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So I just wanted to share a very strange occurrence that I've been slowly watching devolve that I can do nothing about. I'm not going to give specifics because it's relatively big? I suppose? If you like... a certain genre of Youtuber? Though I won't kid myself in saying nobody could piece it together. You probably could if you tried, though it'd be nice if you didn't try to weaponize this somehow. That's why I'm posting it on here and SpaceHey, and not like, Twitter.
Anyway, for years I've been very good friends with a person we'll call... Daisy. Long distance, but we've been pretty close, we were in a bit of a relationship/situationship for a bit, many years ago, but for many more years they've been a good friend I care about. Daisy has this other friend, Orchid, that I know, have chatted with on occasion, but otherwise don't super keep up with. Orchid helps Daisy with some of the art stuff they do. I almost met Orchid IRL one time when I was in the state they lived in. Daisy dated Orchid at a point too, and I helped Daisy recover when they broke up. (Some of the details around the breakup did make me a little weary of Orchid, but that was years ago and they stayed friends, so I had no reason not to trust Orchid!)
Anyway, back to present day, recently Orchid posted something accusing another person, a content creator they dated, of SA. Like, of the "R" variety. I was horrified, especially as someone who was SA'd, as someone who has supported victims of SA. I messaged them saying how sorry I was that happened; Daisy posted publicly in support of them, I made sure Daisy was doing OK too. Daisy seemed to have been told prior about some of this, and had interacted with the creator in question and didn't have positive experiences. So case closed, right? What a terrible thing to happen to a friend of a friend!
...Well. The creator posted a reply. And...it was pretty damning. (From what I've heard. It was like 90 minutes and I've been busy.) Orchid went silent. Publicly and privately. Daisy hasn't been able to reach them. Daisy had to publicly apologize, and doesn't know what to believe anymore. A friend for years, and they don't know if they can believe Orchid anymore. And Orchid isn't responding to clarify anything.
Anyway, for years I've been very good friends with a person we'll call... Daisy. Long distance, but we've been pretty close, we were in a bit of a relationship/situationship for a bit, many years ago, but for many more years they've been a good friend I care about. Daisy has this other friend, Orchid, that I know, have chatted with on occasion, but otherwise don't super keep up with. Orchid helps Daisy with some of the art stuff they do. I almost met Orchid IRL one time when I was in the state they lived in. Daisy dated Orchid at a point too, and I helped Daisy recover when they broke up. (Some of the details around the breakup did make me a little weary of Orchid, but that was years ago and they stayed friends, so I had no reason not to trust Orchid!)
Anyway, back to present day, recently Orchid posted something accusing another person, a content creator they dated, of SA. Like, of the "R" variety. I was horrified, especially as someone who was SA'd, as someone who has supported victims of SA. I messaged them saying how sorry I was that happened; Daisy posted publicly in support of them, I made sure Daisy was doing OK too. Daisy seemed to have been told prior about some of this, and had interacted with the creator in question and didn't have positive experiences. So case closed, right? What a terrible thing to happen to a friend of a friend!
...Well. The creator posted a reply. And...it was pretty damning. (From what I've heard. It was like 90 minutes and I've been busy.) Orchid went silent. Publicly and privately. Daisy hasn't been able to reach them. Daisy had to publicly apologize, and doesn't know what to believe anymore. A friend for years, and they don't know if they can believe Orchid anymore. And Orchid isn't responding to clarify anything.
It's shocking! Of course everyone in the wider online space is just defending the big content creator and being feral over the whole thing, saying anyone who supported Orchid is evil, cruel, stupid. Just wanted to hate on the creator. But my thinking was... this is a mutual friend! I have no reason to doubt Orchid! And Daisy didn't either! It was a heartbreaking situation that someone who has helped Daisy, someone who they loved, went through. They had no history of lying like this!
It's just a strange position to be in, I am nowhere close enough to want to say anything publicly in the spaces this controversy is occurring, but humanity is a web of interpersonal connections and it all just has been such a shock. I keep seeing videos and tweets about it that all just read like it's... the drama of the day. The people who post these things will forget about it tomorrow. It's weird.
Shockingly, things are often more complicated than the 280 characters on Twitter make it seem!
Valentine's Day
Feb. 14th, 2023 02:26 pmI usually try to keep my hopes up on Valentines day, even the lonely ones (I can't real many that haven't been lonely; I think the last time I legitimately had a date was sophomore year of high school), but I just feel kind of miserable today. I've really been trying to not feel miserable. But having a lot of feelings of isolation. I'm either being avoided or being told "well, I'll be around you, but emotionally you're on your own." I won't do anything, I'm too stubborn or too bound to routine or too weak to kill myself, but it's like I almost felt stable internally and externally, and both had to get shaken up at the same time. I'm providing myself hope in saying the new antidepressants I'm on likely just haven't fully kicked in yet, they take like 6 weeks to ramp up to full efficacy, I'm only at the beginning of week 3. But do I still have to feel this miserable?
It just feels like I'm not very important. Which is fair. Why would I be?
It's just... other people are important to me. I've been a little less attentive lately because of how bad shit feels but I'm always factoring in how other people feel into how I behave, even now.
I don't know. I feel like a wimp.
I'm too far lost to even continue this, lol.
It just feels like I'm not very important. Which is fair. Why would I be?
It's just... other people are important to me. I've been a little less attentive lately because of how bad shit feels but I'm always factoring in how other people feel into how I behave, even now.
I don't know. I feel like a wimp.
I'm too far lost to even continue this, lol.
Empty Classroom
Feb. 9th, 2023 12:44 pmShowed up to this class 20 minutes early to make up for being 10 minutes late last time.
The room was empty, minus one guy using it as an empty space to watch Among Us videos.
He asked me, "Oh, is there a class meeting in here?" I said "Yeah but in like 20 minutes, you're good." He quickly organized his things and scurried off anyway.
Monday and Tuesday I was feeling good. Yesterday I started to feel a little crumby, and that was before I was reminded why I was under the impression I was an idiot and a coward. So that didn't help, necessarily. It feels like a disease that I am nowhere near close to curing, just that symptoms sometimes weaken. I guess that's literally what it is. I am unfortunately feeling more alone than I had previously; feeling like a combination of my own actions and other situations (though of course via cognitive distortion it mostly feels as if it was my own actions,) leave my relationships with my closest friends wounded.
I don't seem to be able to stop repeating "I just want to help." Helping makes me feel valuable, but I keep getting told I can't help. Or my help isn't wanted. Or my help is malicious in some way. What else am I supposed to do? I'm not valuable for any other purpose. For a long while now I've been either helpful or comic relief. And I'm not feeling very funny right now.
I could write longer but that 20 minutes is almost up. People have been trickling into the room as I write, the day's powerpoint is up on the screen. I tried to see if a friend wanted to go to an event on campus after this class with me but they were busy. Alone yet again. Unsurprising.
The room was empty, minus one guy using it as an empty space to watch Among Us videos.
He asked me, "Oh, is there a class meeting in here?" I said "Yeah but in like 20 minutes, you're good." He quickly organized his things and scurried off anyway.
Monday and Tuesday I was feeling good. Yesterday I started to feel a little crumby, and that was before I was reminded why I was under the impression I was an idiot and a coward. So that didn't help, necessarily. It feels like a disease that I am nowhere near close to curing, just that symptoms sometimes weaken. I guess that's literally what it is. I am unfortunately feeling more alone than I had previously; feeling like a combination of my own actions and other situations (though of course via cognitive distortion it mostly feels as if it was my own actions,) leave my relationships with my closest friends wounded.
I don't seem to be able to stop repeating "I just want to help." Helping makes me feel valuable, but I keep getting told I can't help. Or my help isn't wanted. Or my help is malicious in some way. What else am I supposed to do? I'm not valuable for any other purpose. For a long while now I've been either helpful or comic relief. And I'm not feeling very funny right now.
I could write longer but that 20 minutes is almost up. People have been trickling into the room as I write, the day's powerpoint is up on the screen. I tried to see if a friend wanted to go to an event on campus after this class with me but they were busy. Alone yet again. Unsurprising.
The Trouble With Healing
Feb. 8th, 2023 12:08 amThere's two troubles with healing, really: it takes time, and it always leaves a scar.
What you do in the time it takes to heal can help minimize the scar, but with a big wound, you're going to scar regardless.
I haven't posted in a while. The hiatus was for the same reason I haven't booked a therapist; despite the fact that both therapy and writing help me in times of stress, when the stress reaches a critical mass, both might as well not exist. But while we're nowhere near out of the ballpark yet when it comes to shit being wack, we're back at the manageable level my life has been defined by for the last... forever. I wrote a couple things, a couple journal entries, a poem, but they were a bit too personal for sharing here, despite it's largely anonymous nature.
It's strange, the current situation, it feels like the wave of relief right after throwing up. You're objectively in a terrible place, you've likely fucked some shit up (and in this case I've definitely fucked shit up), but I mean, feels better than before throwing it up. Makes cleaning up your bile just slightly less uncomfortable.
I feel like I'm objectively at my worst. Like, when it comes to the people around me. And maybe that's just something we have to get used to, or at least I have to get used to, being someone whose self worth has been defined by how others see me and what I can do for others, for my community, for society; but it also just feels like I don't deserve to be trusted. That I won't be trusted. That I'm letting people down. And that regardless kind of sucks. But some of the actions I've taken have met me with relief, with a lightening of the metaphorical load, or at the very least have been a net neural. It's strange to be seen as such a bull-headed, blunt, self-centered leader, when you're so concerned all the time with what people think of you. You take any negative reaction as a form of valid criticism to be thought over and implemented in some way to make yourself more like... what people would want. I've always kind of donned a metallic mask, something semi-reflective that attempts to shine at least a bit of whoever I'm speaking with back at them. But in a way that comes off as natural. I think I hide the mask quite well.(Dream Minecraft?!)
I also just continue to feel lacking in spark, the drive I've only occasionally been able to grab hold of before it throws me off yet again. After the complete and total burnout I have faced recently, I hope, but wonder if, it'll ever come back.
Starting to rain pretty hard here, and I have to be up in the morning for a recorded-interview-thing. Will sleep for now, but I will see you again soon.
What you do in the time it takes to heal can help minimize the scar, but with a big wound, you're going to scar regardless.
I haven't posted in a while. The hiatus was for the same reason I haven't booked a therapist; despite the fact that both therapy and writing help me in times of stress, when the stress reaches a critical mass, both might as well not exist. But while we're nowhere near out of the ballpark yet when it comes to shit being wack, we're back at the manageable level my life has been defined by for the last... forever. I wrote a couple things, a couple journal entries, a poem, but they were a bit too personal for sharing here, despite it's largely anonymous nature.
It's strange, the current situation, it feels like the wave of relief right after throwing up. You're objectively in a terrible place, you've likely fucked some shit up (and in this case I've definitely fucked shit up), but I mean, feels better than before throwing it up. Makes cleaning up your bile just slightly less uncomfortable.
I feel like I'm objectively at my worst. Like, when it comes to the people around me. And maybe that's just something we have to get used to, or at least I have to get used to, being someone whose self worth has been defined by how others see me and what I can do for others, for my community, for society; but it also just feels like I don't deserve to be trusted. That I won't be trusted. That I'm letting people down. And that regardless kind of sucks. But some of the actions I've taken have met me with relief, with a lightening of the metaphorical load, or at the very least have been a net neural. It's strange to be seen as such a bull-headed, blunt, self-centered leader, when you're so concerned all the time with what people think of you. You take any negative reaction as a form of valid criticism to be thought over and implemented in some way to make yourself more like... what people would want. I've always kind of donned a metallic mask, something semi-reflective that attempts to shine at least a bit of whoever I'm speaking with back at them. But in a way that comes off as natural. I think I hide the mask quite well.
I also just continue to feel lacking in spark, the drive I've only occasionally been able to grab hold of before it throws me off yet again. After the complete and total burnout I have faced recently, I hope, but wonder if, it'll ever come back.
Starting to rain pretty hard here, and I have to be up in the morning for a recorded-interview-thing. Will sleep for now, but I will see you again soon.
I'm feeling very frustrated.
I'm trying my best, I really am.
I guess I rationally know to some degree, I am loved. But even typing it, do I?
The big gesture. "It's the kind of love that doesn't exist anymore, you want Hollywood, but this is real life."
Or maybe it's me. I still don't feel very optimistic towards myself. Again, I'm trying. Last night I wrote down a bunch of mantras that I thought would help. But like I've said before, it ebbs and flows, seemingly with no ways to control it.
I know you need to value yourself before relying on someone else to value you, I've been a proponent of it almost all my life. But I guess right now it feels like I've hit a brick wall, that I could use someone seeing the good in me. Really seeing the good in me. Being excited that I exist, excited about me. I'd do the same. I already do. I'd been so self-sufficient for so long that I feel like I didn't have anything else, and that was fine for a while. I used the tunnel vision to my advantage and kept going. It was only when I stopped, took the horse blinders off, let my guard down, become vulnerable, willing to change, that it's become too much. Therapy doesn't feel very helpful. I know what's going on, the right response. I know what's irrational. I know what's good for me.
There's more that feels lodged in my mind, difficult to get out, but I'm feeling conflicted and sad and a little bit sick. When I think about any of it there's a knot in my stomach.
My psychiatrist's office opens tomorrow. I'll call and try to get in soon, but I hate the prospect of having to test out different medications, new side effects, weeks of waiting to see what happens. But the wall has been hit. Even if it takes a while to find the right direction, some movement is better than no movement.
I'm trying my best, I really am.
I guess I rationally know to some degree, I am loved. But even typing it, do I?
The big gesture. "It's the kind of love that doesn't exist anymore, you want Hollywood, but this is real life."
Or maybe it's me. I still don't feel very optimistic towards myself. Again, I'm trying. Last night I wrote down a bunch of mantras that I thought would help. But like I've said before, it ebbs and flows, seemingly with no ways to control it.
I know you need to value yourself before relying on someone else to value you, I've been a proponent of it almost all my life. But I guess right now it feels like I've hit a brick wall, that I could use someone seeing the good in me. Really seeing the good in me. Being excited that I exist, excited about me. I'd do the same. I already do. I'd been so self-sufficient for so long that I feel like I didn't have anything else, and that was fine for a while. I used the tunnel vision to my advantage and kept going. It was only when I stopped, took the horse blinders off, let my guard down, become vulnerable, willing to change, that it's become too much. Therapy doesn't feel very helpful. I know what's going on, the right response. I know what's irrational. I know what's good for me.
There's more that feels lodged in my mind, difficult to get out, but I'm feeling conflicted and sad and a little bit sick. When I think about any of it there's a knot in my stomach.
My psychiatrist's office opens tomorrow. I'll call and try to get in soon, but I hate the prospect of having to test out different medications, new side effects, weeks of waiting to see what happens. But the wall has been hit. Even if it takes a while to find the right direction, some movement is better than no movement.
What You Can and Can’t Do
Jan. 4th, 2023 10:32 pm Don’t let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do.
Not because you will show them wrong, maybe you won’t. Maybe you can’t do it. Maybe you’ll drop it, grow out of it, decide it’s not for you. But christ, who cares?
I see so many motivational catchphrases about “proving them wrong.” I think it’s not the most useful encouragement, because sometimes you can’t. Or you just don’t want to. Don’t stick with something you hate to “prove them wrong.” Exploration is joy. Effort is for yourself, at the end of the day. It should be expended in the way that will do the most good for yourself and your community.
I don’t know what made me feel so inspired to jot this down. I guess I’ve been looking to do things I thought I couldn’t, and I saw one of those “prove them wrong” quotes, and I realized it all amounted to bunk.
Sorry if the formatting on this is weird, finally got my laptop in to replace the battery and so I’m on the mobile site.
Not because you will show them wrong, maybe you won’t. Maybe you can’t do it. Maybe you’ll drop it, grow out of it, decide it’s not for you. But christ, who cares?
I see so many motivational catchphrases about “proving them wrong.” I think it’s not the most useful encouragement, because sometimes you can’t. Or you just don’t want to. Don’t stick with something you hate to “prove them wrong.” Exploration is joy. Effort is for yourself, at the end of the day. It should be expended in the way that will do the most good for yourself and your community.
I don’t know what made me feel so inspired to jot this down. I guess I’ve been looking to do things I thought I couldn’t, and I saw one of those “prove them wrong” quotes, and I realized it all amounted to bunk.
Sorry if the formatting on this is weird, finally got my laptop in to replace the battery and so I’m on the mobile site.
I think secrets, like many of my emotions, are one of those things that I can ignore for a good while, with little concern for, but then when it wants to bubble up, it does. And then you end up rambling about it while drunk to a strange man from Arkansas you met online through a promotional post you did with Pillow Pets a year or two ago, who decided you would be friends, goddammit, and even though you were incredibly suspicious, he eventually wore you down.
I don't actually have that many secrets. I don't advertise everything, but I'm kind of an open book. It's something I think benefits my leadership style. "We know a thing or two because we've seen a thing or two," Farmers Insurance style. And I'm not embarrassed of much. Sometimes, admittedly, I am embarrassed of how I look to others, but who I am past that, I think is just who I am. So secrets, at least my own, aren't something I have much experience handling. Other people's secrets? That's easy. Mostly because I have a terrible memory, so I just don't even think about telling anyone, if I even remember what it was in the first place.
Honestly, the reason I'm keeping this one close to the chest is largely because I think I don't want the advice I'm going to get. I'm on team "ignore shit," baby, and they got me locked in the contract.
Other than that, things have been alright. Good days, boring days, lazy days. Will finally get my laptop battery replaced soon, one less thing to worry about. Still trudging through until the 13th though, that's when things'll start to pick up. It's much easier to ignore your strange brain noises when you're doing things.
I don't actually have that many secrets. I don't advertise everything, but I'm kind of an open book. It's something I think benefits my leadership style. "We know a thing or two because we've seen a thing or two," Farmers Insurance style. And I'm not embarrassed of much. Sometimes, admittedly, I am embarrassed of how I look to others, but who I am past that, I think is just who I am. So secrets, at least my own, aren't something I have much experience handling. Other people's secrets? That's easy. Mostly because I have a terrible memory, so I just don't even think about telling anyone, if I even remember what it was in the first place.
Honestly, the reason I'm keeping this one close to the chest is largely because I think I don't want the advice I'm going to get. I'm on team "ignore shit," baby, and they got me locked in the contract.
Other than that, things have been alright. Good days, boring days, lazy days. Will finally get my laptop battery replaced soon, one less thing to worry about. Still trudging through until the 13th though, that's when things'll start to pick up. It's much easier to ignore your strange brain noises when you're doing things.
The New Year
Jan. 1st, 2023 02:24 pmI'm still not sure how to approach the new year, whether to have hope or apprehension.
It's not like I really have any expectations, and I don't think either approach will significantly alter what will happen either way, but I had so much hope for 2022 and that went rather poorly. I am following "a watched pot never boils," "don't jinx it" rules, if I ignore the new year, if I restrain myself from believing it'll be "my year," maybe it will go better. But realistically the year will go the way it wants, regardless of my cognitive distortions.
The first day of the new year has gone relatively standard thus far. Slept in, got a "happy new years" text from my mom's ex-husband which I swiftly chose to ignore, read the new E-mail from Fall Out Boy hinting at an album coming out this year. Got Sonic for lunch, downloaded some of my textbooks for next semester. Watching The Bankrupt Business of 2022 by the channel Ordinary Things.
Year of the rabbit, I don't know what that means for me. Will I be surrounded by friends, a little lighter on my feet, a little softer? Or will I be neurotic, vulnerable, prey?
Likely doesn't actually mean all too much.
It's not like I really have any expectations, and I don't think either approach will significantly alter what will happen either way, but I had so much hope for 2022 and that went rather poorly. I am following "a watched pot never boils," "don't jinx it" rules, if I ignore the new year, if I restrain myself from believing it'll be "my year," maybe it will go better. But realistically the year will go the way it wants, regardless of my cognitive distortions.
The first day of the new year has gone relatively standard thus far. Slept in, got a "happy new years" text from my mom's ex-husband which I swiftly chose to ignore, read the new E-mail from Fall Out Boy hinting at an album coming out this year. Got Sonic for lunch, downloaded some of my textbooks for next semester. Watching The Bankrupt Business of 2022 by the channel Ordinary Things.
Year of the rabbit, I don't know what that means for me. Will I be surrounded by friends, a little lighter on my feet, a little softer? Or will I be neurotic, vulnerable, prey?
Likely doesn't actually mean all too much.
Helped my mom cover plants and otherwise tie things down today ahead of the cold snap. It's Texas, so it's just below freezing as of now, but that's enough that we're filling bathtubs with water and charging all our devices because all of our infrastructure is terrible.
Being at my moms is weird. Lot of things I'm not even fully comfortable sharing online associated with this place, but it's been getting better as of late. I'm still always a tad on edge, and a tad absentminded. I think things will go well. I brought enough stuff to keep me occupied, and my three half-sisters often want to do something. Today we played Minecraft.
Only thing is I don't think I brought enough winter clothes, lol. I brought a good coat but no gloves, no hat, only pants are jeans. I think I might be able to scavenge through my mom's ex-husbands stuff that he left here for some things, but in all honesty even wearing his stuff feels slightly discomforting. I'll happily steal all the other shit he left, soap, charging cables, etc., but even before they split I would sometimes be given his clothes that no longer fit him and I did not like it much at all. He's a bad person, falling deeper into delusion and resentment even before they separated, and the split changed nothing. I always hope that everyone, even if they've done wrong, can get better. I don't think it's possible in all situations, I just wish the best for them if they continue existing in this world with all the people in it. Him, however.... esh.
I want a soda. My mom doesn't drink or stock it, and I only brought a single can of Coke Zero I'm desperately saving for Christmas Eve or Christmas Morning, depending. I guess it's not too far away. It's not even the caffeine, it's not like I'm having any symptoms of needing the next dose, and a caffeine-free soda would fill the same void, I just love my sugary bubbles. Maybe depending on what we're doing tomorrow I'll sneak out and grab one. Could go to Five Below and ask my mom if she needs any more stocking stuffers for my sisters. Ooh and I could get some lotion, too. I need some more. And a chapstick. It's a dry, crusty winter.
Being at my moms is weird. Lot of things I'm not even fully comfortable sharing online associated with this place, but it's been getting better as of late. I'm still always a tad on edge, and a tad absentminded. I think things will go well. I brought enough stuff to keep me occupied, and my three half-sisters often want to do something. Today we played Minecraft.
Only thing is I don't think I brought enough winter clothes, lol. I brought a good coat but no gloves, no hat, only pants are jeans. I think I might be able to scavenge through my mom's ex-husbands stuff that he left here for some things, but in all honesty even wearing his stuff feels slightly discomforting. I'll happily steal all the other shit he left, soap, charging cables, etc., but even before they split I would sometimes be given his clothes that no longer fit him and I did not like it much at all. He's a bad person, falling deeper into delusion and resentment even before they separated, and the split changed nothing. I always hope that everyone, even if they've done wrong, can get better. I don't think it's possible in all situations, I just wish the best for them if they continue existing in this world with all the people in it. Him, however.... esh.
I want a soda. My mom doesn't drink or stock it, and I only brought a single can of Coke Zero I'm desperately saving for Christmas Eve or Christmas Morning, depending. I guess it's not too far away. It's not even the caffeine, it's not like I'm having any symptoms of needing the next dose, and a caffeine-free soda would fill the same void, I just love my sugary bubbles. Maybe depending on what we're doing tomorrow I'll sneak out and grab one. Could go to Five Below and ask my mom if she needs any more stocking stuffers for my sisters. Ooh and I could get some lotion, too. I need some more. And a chapstick. It's a dry, crusty winter.
Finding Oneself
Dec. 18th, 2022 03:14 pmBOO. I'm back. This is getting ridiculous.
Nah, I'm joking. Today's will be more lighthearted. I might even bring it up to a a few people I know, or on platforms where I have actual followers.
I'm still in my rut, which feels like a much more easygoing and authorial way of saying "depressive episode," but after some thinking and talking I feel a task that could be of benefit right now would be re-discovering myself. I realize that something must change; and I would really like my own identity and set of hobbies that aren't schoolwork, working for others, and desperately clawing at and organizing around the collapse of American politics and my rights as a trans person (resistance is important, of course, but it's starting to claim too much of me). These things have kind of taken over my day-to-day for the past... years... and as a result, I feel I don't know who I am or what I want or like to do anymore. Most of the advice I see on this subject involves asking yourself "what's something you've always wanted to do? What's something you would enjoy?" And I simply do not know. I'm coming up blank. It's also such a chore learning new things, you know? I'm going to be shit for a while before I'm any good.
Speaking of, I've unearthed a new... psychological damage, I suppose. Growing up I was always kind of jokingly teased about what I did. By my friends, by my father (who arguably is my more stable parent, who I'm the most close to); never maliciously, but I think it has stunted my courage in trying new things, especially in the realm of physical appearance, style/fashion, and hobbies. Back in like, high school, if I attempted a new thing it was jarring, amusing maybe; the three descriptors of my looks that seemed to be used, and in some cases continue to be used, about me are "muppet," "grandpa," and at least mean but most demeaning, "cute."
I know some would like that last one but I hate it. I'm a man, and I would just like to be attractive, please. I won't even ask for "hot" if I can just not be cute.
Part of me still says it's impossible, a biological inevitability due to my short stature, my curly hair, my stocky build; "attractive" is off the table. But I've never been one for biological essentialism. At least, that's what I'm telling myself.
I am still a bit more of a pessimist than my friends. I keep getting told looking good is all entirely about confidence. And while I think that's a factor, sure, a factor in that confidence is whether I at least think I look relatively good in something. And I'm a critic by heart. An example; tall people can get away with wearing real baggy clothes. When you're short, that feels a lot more like drowning. You look shorter. I do not want to look shorter. So I'm not gonna go that direction even if I think it looks just fine on other, taller people. Plenty of other avenues to explore anyways.
But back to my first topic. I'm sitting here contemplating hobbies. I used to draw and paint, when I was younger. I'm still a fan of occasionally messing around with paint, when I can get my hands on it. I've got a few books to read, games to play; but those feel unoriginal. It'd be so rewarding to know how to play an instrument, I think, but I'm so indecisive. I started gravitating towards drums but was told by a veteran player that you "shouldn't start with any electronic kit or pads, you need to start with a full acoustic kit!" which just makes the whole thing incredibly daunting, and when I did have a beginner electronic pad on my wishlist my dad said to me "whats with this whole drum thing?" which from him was enough for me to recoil, say yeah no, it's silly. Just was kind of interested. Don't worry about it. Another thing I should work on, I suppose. My first real act of rebellion against my dad was my tattoo last year, he was not at all happy about that. But he's an accepting guy, just a little bit of a kidder, likes goofing on people, especially me. I'll never hear the end of my emo phase, of my weeb phase, so on and so forth. I'm trying to think of what that little emo weeb kid would want to be doing right now. They'd be a lot more hard-headed and just do it, whatever it was.
Nah, I'm joking. Today's will be more lighthearted. I might even bring it up to a a few people I know, or on platforms where I have actual followers.
I'm still in my rut, which feels like a much more easygoing and authorial way of saying "depressive episode," but after some thinking and talking I feel a task that could be of benefit right now would be re-discovering myself. I realize that something must change; and I would really like my own identity and set of hobbies that aren't schoolwork, working for others, and desperately clawing at and organizing around the collapse of American politics and my rights as a trans person (resistance is important, of course, but it's starting to claim too much of me). These things have kind of taken over my day-to-day for the past... years... and as a result, I feel I don't know who I am or what I want or like to do anymore. Most of the advice I see on this subject involves asking yourself "what's something you've always wanted to do? What's something you would enjoy?" And I simply do not know. I'm coming up blank. It's also such a chore learning new things, you know? I'm going to be shit for a while before I'm any good.
Speaking of, I've unearthed a new... psychological damage, I suppose. Growing up I was always kind of jokingly teased about what I did. By my friends, by my father (who arguably is my more stable parent, who I'm the most close to); never maliciously, but I think it has stunted my courage in trying new things, especially in the realm of physical appearance, style/fashion, and hobbies. Back in like, high school, if I attempted a new thing it was jarring, amusing maybe; the three descriptors of my looks that seemed to be used, and in some cases continue to be used, about me are "muppet," "grandpa," and at least mean but most demeaning, "cute."
I know some would like that last one but I hate it. I'm a man, and I would just like to be attractive, please. I won't even ask for "hot" if I can just not be cute.
Part of me still says it's impossible, a biological inevitability due to my short stature, my curly hair, my stocky build; "attractive" is off the table. But I've never been one for biological essentialism. At least, that's what I'm telling myself.
I am still a bit more of a pessimist than my friends. I keep getting told looking good is all entirely about confidence. And while I think that's a factor, sure, a factor in that confidence is whether I at least think I look relatively good in something. And I'm a critic by heart. An example; tall people can get away with wearing real baggy clothes. When you're short, that feels a lot more like drowning. You look shorter. I do not want to look shorter. So I'm not gonna go that direction even if I think it looks just fine on other, taller people. Plenty of other avenues to explore anyways.
But back to my first topic. I'm sitting here contemplating hobbies. I used to draw and paint, when I was younger. I'm still a fan of occasionally messing around with paint, when I can get my hands on it. I've got a few books to read, games to play; but those feel unoriginal. It'd be so rewarding to know how to play an instrument, I think, but I'm so indecisive. I started gravitating towards drums but was told by a veteran player that you "shouldn't start with any electronic kit or pads, you need to start with a full acoustic kit!" which just makes the whole thing incredibly daunting, and when I did have a beginner electronic pad on my wishlist my dad said to me "whats with this whole drum thing?" which from him was enough for me to recoil, say yeah no, it's silly. Just was kind of interested. Don't worry about it. Another thing I should work on, I suppose. My first real act of rebellion against my dad was my tattoo last year, he was not at all happy about that. But he's an accepting guy, just a little bit of a kidder, likes goofing on people, especially me. I'll never hear the end of my emo phase, of my weeb phase, so on and so forth. I'm trying to think of what that little emo weeb kid would want to be doing right now. They'd be a lot more hard-headed and just do it, whatever it was.
“Oh it's the kind of love that doesn't exist anymore,
You want Hollywood, this is real life.”
I think it’s a pretty standard experience for one to want someone to notice when they’re doing poorly without you having to tell them, to reach out; do the big gesture, big act of kindness. To want someone to just get it. It’s all fake, of course; silly ideas that happen in movies and TV, but it doesn’t stop anyone from wanting it.
Yesterday, I went and sat out in a field behind my apartment building, something I do sometimes when I want to just sit and think. Ended up crying. Kept imagining someone, either someone I knew or even just a nice stranger, would somehow notice and come over. Even after I mentioned to a couple people I was in a bad place, I had these intrusive fantasies that… I don’t know, someone would "save me." It's all very childish. It would be nice to be taken seriously, though. It’s hard to communicate just how bad it is right now. Last night I lit a candle and thought about taking a match, lighting it and putting it against my skin. That's something that hasn't happened in a long while. Maybe to everyone else, it's just the same old same old; my emotional states are beginning to grow stale. I'm not always in these ruts, but I do have depressive episodes. I try really hard not to make them people's problem, I promise. It's a curse, the human desire for connection.
I keep trying to stop having those thoughts, about some grand gesture, reaching out; it’ll probably only make me sadder. But it's am impulse, hard to shake.
You want Hollywood, this is real life.”
I think it’s a pretty standard experience for one to want someone to notice when they’re doing poorly without you having to tell them, to reach out; do the big gesture, big act of kindness. To want someone to just get it. It’s all fake, of course; silly ideas that happen in movies and TV, but it doesn’t stop anyone from wanting it.
Yesterday, I went and sat out in a field behind my apartment building, something I do sometimes when I want to just sit and think. Ended up crying. Kept imagining someone, either someone I knew or even just a nice stranger, would somehow notice and come over. Even after I mentioned to a couple people I was in a bad place, I had these intrusive fantasies that… I don’t know, someone would "save me." It's all very childish. It would be nice to be taken seriously, though. It’s hard to communicate just how bad it is right now. Last night I lit a candle and thought about taking a match, lighting it and putting it against my skin. That's something that hasn't happened in a long while. Maybe to everyone else, it's just the same old same old; my emotional states are beginning to grow stale. I'm not always in these ruts, but I do have depressive episodes. I try really hard not to make them people's problem, I promise. It's a curse, the human desire for connection.
I keep trying to stop having those thoughts, about some grand gesture, reaching out; it’ll probably only make me sadder. But it's am impulse, hard to shake.
Biding Time 2
Dec. 14th, 2022 11:43 pmHonestly I titled this "Biding Time 2" as it feels like an addendum to my earlier post "Biding Time," but I should just dedicate a tag to this, as it's just like, a continuing fear.
There's a quote from Our Flag Means Death, from Lucius, played by Nathan Foad: "everyone is worried, all of the time, whether they're interesting or adventurous enough for you." I thought of it earlier because I realized, I am so worried, all of the time, whether I'm interesting or cool enough for anyone.
My two closest friends are so cool. One is almost a model, into fashion and crafting and cooking. The other is punk, playing the guitar and wearing those cool jean jackets with scary patches on them. They look so great, they've got a theme and they have hobbies that they enjoy. And it shows, for one, in the fact that they have other friends. They go to things, with other people.
What, in the name of all that is holy, do I have? For one, I have nothing going for me in the looks category, both in the physical elements I can't change and in any direction or sense to what I wear. I barely have hobbies. I have work that usually makes me miserable and an asshole, but I feel like I do nothing for myself. Haven't been much for it the last couple years. I'd pick up things sporadically, but never for long. I used to draw all the time as a kid/teen. I just have no inspiration anymore. I'm a middling excuse, an unbalanced example of a human being.
Hence why I don't have any other friends. People don't invite me to things. So it puts unreasonable pressure and terror on me to try to hold what I have, probably with a grip so tight I'll eventually suffocate those trapped in it. Or I may one day recoil in fear, isolate myself completely until I'm truly no one.
I want to be known and seen, but I'd rather plunge a bowie knife into my sternum than be seen and known.
I thought I was getting better with some of this. Maybe it's just the impending break, and the terror of being alone again, and knowing that everyone has their life and I won't hear much from them. I've never had friends who are good with the whole long-distance communication thing.
I don't know why I'm posting this here. I've got an actual physical journal, that I have told myself I'm supposed to be using. I've told myself I don't need a digital footprint of my mental problems. I'm not Pete Wentz. Nowhere near as poetic as him, either. If I was, that'd be an excuse. Not like anyone reads these anyway.
There's a quote from Our Flag Means Death, from Lucius, played by Nathan Foad: "everyone is worried, all of the time, whether they're interesting or adventurous enough for you." I thought of it earlier because I realized, I am so worried, all of the time, whether I'm interesting or cool enough for anyone.
My two closest friends are so cool. One is almost a model, into fashion and crafting and cooking. The other is punk, playing the guitar and wearing those cool jean jackets with scary patches on them. They look so great, they've got a theme and they have hobbies that they enjoy. And it shows, for one, in the fact that they have other friends. They go to things, with other people.
What, in the name of all that is holy, do I have? For one, I have nothing going for me in the looks category, both in the physical elements I can't change and in any direction or sense to what I wear. I barely have hobbies. I have work that usually makes me miserable and an asshole, but I feel like I do nothing for myself. Haven't been much for it the last couple years. I'd pick up things sporadically, but never for long. I used to draw all the time as a kid/teen. I just have no inspiration anymore. I'm a middling excuse, an unbalanced example of a human being.
Hence why I don't have any other friends. People don't invite me to things. So it puts unreasonable pressure and terror on me to try to hold what I have, probably with a grip so tight I'll eventually suffocate those trapped in it. Or I may one day recoil in fear, isolate myself completely until I'm truly no one.
I want to be known and seen, but I'd rather plunge a bowie knife into my sternum than be seen and known.
I thought I was getting better with some of this. Maybe it's just the impending break, and the terror of being alone again, and knowing that everyone has their life and I won't hear much from them. I've never had friends who are good with the whole long-distance communication thing.
I don't know why I'm posting this here. I've got an actual physical journal, that I have told myself I'm supposed to be using. I've told myself I don't need a digital footprint of my mental problems. I'm not Pete Wentz. Nowhere near as poetic as him, either. If I was, that'd be an excuse. Not like anyone reads these anyway.
Strikeout!
Dec. 14th, 2022 04:23 pmDon't you just love it when you just fail your way through a conversation?
Just met up with a guy, who's super nice, I just meet so many people through being the president of this LGBTQ+ organization that details elude me, and I just kept taking swings, and kept missing.
"So, you live at [apartment building]?"
"No, I'm in [freshman dorm]" (Strike 1)
"Oh! You're still a freshman?"
"No, just an RA. I'm actually a senior." (Strike 2)
"Oh, whoops! How does it feel to be graduating soon?"
"Ah, I'm actually not graduating this semester yet" (Strike 3)
Conversation wrapped up around that point. Back to the dugout!
Just met up with a guy, who's super nice, I just meet so many people through being the president of this LGBTQ+ organization that details elude me, and I just kept taking swings, and kept missing.
"So, you live at [apartment building]?"
"No, I'm in [freshman dorm]" (Strike 1)
"Oh! You're still a freshman?"
"No, just an RA. I'm actually a senior." (Strike 2)
"Oh, whoops! How does it feel to be graduating soon?"
"Ah, I'm actually not graduating this semester yet" (Strike 3)
Conversation wrapped up around that point. Back to the dugout!
Mikey and Nicky (1976)
Dec. 14th, 2022 11:22 amLast night I watched Mikey and Nicky (1976), directed by Elaine May and starring Peter Falk as Mikey, best known for his role as Columbo, and John Cassavetes as Nicky. It was very good!
I'm not always the biggest fan of older movies, even some well-regarded ones I find difficult to call favorites; ones I do like tend to veer from the status quo in ways so genuine that modern films still fail to capture. This is definitely one of those. In all honesty I went into the movie due to hearing that the homoerotic subtext of Tumblr's fictional Goncharov (1973) was in large part inspired by Mikey and Nicky, but I think that Mikey and Nicky is a lot more than that. It is true it had moments that made me raise an eyebrow- Peter Falk's Mikey pinning John Cassavetes Nicky to a bed, force-feeding him anti-acid tablets when Nicky refuses to take care of himself- but both the writing and the raw emotion in Peter Falk's eyes paint, romantic or not, a bittersweet love of a man who is no good to him. But the two once truly loved each other, were connected in a way that cannot be severed by childhood, by loss, by trauma. I had only recently come across this quote that serves the analysis of these characters well:
"There’s a Korean word my grandma taught me. It’s called jung. It’s the connection between two people that can’t be severed, even when love turns to hate. You still have those old feelings for them; you can’t ever completely shake them loose of you; you will always have tenderness in your heart for them."
-Jenny Han, P.S. I Still Love You
Though (spoilers from here on out,) we find out that Mikey was, in fact, helping with the hit out on Nicky, it's hard to not see as more complicated than that. Mikey had started to truly enjoy his time with Nicky, in some ways, but Nicky did not care. He is never content with what he has, he puts no thought into anyone but himself, and his uncontrollable urge for more. The job that Mikey gets him, he abandons him for; ignoring Mikey in public, making fun of him to his boss. Cheating on his wife with other girls, bragging to friends about what a whore his new girlfriend is, telling them to try sleeping with her, but then becoming mad at her for "cheating" (which it is still unclear if she did). He does the same to Mikey, telling him to try with the same girl, right after having sex with her on the floor as Mikey sat uncomfortably in a corner, looking away, smoking a cigarette and eating M&Ms. Mikey seems very hesitant about this, either because he has a wife or feelings for Nicky. Or just because it's a weird as hell situation. He tries talking to the girlfriend, Nellie, played by Carol Grace, asking her if she reads the news. If she's heard about the growing military of the Chinese government. He finally, awkwardly, goes in for a kiss, only for her to bite his lip. He's briefly mad at her, but it quickly turns to Nicky, who at this point he realizes "this is why I wanted him dead." They fight in the street. Verbally at first, and then physically. Nicky destroys Mikey's watch, given to him by his late father, worn previously by his younger brother who had died of cancer. After Mikey goes on a failed manhunt with hitman Kinney, played by Ned Beatty, which is when we first fully realize he was in on the hit the whole time; Mikey goes home, to a wife he seems emotionally detached from, and Nicky comes to the door, only to be shot dead on the doorstep. The film ends on Mikey, staring at the door from the inside, a difficult to read expression on his face. Jung. He knew what was about to happen, but a connection was still severed.
There's still some complicated dialogue and other choices that merit giving this film a re-watch, but even on the first viewing it's likely become one of my favorite films from the 70s.
I'm not always the biggest fan of older movies, even some well-regarded ones I find difficult to call favorites; ones I do like tend to veer from the status quo in ways so genuine that modern films still fail to capture. This is definitely one of those. In all honesty I went into the movie due to hearing that the homoerotic subtext of Tumblr's fictional Goncharov (1973) was in large part inspired by Mikey and Nicky, but I think that Mikey and Nicky is a lot more than that. It is true it had moments that made me raise an eyebrow- Peter Falk's Mikey pinning John Cassavetes Nicky to a bed, force-feeding him anti-acid tablets when Nicky refuses to take care of himself- but both the writing and the raw emotion in Peter Falk's eyes paint, romantic or not, a bittersweet love of a man who is no good to him. But the two once truly loved each other, were connected in a way that cannot be severed by childhood, by loss, by trauma. I had only recently come across this quote that serves the analysis of these characters well:
"There’s a Korean word my grandma taught me. It’s called jung. It’s the connection between two people that can’t be severed, even when love turns to hate. You still have those old feelings for them; you can’t ever completely shake them loose of you; you will always have tenderness in your heart for them."
-Jenny Han, P.S. I Still Love You
Though (spoilers from here on out,) we find out that Mikey was, in fact, helping with the hit out on Nicky, it's hard to not see as more complicated than that. Mikey had started to truly enjoy his time with Nicky, in some ways, but Nicky did not care. He is never content with what he has, he puts no thought into anyone but himself, and his uncontrollable urge for more. The job that Mikey gets him, he abandons him for; ignoring Mikey in public, making fun of him to his boss. Cheating on his wife with other girls, bragging to friends about what a whore his new girlfriend is, telling them to try sleeping with her, but then becoming mad at her for "cheating" (which it is still unclear if she did). He does the same to Mikey, telling him to try with the same girl, right after having sex with her on the floor as Mikey sat uncomfortably in a corner, looking away, smoking a cigarette and eating M&Ms. Mikey seems very hesitant about this, either because he has a wife or feelings for Nicky. Or just because it's a weird as hell situation. He tries talking to the girlfriend, Nellie, played by Carol Grace, asking her if she reads the news. If she's heard about the growing military of the Chinese government. He finally, awkwardly, goes in for a kiss, only for her to bite his lip. He's briefly mad at her, but it quickly turns to Nicky, who at this point he realizes "this is why I wanted him dead." They fight in the street. Verbally at first, and then physically. Nicky destroys Mikey's watch, given to him by his late father, worn previously by his younger brother who had died of cancer. After Mikey goes on a failed manhunt with hitman Kinney, played by Ned Beatty, which is when we first fully realize he was in on the hit the whole time; Mikey goes home, to a wife he seems emotionally detached from, and Nicky comes to the door, only to be shot dead on the doorstep. The film ends on Mikey, staring at the door from the inside, a difficult to read expression on his face. Jung. He knew what was about to happen, but a connection was still severed.
There's still some complicated dialogue and other choices that merit giving this film a re-watch, but even on the first viewing it's likely become one of my favorite films from the 70s.
Biding Time
Dec. 12th, 2022 11:21 pmIt ebbs and flows, the general fear and heartache and whatnot. I wouldn't call myself rejection-sensitive but I'm a lot more nervous in my heart then I attempt to portray myself. I fiddle with my hands and think. I sit and consider what I want to do, who I want to be. I'm always critiquing what I am, but have no real answers as to who else to be. My heart sinks when I realize I've done too much again, that I've shared too much again, been overwhelmed by that human need for connection. It feels as if at many points my soul is attempting to dig its fingernails into an embrace with another, any other, but that unstoppable force is met simply by its immovable object; the fear of true perception, of being no good, too good, of meaning a fraction of anything to anyone else. It might even be easier if the two met and stayed still, but instead they're partners in a dance, swaying back and forth in their influence on my psyche.
I think like a lot of other people, the pandemic and it's aftermath changed me. For one and a half years, I had no friends. The closest to human connection I felt at that time were the conversations I "took part" in with Matt and Ryan of the SuperMegaCast. Now I'm a feral animal, shaking, inching forward, inching away from the tuna can. The metal bars around it scare me, but I will soon starve to death. It is winter, after all.
I just don't ever feel wanted. I want; but I think I no longer expect anyone to desire to be around me, to desire me, as a person, not a set of capabilities. If I'm eager to feel wanted, I'll put myself to work. Sometimes it's not bad. I've learned to make peace with it. But then sometimes I realize it's leeching out, making itself known like the swollen lithium-ion battery currently snapping open the backing of my laptop. They've told me that's dangerous, but I'm more concerned with the ugliness of the breaking.
Even now, I read back and I shrink away from it. Yuck!
I think like a lot of other people, the pandemic and it's aftermath changed me. For one and a half years, I had no friends. The closest to human connection I felt at that time were the conversations I "took part" in with Matt and Ryan of the SuperMegaCast. Now I'm a feral animal, shaking, inching forward, inching away from the tuna can. The metal bars around it scare me, but I will soon starve to death. It is winter, after all.
I just don't ever feel wanted. I want; but I think I no longer expect anyone to desire to be around me, to desire me, as a person, not a set of capabilities. If I'm eager to feel wanted, I'll put myself to work. Sometimes it's not bad. I've learned to make peace with it. But then sometimes I realize it's leeching out, making itself known like the swollen lithium-ion battery currently snapping open the backing of my laptop. They've told me that's dangerous, but I'm more concerned with the ugliness of the breaking.
Even now, I read back and I shrink away from it. Yuck!
I have been thinking a lot about the shooting at Club Q in Colorado Springs.
5 dead, 25+ wounded.
Two of the dead have been identified as transgender.
One was a transgender man named Daniel. I found his Twitter.
His username was a reference to They Might Be Giants. He tweeted about his uncertainty in getting a hysterectomy, not wanting to rule out surrogacy, but not having the money to pay to freeze his eggs. I chuckled at that tweet. I've had the same thoughts.
He tweeted about how he eagerly planned a pop punk/emo night at the bar. How he loved the community at the bar, that they loved him.
I shared something he said, to mourn. Said he could have been someone I know. He could have been me. And he is dead.
A cisgender friend chimed in. I love this friend, but I can't help but feel defeated. How much he does not see clearly, that I don't know if I can teach him.
He said that I am alive. I cannot give into rage, I must get off of the dying social media site and support non-profits. Peaceful, joyful, structural change.
I am the president of a non-profit for LGBTQ+ students at our university. I keep in contact with many local non-profits. And even then, we're all spread thin. And hate still grows.
And why, why not feel rage? People are dead. Others dismiss their entire existence. Our spaces, the ones we were told were for us, kept us behind closed doors so they didn't have to see us, are no longer safe. Yes, I feel rage. Unfathomable, white-hot rage. The structures we live in do not care about us, that they've made abundantly clear. I've worked inside them. I've talked to the media, been in the news, advocated for justice within the system, reasonable, protective.
We didn't get it.
Yes, I am still alive, but others are dead. And no one can speak for them. Speaking itself feels weak, feeble.
Stonewall was a riot. What if rage is all we have?
5 dead, 25+ wounded.
Two of the dead have been identified as transgender.
One was a transgender man named Daniel. I found his Twitter.
His username was a reference to They Might Be Giants. He tweeted about his uncertainty in getting a hysterectomy, not wanting to rule out surrogacy, but not having the money to pay to freeze his eggs. I chuckled at that tweet. I've had the same thoughts.
He tweeted about how he eagerly planned a pop punk/emo night at the bar. How he loved the community at the bar, that they loved him.
I shared something he said, to mourn. Said he could have been someone I know. He could have been me. And he is dead.
A cisgender friend chimed in. I love this friend, but I can't help but feel defeated. How much he does not see clearly, that I don't know if I can teach him.
He said that I am alive. I cannot give into rage, I must get off of the dying social media site and support non-profits. Peaceful, joyful, structural change.
I am the president of a non-profit for LGBTQ+ students at our university. I keep in contact with many local non-profits. And even then, we're all spread thin. And hate still grows.
And why, why not feel rage? People are dead. Others dismiss their entire existence. Our spaces, the ones we were told were for us, kept us behind closed doors so they didn't have to see us, are no longer safe. Yes, I feel rage. Unfathomable, white-hot rage. The structures we live in do not care about us, that they've made abundantly clear. I've worked inside them. I've talked to the media, been in the news, advocated for justice within the system, reasonable, protective.
We didn't get it.
Yes, I am still alive, but others are dead. And no one can speak for them. Speaking itself feels weak, feeble.
Stonewall was a riot. What if rage is all we have?
Pharmaceuticals
Nov. 21st, 2022 11:47 amIt's funny, every time I go to the pharmacy,
I have to maneuver carefully through hoops to get what doctors told me I need.
I could have lied, I could be addicted.
It's silly to me, as I dream of functioning normally,
driving past the pharmacy knowing I need nothing there.
It also makes me laugh, in a hollow, bitter way, when the people tasked with oversight do not know what I do.
I will not be able to focus for the week because their restock was delayed.
"Why did you not order it earlier?"
I could not. My insurance would reject it. And I cannot afford it without.
"You can transfer it to another location."
No. It's considered too "dangerous" to transfer, for reasons beyond my comprehension.
"Call other pharmacies, see if they have it, then call your doctor, have them manually remove one prescription, put in another."
The laugh grows, into a howl, but just as hollow.
I look the pharmacist in the eyes. He is genuine. "That will take more than the week it'll take to stock here."
It feels pitiful to complain about this, too, in a way;
I know someone with rheumatoid arthritis. They have the same fight, especially being young. They think they don't need it. Pharmacies withhold it for days. I've seen stories; autoimmune disorders, cancers, it's all the same.
My mother cried, a week after a hip replacement, forced by degenerative joints. She wanted to never have to take another painkiller again, despised her reliance on the pharmacy.
I may develop the same degeneration as her.
But for now, I just can't focus.
I have to maneuver carefully through hoops to get what doctors told me I need.
I could have lied, I could be addicted.
It's silly to me, as I dream of functioning normally,
driving past the pharmacy knowing I need nothing there.
It also makes me laugh, in a hollow, bitter way, when the people tasked with oversight do not know what I do.
I will not be able to focus for the week because their restock was delayed.
"Why did you not order it earlier?"
I could not. My insurance would reject it. And I cannot afford it without.
"You can transfer it to another location."
No. It's considered too "dangerous" to transfer, for reasons beyond my comprehension.
"Call other pharmacies, see if they have it, then call your doctor, have them manually remove one prescription, put in another."
The laugh grows, into a howl, but just as hollow.
I look the pharmacist in the eyes. He is genuine. "That will take more than the week it'll take to stock here."
It feels pitiful to complain about this, too, in a way;
I know someone with rheumatoid arthritis. They have the same fight, especially being young. They think they don't need it. Pharmacies withhold it for days. I've seen stories; autoimmune disorders, cancers, it's all the same.
My mother cried, a week after a hip replacement, forced by degenerative joints. She wanted to never have to take another painkiller again, despised her reliance on the pharmacy.
I may develop the same degeneration as her.
But for now, I just can't focus.
