venting.

All right, I haven't been on here in a long time and I think I need to be. Even if it's shoddy and ridiculous and silly, even if it's garbage and stream-of-consciousness junk. Maybe I just need to get it out, maybe I just need to let go and be open, as I can only ever be on here, or whenever I'm totally acknowledging of headspace. Isn't that funny? The single thing that causes me the most pain, even secondhandedly, is also the biggest source of self-healing I have.
Let's start there actually. Backtrack a bit, sure-- there's a lot that leads up to it-- but that's the point I want to ultimately make.
Biggest point here: headspace, aka the "Lightraye System," or the Lotus Cathedral innerworld... has proven to be a bigger force of personal health for me than Dream World has been. It hurts, horribly, to admit that, like losing half my ribcage, but it's true.
As for how I realized that, it's taken years. But lately I've been doing massive amounts of research and worldbuilding for DW, and despite the immense joy it's given me (as it always does), I was shocked to realize that, even if I DID learn the same lessons I did from the System, in DW they were totally secondhand. And it's easy, to see victories for peace and joy and hope and love, from an observer perspective, and accept them totally. I always did. That's why I adore that world so much; it is the total manifestation of every dream come true for me. But I've always been separate from it. And that's the missing link that the System had. They held it tragically, almost too late, and covered in blood, but there it was, a treasure in their victorious broken hands nevertheless.

 

This entry is going to jump around a lot. There's so much I want to say and don't know how. I'll just type as it hits.

Lately I've been trying to open commissions. Problem is, I'm scared. I don't talk about art a lot, but... well, maybe tonight I need to.
... I only ever wanted to draw in order to see the faces of the people I loved on paper, somewhere outside of my own head. It was never an "artist" thing. As a kid, if you liked dinosaurs, immediately you decided you wanted to be a paleontologist when you grew up. If your dad was a fireman and you admired him, well then you wanted to be a fireman too. Things like that. So, since the people I loved and admired and who gave color and light to my life were only knowable to others through artwork, artwork that only I was cursed and blessed to be able to create... well, because of that, I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. I'll never forget when, during high school art class, I suddenly learned that being an artist meant I had to draw what other people told me to. I'd have to draw business things, I couldn't just draw Jewel Monsters all the time. And the instant I heard that-- I was, what, 15?-- the instant I heard that being an artist was about creating art in all contexts and situation, NOT simply translating my own inner images to outer ones... I didn't want to be an artist anymore. I didn't. But I had no other options.
So I stuck it out, and you all know of the troubles that college brought to us in that respect. The sudden and unannounced introduction of figure drawing dragged all our traumatized demons out into the open before we were ready for them, and that sacrilegious imposition of abuse and fear into the world of art, the world of wonder and innocence and freedom from pain, broke something in me quite badly.
But I didn't quit drawing. I couldn't. I couldn't ever. There were beautiful things in my head and heart, beautiful people, and I just loved them too much not to devote my entire life to trying to get them more love than only I could give. I wanted other people to see and know and love them too. It's all I've ever wanted out of life. It's the only thing I need in life in order to die happy, so to speak. I've made the effort, I've made a start, this is true... but I've been scared.
College, high school, whatever happened there, it turned art into a performance. It turned it into a game, an act, a structured activity, something you did "by the rules" and "according to expectations" in order to get the right grade, or response, or the like. And it hurt. It sucked all the joy out of art for me, for years. I'm sorry for that. Even opening a sketchbook now makes me so miserable and anxious I want to vomit. I actually have panic attacks when I try to draw now, I can't shake that feeling of "you're being judged, it's not right!" even after years of trying to distance from myself from it totally. Problem is I internalized it. I've become a perfectionist. I want total photorealistic honesty on paper, nothing less, and that's impossible, especially with the reality splits. It's also completely unnecessary. I know that. And yet I hold myself to that standard, and I break my heart when I cannot even try, because I am so scared of lying with my pencil.
It's why I'll sacrifice food money for commissions, whenever I can safely do so. I... I did that this month, actually. Saved up $40 and handed it over before I could chicken out, because when it came down to it, I loved those whose faces were finally going to show more than I loved anything else in the world. I could survive on what food I was given at home, that wasn't impossible. But I owed something more than lip service to the people inside. And I wanted to see them. More than anything else, I want to see them too.
And I do. I do, and the only thing that could possibly make me happier is being there, with them.
On my good days, the gratitude that I feel when I realize I can be is enough to turn my heart into a supernova.


About the bad days though.
I've literally been living off of pocket change and handouts for months now. But, circumstances are changing, and those sources are running dry. I cannot live as a scavenger forever; it's not ethical, it's not healthy, it's not sustainable, not when the people whose crumbs you're living on are scraping up those crumbs themselves.
And yet my psychologist and counselor still say I am not in any sort of mental condition to hold a job. I know it, too, because I have TRIED several times since I had to leave my last one in 2011, and they all fell through. I collapse. It makes me loathe myself most days, for being so "weak," so "fragile," for being a "disgrace" and a "waste of space" and that whole list of awful but too-believable lies. And yet, it doesn't seem to change. If anything, I've gotten worse in that respect, despite my healing. We work deep, now. I still get broadsided if we're not careful. I still have nightmares about things I cannot find the nerve to discuss in therapy yet. I still find myself milliseconds away from calling the hospital for another 201, or from deciding "to hell with that" and grabbing an x-acto knife instead. Most of the time, I don't realize those things are happening until afterwards. I still find myself not knowing where I am or why I'm there or what's been going on for the past several hours. I still find myself having meltdowns in this bloody bedroom because I STILL have to watch out for hacks, every morning, every afternoon, every night. I can't bathe, can't be in a room alone, can't sing, can't hear my given name, without massive harmful dissociation. I went to my trans* group meeting last week, someone said I came across as "hypervigilant," everyone else nodded as if they had been wanting to say the same. I laughed, in disbelief, because that's still happening? And it's something others can see? Then ten minutes later, someone made an offhand joke about sex and I found my vision blurring out, found time starting to slide away, realized my entire body had frozen up solid. I didn't react, I just automatically shut off. And I realized that this is why I can't hold a job. This is why we're struggling to pay bills and buy food. Because for some godforsaken reason we're still in pain. Our psyche is still a mosaic of bruises and scars and tears. And until that does heal completely, we're going to need help to get through this, whether I like it or not.
But I am so ashamed of surviving on people's goodwill that I am mortified to ask for donations, or open commissions, because the very act of my getting money feels like stealing. I am sick of taking from people, even if they give of their own volition, I still consider it thievery because I don't feel I'm giving anything back.
I think it's because I'm so completely emptied out at this point. I can't quite give back if I don't quite have the spoons or the strength to give to myself most days. Heck, cleaning up this body and eating are tough enough. And I loathe saying that, but it's true. Again, to give one of the most frequent examples, I can't go into bathrooms for longer than two minutes tops, or the hack threats resume, or the angry voices start, or I get awful panic attacks. And since the kitchen is the only remaining 'safe space' in the house at this point, I end up in there far too often, surrounded by things that make me ill, by noise, by the guarantee of dissociation. If Genesis isn't around I'll probably end up in a disaster scene within ten minutes, so to speak. It takes me 3 or more hours to eat my one meal, every single day, because it is so, so difficult to stay conscious in the process. If Emmett doesn't take charge, or if Spice isn't barking orders, then the problem might be compounded by the 7+ hours of gut-wrenching pain that we've unfortunately become so used to enduring afterwards. And we can no longer resort to the old bulimia cure, because now that is causing horrible pain, to the point where I literally cannot sleep. Yes, that's why we've been awake until 4AM lately. That and the nightmares. The pain follows me into my dreams you know, and then there's a whole other sort of pain I need to pray for deliverance from.
Really, I've been physically sick, for a while. I'm so lucky that my grandparents pay me back for my support and errands by buying me vegetables to eat, but that doesn't guarantee that I'll always have food around. I haven't had much lately, especially not with the eating disorder resurgence, so I've been living off foods that make me ill. Quite ill, actually, to the point where I can't sleep from the pain and nausea. And it's dumb, because I know I'll get sick, but the stress and the anxiety are making me not care until the consequences hit and then I just 'numb out' and wait until morning. Plus in that state of mind I think, "I don't deserve to eat healthy things, I need to eat the unhealthy things so no one else suffers instead." So I won't take care of myself on purpose, in the weird conviction that "someone else will benefit." But they don't. No one benefits from this pain. Even worse, this commission planning thing has made it spike; the anxiety and depression are the worst they've been in months. What do I do.
I want it to stop. I really do. I'm sick of this.

In any case, I want to get a job just so I can have some income to pay people back, and so I can buy my own safe food and stop stealing my family's. They deserve so much good for what they've done for me. I owe them so much already. I just... don't know what to do. Can't hold a retail or grocery job at this point, can't seem to get enough guts to draw. I cannot tell you how many horrible times I've considered more morally decrepit options for obtaining money. It's never been serious though; thank God. It just goes against my nature... and even if that became too numb to care, Infinitii and Laurie and Genesis and Xenophon are the loudest protestors whenever I end up in a bad place. They'll bodily drag me out of there if they have to. They've done it before. God knows I need them to not give up on me now.

And yet, do you notice? I talk about this nonsense and don't do much about it. I'm miserable, I don't want to be miserable, and yet I am STILL standing at that inexplicable bridge, the one that reaches into health and happiness, refusing to cross. Why? Because I'm scared. I'm scared that when I finally set foot in those blessed flowering pastures, they will catch fire, and burn to ash at my feet.
I'm terrified, utterly terrified, that I am incapable of holding health and abundance and good fortune without turning it into malice.
It's stupid. It really is. But it's an old, tangled, frightening problem, and it is inextricably linked to this D.I.D. problem. Hence my utterly ignoring headspace again lately, no matter how utterly detrimental that is.


This entry is shaping up to be longer than I have time for. I'm very tired and I can't think anymore.
I have a meeting with my counselor tomorrow that will hopefully end in our scheduling a medical appointment of some sort for me. I've been pushing this stuff under the rug for too long and it needs to be taken care of.

Sorry for the depression word vomit. Maybe I'll delete this later, maybe I won't. I haven't hidden or deleted anything in a very long time. It's a nice feeling actually, to be so honest and open, on here at least. It doesn't hurt.

There's still a lot of very nice things to hope for and look forward too. I'll be sure to share those with you too.
Remind me to type about happy things tomorrow, and headspace, preferably both. Therapy is on Thursday (we didn't have any yesterday, last Thursday we discussed my huge memory gaps and tendency to forget very easily) and I want to make sure we're actually in sync with ourself for it this time, without some sort of trauma preceding it.

Have a lovely night, everyone. I will too, one way or another.