not just zombies, but trying to live around zombies and rescuing kids from zombies. I don’t know what it is.
Originally posted on Not All Who Wander Are Lost:
And then came Paganism. For many of us Paganism was our first exposure to a sex positive environment, where sex wasn’t feared but embraced. Doesn’t The Charge of the Goddess explicitly state that “all acts of love and pleasure are My rituals”? Sex went from morally reprehensible acts done in the dark to sacred celebrations.We all know what Beltane’s…
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I backed into the wall as he approached me. My heart raced with excitement as I felt the cool surface meet my back. He placed one hand by my head and another by my shoulder and leaned close. He smelled strongly of water, like he had taken a walk in a light rain and rolled around in the grass and earth. He might very well have done so today. It was a sweet smell, like flowers.
I tried to steady my breath as he put his lips to my ear.
“I need you to understand. This is no game. Do you know what you’re getting into?”
His body gave off an absurd amount of heat inches from my face. I could sleep naked with him and not be cold, even without a blanket. I tried to fight back the blush creeping up my neck at the thought. He chuckled, putting his face into the crook of my neck and inhaling deeply. He then pulled back to reveal his face.
My eyes went wide. His eyes were a vibrant orange-red, like a smoldering charcoal. They seemed to be alight like charcoal, as if they were literally lit. I could taste a hint of magic, it prickled my tongue like PopRocks and washed through my body like adrenaline. Holy shit.
He smirked. “You’re such an interesting human.”
Something about that smirk and that statement set my heart down a racetrack. Suddenly all I could see was danger. Here was someone who could destroy me. Not just maim, or kill, but destroy. He could annihilate me and feel no remorse. Not because he was cruel or sick, but because animals don’t have morals like humans. Yet, he would likely never do such a thing. I was too valuable, for now at least.
I can’t remember if I specified in my last post that I was taking vocal classes. Well, I am. I’ve realized some things about me and singing. For those of you who might not know, I actually adore singing. I sing a lot. I hum, I whistle, I tap, I dance. I fucking love music. I also like making music, I just don’t have the skillset, yet. But, the passion of music I have has always been for singing. I don’t know why I like singing so much. Some people love playing instruments to make their music. I happen to love singing. I make up random, one line songs quite often. If you recorded me for a day you’d see I sing a ton when I’m by myself and when I’m not. It’s fun, it’s soothing, it’s cathartic. Blasting some music and belting it out can really relieve stress. It’s one of the first urges I get when I’m pissed off or upset. I also know I have no control.
Something you all might not know about me though, is that I have a massive insecurity about my voice and a huge fear of performing. Doesn’t matter what it is, or how well I know I can do it. People love my writing, but have someone stand over me while I’m writing or ask me to read said writing and I will run away. There is this picture of my twin and I when we were about five. In this picture we are backstage at a pageant or talent show or something (we were adorable if I do say so myself). In this picture I am crying hysterically while my twin hugs me and gives me a kiss to make me feel better. Apparently my theory of mind had kicked in and I realized that I was going out in front of a big crowd of strangers to do something. It was terrifying. I have been seriously and chronically stage fright since. Even when I know I can do it perfectly, and was perfectly calm beforehand, the thought of performing is painful.
I’ve figured a few reasons why. First, that initial realization that performance is scary when I was five has stuck. I’ve always been a touch shy, being strongly introverted only made it more likely that I wasn’t one to enjoy being the spotlight. I don’t need or like extra attention in the form of more than ten people paying me any mind at once. I am not a performer in the sense that I perform for others. I perform for myself. As an added bonus I’m just sensitive. I’m easily overwhelmed by stimuli, both internal and external, and adrenaline rushes are the bane of my existence. I hate getting them, it’s like using a nebulizer. It is pleasant and fun for some people, but not me. I don’t want any part of that crazy train. This is why I dislike roller coasters and don’t go on many rides at theme parks. I know, I’m boring, but so what? If you need a well written essay or a long hug or someone to get the snacks after the ride, I’m your girl. This is why I crochet, or do photography or write, this is why I play mostly solitary video games or don’t play video games at all. Low stimulation, from inside and out, with the ability to have others join me if I so choose. Seriously, my idea of a good time is having all my friends in the house at once, entertaining each other while I bask in their noise in the corner chair with a book or something.
Second, I realized that I have an innate fear of my own voice. People have been very critical of my singing before. Some were purposely being mean or nasty, others (like my family) were trying to be helpful, but keep overlooking how intensely sensitive and emotional I am. To be fair, they usually try very hard to be aware of that, but teasing is still something I get defensive about. As such, I’m typically very self-conscious about my voice and my very imperfect control over it. My range has changed since I last had voice coaching (that would be middle school, so, something like 10 years ago) and I’m not really sure where it is. I’m still a soprano, but my voice does reach down into alto a little so it can be hard for me to modulate my pitch. As a bonus, the fun of breath control as an asthmatic. I’m afraid of messing up, and of butchering a song. I can’t even sing loudly in the shower without worry.
Third, is this fear of being loud. I don’t like when I have to be loud. If niggas is actin stupid and I gotta get loud I get upset about having to shout or get angry. Believe me, I will shout you down the street if I have to, but I don’t like doing it, nor do I do so regularly. Even when I’m hanging with my friends, I’m only loud because they’re loud and humans naturally modify their behavior to match their group. So, singing loudly is hard for me. Not only because I’m sensitive to criticism and fear butchering a song, but because being loud isn’t particularly appealing to me. It smacks too much of performance. Of course, one cannot properly sing if one does not project, but given my other worries it makes sense. Not to mention I’ve had plenty of times where I’ve been told to quiet down. Badly practicing an instrument to get better is more acceptable than badly singing to get better.
Yet, I truly love to sing. It’s quite a dilemma. I also find myself wishing for more songs I could sing in devotion. I write poetry, but I’m not much for song writing. A friend told me it’s just poetry set to music, but I beg to differ. There’s a different structure to poetry compared to songs. While they are certainly related, I would say no more than close cousins, maybe siblings or half-siblings. At least, that’s how I was taught. Not to mention, I’m not much for puzzling out music and rhythms for music. I need more practice.
So school has started again. Class was OK today, it was hot in there, which was the main reason it wasn’t better. I’m particularly sensitive to the heat, and I despise being hot. It screws with everything and just makes me feel ill. On a positive note we were doing the microscopes and tissues labs so I got to look at cool things like cells in mitosis.
I’m trying not to be freaked out over school. It isn’t more work than before, but now I feel more fragile than I’m used to. I’ve always been sensitive, but now I feel like I’ve completely fallen apart. I had a dream a couple of nights ago. I was in one of my rooms, it could have just as easily been the bedroom and probably was, and I was standing. Z was near me, walking around and talking to me. He might have been cleaning (he does that) and was wondering if I was OK or needed help. I told him no and started drawing up energy. Now, usually, drawing up energy is a disturbing thing. I don’t mean unnerving, it merely disturbs my equilibrium because it’s strong, foreign energy. My energy tends to be low key and fluid, like a bathtub. When it’s high or gets stirred up then it’s more like a small river. I rarely get superbly upset or enraged, so I couldn’t give an accurate metaphor. Perhaps a short storm, a lot of noise and water and wind that peters out quickly and ends with either sunshine or overcast. I sense my own energy as muted, either blue or green (I sense most peoples’ energy in these colors unless there are emotions involved).
When I do magic or energy exercises I usually gather energy from the earth (except for recently where I’ve been using heka), and it is very strong and dense. Since I still have issues grounding, it can leave me overstimulated for days. So, this dream having me do just that was weird. Normally I wouldn’t do such an exercise if I’m feeling unbalanced. However, in the dream the energy was extremely muted and warm. It wasn’t overwhelming, nor was it fluid, electrifying, sparkling (like pop rocks), or speedy. It was more like syrup or honey, a dark forest green and enveloping as opposed to expansive. As I pulled this energy from the earth I made sure to spread it out so it touched every fiber of my being. It was then I realized I was shattered. Like a mosaic, the energy was becoming the frame and scaffolding to hold the pieces together. I’ve never had such a dream before. I’ve never seen myself hurt or shattered or broken. If I’m healing, usually it’s someone else who is hurt.
Quite frankly, I feel the dream is very accurate. I dropped myself off a cliff and broke apart. I was already fragile and unstable; I make jokes about being delicate all the time, but I never really took it too literally. I don’t think anyone has. I made a joke when I got out of the hospital that my brain can’t even do abnormality right. With conversion disorders, typically the patient isn’t really aware of their internal psychological suffering. Sure, they know they’re stressed, but instead of being plainly overwhelmed, they get physical symptoms instead. I’m plainly overwhelmed and getting physical symptoms, so, even doing conversion disorders wrong.
On top of that, school is still going and one class is getting blocked. Apparently I need both of my anatomy classes to take it (the class in question being microbio). The problem is that I’m still in anatomy 1 and can’t take 2 until summer. I can’t register for micro bio in fall because it needs both. I can’t take micro bio by itself because I can’t afford to pay out of pocket for it and financial aid needs at least part time status, ie two classes. The solution is either wait until the end of summer semester and pray that there’s still a seat left, or get special permission from the dean to register. I still have things to handle with the office of disability and of course the classes I currently have.
Then I found out I owe a lot of money on my taxes this year and I’m just trying to focus on not falling apart again. While I wait for doctor’s appointments and try to coordinate my healthcare. Did I mention my mom has to fight with the insurance company because they denied coverage for my hospital stay? See, this is why I need to move to Sweden or Japan. Or Germany. Right now I’m reminding myself that other people, capable people, are handling some of these problems. I’m reminding myself to breathe, breathe because for asthmatics breath is a hard thing to come by and stress worsens asthma. Breathe because I cannot fall apart again. Not like I did, not worse. Breathe because I am anchored, somehow, in the earth.
In the dream Z was right there. He stood next to me and watched patiently as I slowly and painstakingly anchored myself together and to the earth with magic. I am certain he lent his own energy, he was holding me up at some point. He does this very palpably in real life as well. Without him I’d be a horrible mess. I have at least some internal stability because of his support, patience and his providing external stability. He reminds me that I shouldn’t worry about things I can’t control, and that he and others are here to help and take care of things too. The entire week of spring break I slept horribly. Only two days did I get enough sleep, and sleep at night. The other days I would only sleep between 2-4 hours. If I got a nap it was way too long because I was getting the other 4-6 I missed and it was very restless. He slept on the couch with me for three days when I couldn’t sleep and got up when I couldn’t sleep in bed until I could. Actually, I probably wouldn’t have slept at all those three nights on the couch if he weren’t there.
Nonetheless, at this point we could use some more blessings. Lots of them actually. And I need a new brain or something, because I’m tired of feeling sick and broken and depressed. Too bad you can’t update your mind so easily.
How could anyone remember
How can anyone forget
What it feels like to burn,
How it feels to disintegrate?
How can you know my pain
How are you aware
Of my endless suffering
And know the pinch of every hair?
Are you listening?
Can you see?
Do you feel?
Can you hear?
Is the pain in my heart too close
Or too near?
Is it far so you understand just with your eyes?
Is it too far for you to despise?
It’s eating my heart,
The flames will consume it
But how could they know?
They only see the reunion
Of acid and earth, whittling away at
Murderous friends and blasphemous brothers.
Are you watching?
Can you smell it?
Is it acrid?
Are you jealous?
This poem is unfinished and subject to change
I’ve had this problem before. It isn’t new. I can’t sleep. Insomnia isn’t special, especially not in my family. Sometimes I simply suffer from an inability to sleep despite being utterly exhausted. Whatever, normal insomnia. Sometimes it’s from stress or anxiety, mostly normal insomnia. Then there’s this.
It burns. The way my brain is working friking burns. Like hot oil and water, when you toss that not wuite thawed piece of meat in. Oh it pops and snaps, it crackles and fizzes. My whole body is a fury. I feel a false trembling, a shiver that doesn’t exist. My skin crawls and my innards creep. I am not actually shaking, I am not actually itching. I just burn. It is hard to type this. My brain is moving faster than my poor fingers. Oh my sorrowful fingers, how they wish to be unfettered by the limitations of my nervous system’s reactions. If they could move like my brain! Sometimes my mind spins, my thoughts race and I see myself doing all sorts of things. Breaking shit, flipping shit. Climbing, running, hitting, punching everything until I break and bleed over everything. Throwing shit, and taking weapons to random passerby. Suicide, cutting, all sorts of “nice” things to do at 3 am right?
Sometimes I can’t sleep because I just don’t want to. I’m not ready for bed yet, even though my body craves it and I know I need it. Sometimes I stay up to the wee hours, wasting time on nonsense. Surfing chatboards or forums. Desperately searching for someone to be awake who can tell me that I’m not crazy, that I do have a problem and my doctors just aren’t listening. Because they’re not. Oh it’s not the drama of mania they say. It’s not so long or debilitating. Nevermind that there’s a such thing as dysphoric mania and hypomania, that it doesn’t always look exactly alike. Or that depression is the most common swing for bipolar 2. Forget that bullshit. You’re not way up in the sky, even though you’re agitated and cranky and have these nights, sometimes in a row. Because you don’t have the energy of a cracked out two year old and stay awake of your “own free will” there’s nothing special wrong with you. never mind the flying thoughts, racing around like greyhounds and pulling you in a dozen directions. Don’t think about being so anxious that you can barely sit still, or so physically and emotionally agitated that you close yourself in a room to avoid tipping off family to your dilemma. Or that it took you six tries to spell fucking dilemma and you’re an excellent speller!
Think nothing of using all your power to control your voice so you aren’t shouting or speaking as fast as your blazing saddle brain. Or wrapping your body with what little power you have over your mind to keep from fidgeting or pacing or running, or destroying. It all makes sense! You’re just depressed, just anxious, it isn’t mania. You’re not so fucked up after all! fuck you retarded ass doctors. Screw you for not seeing inside my head. How could you miss the sickness with your fancy scans and special questions? I’m only a fucking lunatic! I’m only in the right age bracket! There’s only family history of the disorder and disorders related to it and symptoms reminiscent of it! Now why did it only take me two tries to spell that nonsense but six to spell dilemma? Fuck this noioise. Oh it usually only lasts a few days. Once as long as a week. It wasn’t so deep before thouhg, not until I did the naughty naughty thing. In search of relief for depression I increased my zoloft without permission. Oh just so foolish of me. And now it burns. Gods it burns. And those gods are driving me crazy. So crazy. Who knows if it’s even really the,? Maybe I’m just hallucinating. Am I a crazy motherfucker or what? Kay Redfield Jamison chose an appropriate title for her autobiography as a bipolar woman. Touched by Fire. oh because that is what it fucking is. Fire. burn baby burn.
But sometimes I stay awake because I’m not ready for bed, or I can’t lay in bed because I’m not ready for bed yet because my brain or my body or both is saying avast ye fool! Rush around until you cannot! bleed your eyes and brain and everything on your soul. your soul is in your writing, you have to write! but then I can’t, because nothing can organize. and sometimes I can, and it’s brilliant! ah sometimes I’m so fucking brilliant, even when I don’t have the buzzing energy of a hummingbird on Ecstasy, but sim[ly the ragin agitation of a riled up rattlesnake. See? fucking brilliant. And yet somehow no one ever noitices. ever. ever. I’m so invisible in this world of people who care about me, because insomnia is normal for me and depression is too and no one ever considerst that maybe I’m not having a bout of normal but a bout of violent crazy even worse than wanting to stab myself out of torturous pain and sadness! because in this state my creative side goes into overdrive. tehre are all sorts of crazy ways to kill yourself, and I know so many. Isn’t that pleasant? because fuck this world right? screw this universe!
on monday I didn’t sleep too well. Most of this week I haven’t gotten quite enough sleep. Not enough. close to enough on some nights, not enough on others, not nearly enough nope. not my fault. not my fault. niggas in my head, maybe there, maybe hallucinations, keepin me up talkin. always yappin away. or i was talking to them because i couldn’t sleep and had nothing else to do. one of these nights i couldn’t even stay in bed. i got up and paced, put things in order because that was a better use of the uncontrollable need to pace. my poor z, worried sick about me. he’s loving and patient and kind. i couldn’t even tell him what was wrong. i have this thing where sometimes i can’t talk. the words just won’t come out, no matter how hard i shove them up my diaphragm and through my lungs and to my trachea and past my larynx. they get stuck right there at the good ole voice box. can’t move em for shit. not for shit. but i can write. and i do. so that’s how i get this bullshit out and spread it around to infect everyone i love with its stench. irony is only two people really see even part of the whole story. tellin others doesn’t seem to be worth it. i can’t even imagine what they’d say, probably get mad at me for not saying something sooner. I can’t even tell doctors everything. sometimes it’s a matter of forgetting, sometimes it’s a matter of fear or shame. sometimes it’s them words getting caught in my vocal cords, finding their way out through my little fingers. gods i am crazy. gods i an crazy. GODS I AM FUCKING CRAZY. i hate this shit. shut up brain and go the fuck to sleep, or shake your little nonsense out with the twist and shout. ya did it last week, what’s the harm in doing it again? ain’t that how these conversion disorders are supposed to work? random ass physical symtposm and i don’t even know i have stress! somatization for the win yeah? except even at that you suck. better than getting calleda hypochondriac. i have reasonable concerns about my health i think, since i was a sickly child. overprotected and babied and punched and yelled at and slapped and pressured. haha, the pressure in high school. go central go! you sure know how to make someone feel like a fucked up, stupid failure. it was easy and boring, it was tedious and hard, all at once! way to go for combinging the worst aspects of challenging and boring. yup, i love wasting so much of my life on homework and classwork alike. so fun for me. i loved being shamed for being smart and fucking up so badly. woot. best thing ever. can i kill you now, best high school ever? can i shoot you and burn you up and dissolve you in acid for noticing my abuse and lack of support? or caring about my weird rollercoaster grades? did that mean anything to you? were such inconsistencies signs of something? no? bueller? help? care? or were there just too many of us smarticle particles floatin up in that overcrowded school? best budgeters ever, like on the not sarcasm, cuz yall managed to have all your students have every physicla thing they needed to succeed. nice job, too bad you left out the psychological and emotional parts! because screw that! it’s totally normal for teens to be shit in the head! yup, totally normal, they don’t need help AT ALL. not all , it’s cool. totes cool, no prblems here.
NO PROBLEMS HERE.NONE.AT.ALL. FUCK PROBLEMS, TEENS DON’T HAVE PROBLEMS, EXCEPT THE ONES THY CAUSE THEMSELVES TIGHT?Riight? you can admit it, if teens listened to every adult and thought like adults and acted like adults all our special teen issues would vanish! except adults are pretty fucked up, and adult hood is horrifyingly disgusting. oh gods adulthood sucks asss. in hihg school they told me those would be my best years! that’s such messed up shit it’s not even funny, especially since being a teen is awful!!! horrible bullshit. why can’t i just be dog? i mean really, much easier life being a dog. get food, get kids, i mean really, what’s not to love? disadvantage to every life, but being a dog just seems nicer, easier, less complicated. repreating phrases in my mind, fuck this bullshit with a tine. gods i hate my brain, why can’t it just WORK goddamit, work? it just flagrantly disobeys, knocking shit down and flipping shit over. bleh. bleh.
I’m sitting in this dreadful mire
writhing, seething, in desire
to not be touched by this fire.
i can’t escape, i can’t erase it
nor can it be confiscated
but in this room so bright and cheery
i can see my world get bleary.
is it spinning like a portal
or is it running like a paint whorl?
my mind is like the Starry Night,
shining blue, with yellow light,
and yet I cannot seem to stay
on this path that leads to day.
even if I could I see
the twilight coming speedily
and in this moment I realize
that Night Falls Fast upon my eyes.