Of Strength, Luck and Crashing Down

I'll add illustrations to this and some passages to thin it out and make it... not as heavy.  For now, it's two AM and I just wanted to get this out there.
EDIT: Hey look!  Illustrations. 

While reading this, you will see that some things are in italics.  These were added later.  It may make for a discussion with myself, or even an argument.  You may actually read my sanity arguing with what I've become.

An appropriate quote from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland is, "Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next."

I am not as strong as people think.

I don't really know what gave anyone this impression.

The fact is that when a person gets a lot of shit handed to him or her, everyone naturally assumes that person must be very brave.

This doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

The bravest person in the world could die from a bee sting or complications after a fever.  It doesn't make him or her less brave just because that person didn't survive…

So the fact that I just… kept going… shouldn't really indicate any bravery.

I didn't fight, I didn't argue, I didn't really do much except panic, hide, cry a lot, not understand and be frustrated when no one could understand me, feel alone, and pretty much hate everything, yet never ask for help above a whisper…

To never ask for help and then complain when no one assists is just plain rude.  It is no one's fault but my own.  
Yes, I did ask a few times, at random, to the wrong people.  I blindly trusted the wrong people as well, and blamed only my own judgement later on, rather than blaming the fact that I didn't try again with someone else.  I should have kept going... And now as an adult, when I ask for help, I do feel guilty.  I feel like I'm wasting everyone's time or that they must think me very stupid.  I understand in a logical sense that none of this is so terrible.  

In fact, it's not even as bad as I've already been through...  But it's affecting me and hurting me.  I'm hurting myself, and I want someone to stop me.  That isn't fair.  It's no one's job to stop me from hurting myself but my own.  
And you know what?  I am strong enough to do that.  I'm just afraid and I hate myself for being afraid of nothing.  Why would I help someone I hate?  Someone who does such stupid things...  
I'm embarrassed, and that embarrassment is crippling.  

And then I would forget and be really happy for a while. 

I wasn't brave.

I was just in denial and didn't always have much else to compare it to.

Stunned maybe.  

I survived.

This doesn't mean that I had an undying will to survive or that I pushed myself beyond the odds…

Perhaps I didn't need such a will to survive.  I didn't need to push and push and push.  Maybe a lot of people would have needed that, and I just happened to survive without it.  

It means that in all the bad luck, there were moments of good luck or at least moments of calm that were long enough to pull me through.

It means that I plain forgot to care when I reached a point where nothing mattered anymore. This isn't bravery, so much as it's a kind of depression.

And sometimes... Not always, but sometimes...  Things were not so terrible.  Sometimes things were actually quite wonderful and helped the bad not matter so very much.  Still, always the neurotic child destined to be the neurotic and shaky adult, I always had a nagging fear in the back of my mind.  

The trick was acknowledging it and then letting it sit there without it taking over everything else.  
That was the trick only because I had no idea how to let it go. 

I gave up, and then life let up a little.

I called uncle, so my situation laughed and let me go.

"Just kidding Rowyn!  Go on, off with you.  Go try to be normal now that you're shaking.  Hope no one notices."

That isn't bravery.  It isn't being strong.

My father, and many others vehemently disagree.  They say strength is just the opposite of what I feel it is.  It's having the ability to just take it all and survive.  Still, the idea that I never fought back is troubling.  The idea that I am still not fighting back, and I'm allowing myself to disintegrate into a puddle of mush resembling something I do not want is even more troubling still.

Damn it, I'm better than this!   

That being said, I was never so completely hopeless.  I just didn't have the space to think about hope one way or another.  I just dragged myself along, scraping the bottom with my toes but not quite touching my feet down to the darkest depths.   I wouldn't let myself.

I don't call this a strong will so much as being stubborn.

Which in my life, may have actually been the same thing. 

I skirted along until I washed up on shore.  I didn't search for it or find it… I accidentally tripped onto land.

And why can't I be thankful for such luck?  Do I not feel I deserve it?  

And once I was there, I had no fucking clue what to do with myself.

I had wadded for so long that my legs had atrophied, but in an attempt not to bother the people around me, I just kind of held it in.

I bottled it up and pretended I was strong and had let things go.

Again, this may be it's own kind of strength, but in the end it isn't healthy.  If I could bottle it for a while and then empty it out, sure... but I don't.  I keep it.  I keep bottles and bottles of all this terror and I keep them safe and sound in some hateful wine cellar.  I'm afraid of what I am if any bottle is emptied.  I'm afraid of what my friends would say if they saw the contents without my explanations. 

So I collect the bottles as though they are important.  I make myself believe that I need them and that they make up who I am. 

Well, they fucking do now.  But I know I'm more than this.  

…I'm not a good liar.  I never have been.

I don't let anything go.

Ever.

Everything just builds and attaches itself to other things and becomes this giant conglomerate of hate and pain and sorrow magnified a thousand times until it overshadows all that blissful denial filled joy I had once enjoyed before.

I know that the joy is there somewhere. 

Enveloped in my own stupidity and stubborn nature.

Even now in the swing of this strange semi-functional depression, I am still capable of being happy.  Every now and then, by body gets confused and fuzzes the difference between elation and terror, which is unfortunate.  Still, once I get it straightened out again, I'm very content at times.  The trick seems to then be not letting myself sink back into "This will all come crashing down again" and instead hold onto the idea that I can, in fact, be happy once in a while.  

To be content should not immediately turn to assuming I now have something great to lose, and more than that, it should not MEAN that I WILL absolutely lose that wonderful new happiness.   Provided I don't suddenly chuck the damn thing out a window for no reason, there is nothing saying that chance and fate and all that won't finally let me hold onto it.  

...So why do I throw it out, assuming I'll just lose it all anyway?  It's that stupid logic that I've argued against in relationships, so why not my own life on a day to day basis?

I am not strong.  I am a stubborn ass.

And eventually, that stubborn nature will absolutely kill me if I don't make a change soon. 

I don't have the will to fight my fears every single day.  No one does.  No one should have to.  I barely have it on good days, but I still HAVE those good days, and that means something. 

I cannot do this alone, and I know I don't have to.

I have many friends who have not only put up with my shit, but have seemed happy to do so.

Many of them have even gone through similar times.  They understand and accept me.  

So why do I feel lonely?

I'll tell you why.

Because I'm a stubborn ass.

I've decided that my life is over and that there is nothing I can do and no one can assist me.  I've decided that because I feel guilty when someone does want to help me.  I feel like I'm wasting everyone's time and that I'm not worth saving.

Stubborn and stupid, but I know better. 

And then when I DO feel better, that brings it's own guilt.  "How miserable will I make my friends and family, who are currently so happy with me, when I have a bad day again?"

Has this become a fear of success on some level?  How very sad.  I would love to be successful in many ways.  It would be a shame to sabotage myself to prove a non-existent point to no one but my own negative voice in my head.  

That being said, obviously, I'm still standing.  I haven't done anything, nor will I.  At least, I assume I won't, since I haven't yet.

I've already been through enough that could have led to such an end.

It didn't.

Out of another fear, or for someone else...?  Either way, in this case it is a good thing.

There are plenty of people who have been through more on a daily basis than I have ever gone through.

What we live through specifically doesn't matter so much as how we respond to whatever it is we have been through. 

I have not responded terribly well, and no, this is not a new thing.  I'm just not the kind of person who handles stress well... but I handle it very inwardly.

On the other hand, I went a good 26 or so years without a complete meltdown.  That's a pretty good record.  It's not like I had one big trauma that stuck out and shook me.  I've had many things happen over the years.  Each one on it's own was both terrible and something others could have just forgotten.  It depends on the person, I suppose.  

I never had time to get over each one before something else would happen.  I never let myself just sit and work through what I needed to.  Just letting go won't work.  I've tried it.  It just makes me feel like nothing mattered and nothing meant anything... When clearly it did.  

I know now that it all mattered.  Even if no one else knew that.  It still mattered.  

It's all smooshed together and therefore harder to look at clearly.  Perhaps picking each piece apart and going through them one by one would help?  

I tuck it away.

I have my moments to be sure, but how easily I give up even the things that matter most to me should matter in the "I'm not a strong person" argument here. 

I come to a wall, and I don't climb it. 

I just walk away.

I don't walk around it…

I walk away from it and continue to look back as though I couldn't have taken another route.

I'm stubborn and I'm kind of an idiot.

While I've done this in many respects, the one that really gets me still is what happened at my first college.  I never moved on.  
Art school represented my entire life to me.  I went to live my dream and be away from what was hurting me emotionally.  I had real hope.  
I got one opinion on my arm and forced myself to prove the doctor wrong.  That doctor didn't even keep me in his record.  I hurt myself for nothing, and then got kicked out.  I could have fought it.  I could have easily stayed and gotten help.  Instead, I finished my degree in a school that was not an art school and never forgave myself.  

What do I need in order to feel accomplished in this area?  What would validate my time spent there and the fact that I AM an artist, regardless of what I tell myself when I am depressed?    

I don't feel like I really exist anymore.  I'm aware that when I'm not around, there are people who miss me, so I don't mean in that sense.

Thank God.

I mean that my past is so muddled and forgotten by everyone around me…
You know...  I forget things that don't matter to me, so it makes me question how much it really mattered if everyone but me forgot.

If everyone can forget, and this means my shitty little life hasn't really been that bad… I'm just reacting incredibly poorly.

And without a past, how do I know who I am today?  What have I learned?  What HAVE I overcome?  I'm a "strong person" who has no past anyone will talk about.

But it wasn't their past.  It was mine.  It was mine to remember, respond to, interpret and grow from.  Even if it's wrong or right, it doesn't matter in that literal of a sense.  What matters is what I'm doing now with all of it and all of the meaning behind it.  

By this logic, my PTSD, my anxiety, my current health, my nightmares?  All just me responding in a stupid way and I'm not strong enough to stop it through will alone, nor am I smart enough to figure out this puzzle, nor am I brave enough to just medicate myself until I feel nothing at all anymore.

Bullshit.  Yes I am.  I'm just afraid to acknowledge that, lest I try and fail.   Failure is much easier.  I'm lazy.

I, myself, often confuse that last bit with bravery.

Ah, but if I don't want medication, even if it might help in theory, I'll just find a way to use the fact that I'm on something against myself.  I'll teeter back and forth between feeling brave for it and feeling weak.  So, lets stop that line of thinking now. 

It's just stubbornness at it's purest. 

I'm determined to get through this on my own,
to get back to how I was…
Which wasn't really all that different and may be a complete muddle of facts anyway.

It was just quieter and less in anyone else's face.  I bothered less people with it.

This is good to remember.  Once I'm back to how I was, as miserable as that often was, THEN I'll be able to move forward in a different way.  I'll conquer new fears.  I'll move forward and be stronger than ever.  But, I need to understand what it is I'm really going back to first.  That way, I won't be so disappointed in myself and get too hung up on it all.  

I'm determined to get through this on my own…
but I can't.

Some days, I really want to. 
I want a normal life.  I want the life I've never relaxed long enough to have…

And some days, it just isn't worth the struggle to me.  I get mad at myself because it shouldn't NEED to be a struggle.  It's easy for other people.  I get frustrated and then stop moving forward all together, when I should be using those moments to propel myself forward.

Yes.

What happened to the determination I ever had?  I had it for stupid things, like winning boyfriends, but it was there.  Stalker level... but determination none the less that could be utilized now if I had any idea how to conjure and harvest it.

Exactly.  So how?  Just remembering won't work if I don't trust my own memory.  How do I picture the real Rowyn Golde?  Who is she?  Maybe I can pretend to be her until it sticks.  If I'm so easily led, perhaps I can trick myself into a better life.  

I want to blame someone other than myself.

I want to think I had no choice so that I can move on without just hating myself for doing this to me.  Punch out whoever did this to me and walk away. 

I want to put my goals and my emotional stability on someone else.  I want to get better FOR someone else, because I don't think I'm worthwhile enough to bother doing so just for myself.  Myself and I have an awful, rocky, love/hate thing going on.  Real soap opera crap.  I'm just not supportive enough of me to be my own therapist, let alone friend or goal.

Imaginary friends are probably unhealthy too, as is projecting and effectively using a friend as a therapy tool. 

My denial is broken.  It doesn't work anymore.  The reality is so strange and twisted and ugly to me that I just don't want to look.  It's not that I can't.  It's that I don't want to.  I want to wake up and just not care…  But I want to care.  I want to care and love everything.  …But I don't want to push myself.

I need to remember the cup.  There is a large blue cup in my parent's house that warped in the dishwasher.  When turned a certain way, it looks like it's smiling.  
It's ugly, for a cup, but cute for an art piece showing a facsimile of a human facial expression.  

The cup is deformed, but still functions.  I have an odd love for this cup because I look at it as though it is a mirror.  It doesn't match the other ones and other people would throw it out, but it still holds liquid.  It still does the job... and when looked upon from the right angle, it doesn't look deformed at all.    
It's still good enough, and I still like it.  
Even if I feel ugly, maybe I'm just different. 

My main issue as of late: I don't want to choke or have an allergic reaction to nothing at all.

Okay.

Well, it's strange science.  No one really knows anything.  Anyone can suddenly develop an allergy at any given moment to any damn thing.  That's the problem…

I have no control over my own body and I therefore have no control over whether I live or die.

Technically, no one does, but I'm having trouble finding comfort in that. 

It used to be that taking a chance wasn't a huge deal, because anyone can die any day from pretty much anything.  ...And sometimes, I was afraid, but I sat still and dealt with it with a smile on my face for the sake of those I cared about.

I have a hard time doing anything for myself when it isn't secretly for someone else.

This could be good in a sense.  If I smarten up and prove to myself that I can be okay for a few hours when with someone, even if it is FOR that someone, I can then remember that I had gotten that far and repeat accordingly.  

I knew in my heart that this (severe allergies) was common enough, and certainly nothing compared to EVERYTHING else in my life.  ...Everything else being other situations where I felt I had no control over my body, felt I couldn't cry out for help, felt no one would try to hear me anyway...
Much like suffocating inside yourself due to eating a macadamia nut.

It's a different kind of trauma, but for me it's just yet another trauma.  Nothing more and nothing less.  The difference really is that you can SEE if someone is going to hit you.  You can HEAR a car smash into another car.

You can't actually have any idea if someone freaking touched a nut and then touched something you are about to eat.

Tiny particles of instant death are scary, and even though I have lived just fine thus far, (lived JUST FINE thus far!!) they have become the end all be all of scary shit I can't really control.  The fact that I've HAD these reactions is the problem.

I've had these reactions, this is a real thing... and then I had throat damage that caused an amazing amount of pain from... something.  Environmental allergies?  Smoke damage?  Who knows??  Could have been anything. 

I had no control.  It just happened without my knowledge.

There is something kind of... rape-like about it all.  Beyond that, I've developed a desperate need for a plan, but I haven't yet developed the "umph" needed to demand a plan.  This is silly because a lot of my friends wouldn't mind one from time to time.  I still fear being an overbearing burden.  Crap.  

...So I don't eat or only eat in very specific circumstances in order have a sense of control. 

This is inherently wrong.

Especially considering that I want to eat.  I WANT to eat.  I've been avoiding even my favorite foods from my favorite places, just in case of... something?  Something like what??  Tree nuts and chickpeas on everything!! 

I'm going to die, but I'll die by my own rules?  …But I don't want to ever commit suicide.

Right. 

…Poses a bit of a problem, doesn't it?

Circular, illogical logic that I've been grabbing onto just so I can hold onto SOMETHING that I feel won't leave me of it's own accord.

Huh.  Abandonment issues to an odd extreme, yet I avoid social gatherings with my best friends.  Kay.

How very sad.

And how very silly.

...And I know that.



I'm not the only person in the world to have a crippling bout of depression, nor am I the only one to flip shit and turn into something I don't like.  The art of other people has helped me a lot in feeling less alone.
Penanggalan's Depression on deviantart and  Adventures in Depression on Hyperbole and a Half are great examples. 

Binders Full of Women and My History With Squirrels

Just to get this image out of the way here...

Whew.
Believe me, I could make a giant book of the problems women face today and how frustrating it is that so few people really understand A. the impact these things have on women and B. how little this shit should even still be coming up in 2012.  Holy crap people.  Women can do more than pop out babies and make you a sandwich.  Jesus tits.

But, I won't.  Not yet.  Instead, I'll leave you with that illustration.



Okay, so, onto the real post.

I talk a lot about art school and the impact that had on me, but I was only there for a year.  Sure, I've got some unfinished business and I have been (as always) in need of some closure, but really it just represents a life I could still have... if I wasn't a stubborn ass.  I could reconnect with the people I knew so briefly instead of assuming they've forgotten about me, and I could get something published.  These would fix most of the problems.


Instead, I'll tell you a little tale of the school from which I actually graduated.  I did get a BA in Art, as well as one in Psychology.  Oh, poor me.  Woe is me.  I wound up with two freaking degrees, and one might actually be useful.  Oh no.  Whatever shall I do?  I'm absolutely aware that I am, in fact, an asshat.

Anyway, the squirrels.

As anyone who has lived on campus in an area with squirrels will tell you, after a while, these buggers get fearless.  Also, they get huge.

Free food and drunken kids who like fuzzy creatures makes for a very cushy, and somewhat privileged life.  The squirrels get ballsy.  Like... full of balls.  No, I won't draw that.

I'm walking to the dining hall this one fine afternoon, and I happen upon a squirrel.

Adorable as he is, I think nothing of it and continue walking forward, assuming the little guy will move.

...He didn't.

Instead, little bitch just stared me down.

 I found this a bit unnerving, but I continued forward.  I realized that he was big enough to block my way.  I questioned if he had rabies or something.  He didn't move.

In fact, he stood his goddamn ground.

Kaaaaay...  Well, fuck.  I'm not going to take shit from a rodent, right?  I'm hungry, and he's in my way.  I'm at least twice this randomly ridiculously large creature's size.  I could totally take him.

Or not.

Eventually, after what seemed like far too long of a stand off, I faltered.  

It felt like I got mugged by this squirrel.  In my head, this was how it went down:

And so I was spared: 

 

In reality, I'm such a pansy (and had no food on me, since I was going TO the cafeteria, not from it...) I just very quietly and slowly walked around to the other side of the building.  Like a wuss.  Like a giant, pansy wuss who can't take on a freaking squirrel.  

Completely unrelated because I don't know how to make this into it's whole own post: 

My Brain Needs an Electrician

Lately, as my brain has started to attempt to rewire itself, I have more good days than bad.  However, there are still days were "pushing myself" by doing things I know I should be able to do is a harrowing experience.

 I'm almost always on edge, unless I'm just too exhausted to care one way or another.

This whole turning the thoughts off thing is harder to do than I was hoping. 

It's like some chunk of my brain only understands how to function in danger.  When I'm not in some kind of trouble, this chunk just sits and rocks back and forth going "Any second.  It's going to happen any second.  I don't know WHAT but it'll be a big ol' something and it's going to ruin everything."

It sits and scowls and panics and when it spots some other area of the brain having a good time, it pipes up just to yell, "DON'T BOTHER BEING JOYOUS!  IT'LL ALL COME CRASHING DOWN AGAIN!"

At which point, it breaks out the chalk board and goes into excruciating detail about random events in the past year, and throughout my life, which could not have been avoided and CLEARLY I was just helpless and the world was always going to be constantly ending, so why bother enjoying the moments I have?

...I'm aware of how insane the logic is.  I know.  I know and that just frustrates me even more. 

Then the rest of my brain takes off their party hats and starts crying, because of Captain Party Pooper.

A good example is what just happened today.

As you may have gathered by now, I'm part of that "Boomerang Generation" and living with my parents again.  This is not to say that I lost a job or just couldn't find one.  It's that I had my second "WORLD ENDING" breakdown and wound up back home in a heap of pathetic misery. 

So, I try to be helpful wherever I can.

I was told to stir things.  I accepted without a second thought, because I'm an adult and this isn't an issue.

 

Lookit me.  Lookit me bein' all sure of myself.

There was no reason for this moment of "GAAAAAAAAAAAAAH" but I had it anyway.  Knowing I was just being a loon, I kept it to myself until it went away.  

Panic attacks are very rare these days (unlike the beginning of the Summer) so I can mostly just ignore them until my heart goes, "Oh, this isn't an issue?  My bad." 

 

Like I said.  Stirring.  Woo.

And then...

 

Look at me go.  That is some hot stirring action.

It was around this time that I decided it was the timing of it that was getting to me.  I was afraid that I'd forget about it.  ...Then, I thought maybe it was this overpowering sense of guilt.  

I hate feeling guilty, yet I do it to myself for almost everything.  I figured, even if I did everything right, if the food wasn't perfect, everyone would assume it was my fault (they wouldn't) and then I'd assume it was my fault, and then I'd obsess over what I could have done differently.

Right.

 

Sooo I obsess over the idea that I might wind up obsessing, just like I have been avoiding things I want to do and giving myself reason to panic JUST IN CASE so I don't ...have a... panic attack?  

What?  

Reader Question Two! Fear and Loathing... Inside My Head

This one will be in response to a reader question about my fears... Which kind of creeps me out on some level cause it was an anonymous person and what the fuck is this person going to do with the information once he or she has it and...

Okay, let's go ahead right now and add “paranoid” to the list of things wrong with me.

As for stupid habits that were originally based in fear, you can add:

Peaking behind the shower curtain, just to “check”

This is from a few random bad experiences and bad people doing stupid pranks (*cough*HIGHSCHOOL*cough*EXBOYFRIEND*cough*ANDMYSISTER*cough*) smooshed with nightmares and the fact that my trauma addled brain couldn't tell the difference after a while.

and...

Skipping the last step on a staircase

The stair thing is because of getting hurt a very long time ago. “Very long” being like twenty freaking years ago.

Though, that one is now limited to the main staircase in my parent's house, and I do the shower thing less these days. It's really all just habit now, with much less serious concern behind the acts.

Next on the list of things I avoid as much as I can: Dogs.

 

My issue with dogs is that if I don't know the personality of the dog, I don't know what the dog will do. Since I'm small, if a big dog jumps, that means I will go down and get hurt. If a little dog bites, that means I can't outrun it and I will get hurt.

I'm also allergic to dogs, so it's unfortunate that they are playful things that like to get REALLY CLOSE TO YOUR FACE.

I'm allergic to cats, but they mostly care less and we can leave each other alone.

Dogs are invasive and overly friendly, or overly invasive and aggressive. Very rarely have I come across a dog that would just leave me the fuck alone. Either way, they remind me of the traits I also don't like in human beings.

Dogs are man's best friend and I'm not particularly fond of either one.

Other allergy fears are more things I can't always avoid, like grass.

This isn't just a “oh no, my nose is running and my eyes are watering because someone just mowed the lawn” allergy.

To give you an idea, I was once laying on the grass (like normal children do) and looking at clouds with friends. I started feeling really nauseous.

I got up, and my entire back and arms and anything that was anywhere near the grass was covered in a giant, itching, fiery red rash.

A shower fixed it, but oh my dear fuck.

I'm not even going to draw that because of how sad and horrible it is.

It's the reason I went off to the other side of the country, and why it was incredibly heart breaking to learn that I still had bad (even worse) allergies out where there is no grass.

Well, no grass that grows naturally on lawns, anyway.

Now we get to the real meat of this answer.

I have a few fairly reasonable fears, or at least fears that were reasonable until I blew them out of proportion.

But! The two things that are completely irrational fears that actually have caused me extreme distress in my life for NO FLIPPING REASON are these:

Zombies

and worms

As you can see, they are kind of related in my head.

I have a problem with amputation. This is not to say that I can't talk to someone who has had something amputated, and the average limb removal in a movie just irks me a little. When there is torture involved, I will get sick.

But, my issue with amputation is a fear of losing my own limbs. Luckily, my arms have not so far gone the way they could have. I even gained back the feeling in my ring fingers after not having that for many years. Still, I'm deeply afraid of this.

It's also a matter of pride. There is something to be said about the fact that without an x-ray, the average person would not notice my bones. Even at my thinnest, I'm just skinny, rather than obviously deformed in some way. To remove a limb would be noticeable. I would be noticeably differently-abled, and the way I am, I would most likely not take it very well.

Zombies get limbs blasted off all the time and rip off the limbs of the living with ease.

...and it's the turning into a zombie that scares me. It's the being chased, and watching your friends die, and knowing you've been bitten and hoping you are immune and knowing you will turn and OH GOD what if you can still THINK? What if you are still aware, but can't do anything to stop yourself??

Worms are creepy to me because there are other kinds of worms that can get into your body, your brain and eyes and such... and do things. Bad things.

Earth worms are limbless things.

Faceless and limbless, they writhe around and look as though they are in agony. When cut in half, both ends still wriggle about and flail, searching for a way out.

...And they eat corpses.

Maybe that boils down to a fear of being dead. Not dying, but dead. Like the fear of having it all be a dream or some vivid hallucination and I've been in a hospital all along. That idea isn't so bad but for the fact that I would think, “It was all in my head. I had all that power and I could have done ANYTHING in my dream world, and I wasted it.”

My head isn't normal.

The worm issue is slowly going away. They just depress me these days.

But the zombie thing? FOO. You should have heard what I said to myself in my head after the “bath salts” stuff. I was honestly afraid.

This is so very stupid.

I was a key member of the ZDC (Zombie Defense Corps) at my old college, you know. Did important things. Mmyep. *Puts thumbs behind suspenders proudly*

But, I still absolutely fear zombies.

I don't even like normal, living zombies. People who are willing to just be so cut throat or people who are yes men and don't even care to strive for anything greater. These are both types of zombies to me.

Ghosts may also be a not-normal reason. I have no issue with the idea that part of us may wander about after death. If there are ghosts, I don't think most of them would be harmful to the living, and even those that are seem to be stories about an encased emotion, more than the whole person.

I think ghosts are just pieces of people that chipped off along the way.

But, if there are ghosts and if I could one day be one, I would hate to be able to see people and hear them and have them not see me. It would be like being deaf again.

Not being heard or noticed when you so desperately wish to be is like screaming inside a clear box.

So, again, ghosts are just depressing to me. Not particularly scary.

Cannibals?

I have no issue with cannibals.

Of Foodstuffs and Other Terrors

I'm going to finally respond to “Wrote a Blog-Like Thing” and tell you what led to my recent eating issues, by telling you a little bit of my history with food.

We've never gotten along terribly well.

From age one there was an issue.
There is a chance that I was reacting poorly to soy in the formula, since I do have an intolerance to soy which was at one point a full blown allergy. However, soy wasn't quite as common in EVERY GODDAMN THING when I was an infant.
 

~~Before anyone chimes in with “all your problems are because your mom didn't breastfeed you” I'm going to go ahead and say A. No. and B. she actually tried to breastfeed and just couldn't. 

It's like telling someone who has no feet that by not running, they are purposefully trying to get fat.
By telling my mother that she did something wrong by not doing something she really physically couldn't do, you are a bad, hateful person.

...Quite frankly, it's right up there with people explaining to me that I'm unhealthy because I don't eat the things I'm seriously allergic to.  It's backwards, stupid logic. 

So, moving on.~~~

I was diagnosed with a “failure to thrive” and often this is an emotional thing. Babies sometimes get this when they just don't have a will to live, as well as possible physical reasons. So, it could have been a lot of different things.  "Failure to Thrive" is kind of a catch all in this respect.  

Regardless of the reason, the doctors didn't have much faith that I would survive, because food and I were already on bad terms.

 

It was like getting in the middle of a gang war. What doctor wants to do that?

Luckily, interns are used to being thrown into the middle of gang wars, so an intern put some cereal in milk, which I guess flavored it or something? I'm not really sure what went down, actually. One way or another though, this guy got me to eat.

My thought, as depressing as it may be, is that with all my other medical ailments putting me in incubators and making it most likely pretty uncomfortable to do anything, even as an infant... Having someone just be with me and spend that time with me may have done a lot.

My parents absolutely tried and they are wonderful people. However, when you've got one daughter who is loudly mentally unstable and then a much younger one who is physically funky, something has to give. I could never cry as loud as my older sister could. That is a simple fact.

By four years old, I had the rest of my hearing back.

Lemme explain that one. 

I had been mostly deaf due to a common fluid problem, but it took two surgeries to fix instead of one because my inner ear, like the rest of me, is kind of wonky looking. This made it so my speech was also funky. I spoke the way I had always heard things, which was reeeeaaaalllly quiet and kinda mumbled. I still speak this way if I get nervous.

Anyhoo, I had my hearing but I couldn't really communicate well. I could understand everyone around me, but only my sister (of all freaking people) could ever understand what the Hell I was saying.

Around this time, I fell down.

Hard.

In my memory, there was a push involved and a traumatic moment attached, but we seem to have chosen to pretend it didn't happen.

...Kay.

So, my parents took me to the doctor and because we were having a bit of a disagreement as to how it happened, and any verbal argument from me wasn't entirely audible, it was decided that my S shape of a septum was just yet another deformity.

The problem here is that having a deformity from birth isn't something so easily fixed when you are a little kid, as it could just grow back as you age.

...So I didn't get my nose fixed. He took out my adenoids instead. 

It didn't help.

Not being able to breathe meant I couldn't really taste anything either.

More than that, I had to breathe out of my mouth. This meant that I couldn't scarf food and I had to be extra particular about drinking, because I wouldn't be able to breathe.

Beyond that, I had come in contact with a number of things over the years that had made me itchy. We understood that I had food allergies, but we had no idea what that meant other than a lot of food seemed to make me really uncomfortable.

We didn't even really look into what the foods were, besides nuts. This made for a vague sense of ALL food being potentially unpleasant.

This was made much worse when I was thirteen.

We went to Israel.

As a Jew-type person, this should have been a wonderful experience.

It was not.

The main reason?

Turns out, I'm allergic to chickpeas. Hummus is kinda big there.  Kind of a big freaking deal.  

At the time, we had no idea that anything, even nuts could do what this thing did.

I blew up like a balloon, broke out in hives all over my body, my eyes swelled shut and blinded me...

And still, I was the calmest person in the whole damn room.

My parents were in a frenzy, unsure of what to do “What the fuck is an epi-pen??”

There were doctors on the phone telling them I may need something injected into my heart...

But, no one said to take me to a hospital either.  The phone-doctor just said to watch me.  ...Having no epi-pen, what would have happened if I had keeled over?

But I didn't.

I threw up. Waited for it all to get worse or better, and then calmly stated that I should eat something I know I'm not allergic to, like pizza.

This is hilarious in retrospect, because it turned out at the time that I was also allergic to wheat and tomato, but to a more mild degree. I've since grown out of them for the most part. Somewhat experimental allergy drops have helped.

By the way, ordering pizza on the Sabbath in Israel?  Amazing freaking feat.

Either way, after all that...

It left me, every now and then, like this:

I was pretty good for many years at hiding this. People could eat things I was allergic to, and I'd just quietly panic and tell them it was fine. I'd only seriously panic if a boyfriend ate these things, because then kissing him could be potentially dangerous.

I felt like a giant asshole.

“How dare I expect a man who loves me to not eat something that could kill me? I'm ruining his life!”

Talking to anyone else, I'd think they were being unreasonable. They can't help what could hurt them. But me? No no. Ever accommodating I am. Even if it actually does, in the end, kill me.

This is part of what led to the Fishbone incident.

Part one and two are here:

How a Fishbone is Slowly Driving Me Mad

Okay, So It Wasn't the Fishbone

At fifteen, we went to a crackpot quack of a surgeon to fix my nose. He was purely a cosmetic doctor, which was upsetting. He wanted to shave my jaw down because I looked too “masculine” and give me my sister's nose. He wanted to make me look like a different person.

Being a fifteen year old girl with a speech impediment, a slouch from boobs that were too big, gnarly hair... My self esteem was already garbage.

I did not need that shit.

So I just cried a lot and for some reason they let him cut me open anyway, in hopes that he'd find my damaged Happy gland.

He sort of fixed one side a little.

I still couldn't really breathe, which led to another doctor giving me a nasal inhaler that I couldn't use. 

 It was not a lung issue, you freak.

Also, throughout my childhood, I would stand at the table or eat elsewhere. This was because of two things:

A. Pressure. The pressure to eat like a normal person made me feel like it was something I could fail at, and so I pretty much made myself fail.

When I'm upset, I don't eat, and my childhood wasn't exactly fantastic. This was not my parent's fault at all, by the way.

I want to make that clear.

B. I felt silly and too small. I had to sit on phone books in order to reach the table.

So, fine.

Back to the nose thing.

After a very unpleasant healing process, I could wheeze through my nose with a lot of struggle, but at least I looked the same. I guess he was afraid to even straighten the damn thing with the “fuss” I had made about him wanting to rearrange my face.

Not enough space to breathe, smell or taste, but there was just enough space to shoot food out of my nose by accident.

I can not express how incredibly painful and embarrassing this was.

Powered cheese product on macaroni should never exit through nostrils.

Five years after that, a reconstructive surgeon fixed my nose for real. I was very happy.

He also went out of his way to try to prevent me getting anything else done, realizing that I was also asking for things I didn't need. He worried that I had Body Dysmorphic Disorder, and... maybe? I may have had some variation of it. I figure I was just oogly and now I've accepted that I'm... a “unique” kind of pretty.

I felt so bad for my mother here. Her immediate instinct was to jump on “OH! Don't worry, you don't have BDD!” The problem with that was that if I didn't have it, that meant I was ACTUALLY as hideous as I thought I was, and that it wasn't just in my head.

It seems to have been a phase though, rather than the actual mental illness. It pops up every now and then when I'm already depressed. My brain goes to “you are deformed” and just kinda sits on that.

...

Back to food.

With all this nonsense, it isn't really that remarkable that I've spent most of my life underweight.

I don't really look like that. But, it is how I feel sometimes. I liked the year or so when I was a bit more filled out. I looked the same, just healthier.

After the Fishbone incident/Everything that was where I was living for ten or so months, I wound up like this:

So eating was just... Not something I ever associated with causing happiness.

And now, you know.

Reader Questions! One!

Reader Question!!

From Jenniquelle.  ...Or "Jeniquelle?"  I don't remember.  Jenny Jenny with a French sounding thing.
She asked stuff:


“Why do you draw hands and fingers all long and skinny?  Is it a style thing, or is it a reference you use?  Are your hands really like that?”


While varying in just how insanely rude, this is actually a question that has come up a lot.

The answer lies in this picture:

I’ve been told (by good friends, mind you) that I have “spider hands”…  Yes.

EDIT: My very close friend who apparently pays a "great deal of attention to people's hands" just read this and said "Oh pah, you don't have spider hands.  You have very expressive hands and square fingered idiots with much less grace just don't understand how you could do it."  Yay!  So *sticks out tongue*  I be purdy.

This can be further explained by actual photographs here: Of Vomit, Fire Water and Hospitals



The other question was from an anonymous person, asking if I have any seriously irrational fears.  The answer is yes, many.  I'll do a separate post to list my stupid ass fears and my irrational behavior and habits.


...To clarify, I'll be doing the ones I've always had.  Nothing new from the past half a year.  I've gotten so full of fuckness that it just wouldn't be fair to the neuroses that have been with me forever.

Bees, and General Bullshittery

 So, first of all...

There is this:

 

The man was riding along in his convertible with the top down, and had on a visor instead of a full cap.  His top had no top while he rode in a car that was topless.  I... can't.  I just can't.

...

My parents and I went off to an IHOP.  This is kind of a big deal because while I wasn't a huge fan of such places to begin with, IHOP and Denny's are pretty much the worst kinds of places for me to be these days.  They are crowded and loud, they don't look terribly sanitary to me, and they serve a lot of things I'm allergic to.  BUT, I went and sat and had a good time, even if I couldn't gather the courage to eat a freaking piece of bacon.  

Guh.  

My life and what it has become.

So I drew stuff.  Below is the page I doodled upon and below that are close ups of things:

The one confused by paper might be the best one.


I also tried to draw the pancakes that had blueberries and whipped cream, but it came out kinda poopish:

Also, a man with a baby face on the side:

...


Let's end with bees.