Brain Spew in Lieu of Wit

The CopyPasta: I need a snuggle buddy and a blanket fort. I shouldn't be alone tonight [context: Beloved is travelling this week], and I don't want to be around Roommate (not for the usual reasons...it's actually all of the in my own head aversion to the way certain people feel around me, and today it's extending to a lot of close friends). I'm finding that I don't actually want to be at home, but the places that I would go have a person who fits on the above list, or is not the right feel for right now, or have way too much of their own shit, or are limited by it being a Monday night with all of the work things tomorrow. I have so much work to do, but I can't get it done because I can't focus, but I can't actually resolve any of it. Idk what to do :( The Summary:  I've been so...disconnected. Not as far as interactions or isolation or anything like that. I just don't have it in me to internally connect to all of the things. I don't ev...

Yeah. I said it. Life is hard. I mean, everyone knows that, right? And I feel like I'm whining when I say it. But, I'm not going to guilt myself for it anymore. Especially now. Because life IS hard. Especially when you're in recovery, you have a mental illness, you are overworked, underpaid, job insecure, and torn between life paths. I mean, that's HARD. Oh, and then missing family that are across the country to the point of homesickness, while not being sure how you feel about the family that lives literally down the road. It's been a few months, so I should probably catch you up... Therapist has been calling me out pretty much constantly. I mean, yeah, that's what I pay her for, but she's not letting me get away with ANYTHING anymore. I don't actually want her to stop pushing me, but it's terrifying down the path that she is leading me. I mean, I've spent the last three weeks trying to figure out how I feel about my mom. I thought that I was ...

TL;DR: Mental housecleaning that sounds like vaguebooking, but it's mostly because there's a LOT of people involved, almost all of it about sensitive topics. This stuff has been rolling around in my head for a while. Commentary on what I expect from friends and those who I trust. A LOT has happened over the last few months. A good portion of it has involved my friends and people who I trust. First, I pride myself on my integrity. When I say something, I mean it, and I trust that my friends will not be hypocrites. I won't be making that assumption any more. Any accusations about cheating, corruption, nepotism, croneyism, etc will be met with shock and an open mind. Because I can't handle fighting my ass off and spending energy that I don't have to discover that people can't follow basic ethical guidelines. Second, I DO NOT SUPPORT SEXUAL ASSAULT. I do not trust people who are actively complicit in it, nor do I have the desire to turn to people who tell people ...

I started this stream of consciousness almost two weeks ago. I have deleted it and restarted, because I'm in a different place. Well, sort of. I have spent the last month or so without the supports that I usually have. I've been off of my medications for a month or a month and a half, my beloved is across the country (and has been for nearly six weeks), I haven't had my own money since the middle of December (as I'm paid on an adjunct schedule), and I've had to cancel therapy for the interim due to the lack of funds. I have spent six weeks relying on friends, emotionally and financially, because I couldn't find enough odd jobs to pay my bills. Hell, I could barely find enough to put gas in my car. It's officially sunken in that I will be on medications for the rest of my life. I've quit my anti-depressant countless times before (because I'm a depressive, but I level out and I can live without it because I've learned coping skills...it's a...

Recovery comes from the most interesting and unexpected places. I have run into some financial difficulties, and have taken to picking up odd jobs for some extra cash. One of these, about which I was very skeptical, is babysitting. I wasn't skeptical about babysitting because I don't like kids. I love kids - I love watching their moments of discovery and analysis, I love watching them develop language and reasoning skills, I love being reminded of what it is like to just interact with the world at hand. My skepticism came from my fear that I wouldn't provide for them, that I would miss some vital and obvious clue to ensuring their safety and survival. I have always been self-conscious about my "lack" of maternal instinct. It didn't seem to me that I took to the care-giving of younglings naturally enough (...whatever that means), and I have been picked on for most of my post-adolescent life about my discomfort with children. Looking at the whole thing logical...

You rubbed me raw with your expectations - a little girl to bear the burdens of your desire. You taught survival, not how to live. You rubbed me raw with your anticipations - a shiny new model made in your image, to replace a bird that you broke. You rubbed me raw with your control - independent enough to entertain, but never enough to flee. You rubbed me raw with childhood orgasms and lingering looks, lustful envy and ill-placed jests, cocktails and shame. I'm still raw, twenty years later - a broken woman, bolstered by achievements and knowledge and lies. I'm still raw, desperately seeking relief - picking at scabs and long-locked boxes, clawing for release from your bondage.

Rape and rape discourse are important causes to me. They never won't be. I have been talking about them for years. I have been working through my own recovery for a decade. So, why do I want to cry upon reading an account from someone who worked at a rape crisis center? Normally, I would be filled with righteous fury and talk about the issues presented and be all intellectual about it. Why is this account so...personal? Have I really not internalized what happened to me? Have I just let it sit in my brain, not allowing it to filter into my heart so that I can actually mourn? My dad is a ghost, now - caught between alive and dead, in my my mind. I know that he hasn't passed - that he's living in Texas and trying to build a new life for himself and that there are still people who see him. But all I have left are the spectres of what he left me. The pain. The love. The betrayal. The fear. The growth. The disgust. Part of me wants to confront him. To spit in his face, to hit hi...