Journals114
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I've been here for so long.
2 min read
It feels so weird to think about how long I've posted to this site. All of my adolescent journals were destroyed by someone who never wanted me to write - my mother. I used to write SO much. Losing all of those notebooks happened at the same time I lost pretty much everything and had to start a new life.
Sometimes I just want to scream, thinking about how those writings were my only connection to the "old me". I've healed enough to know that the quest to rediscover the old self after trauma or even just time and life changes is dangerous. It's an addictive cycle. We forget why we stopped living certain lives, then we do crazy things to try to feel "alive again" because we ALWAYS see things in hindsight as way more dramatic than they really were... good times seem like years and years of living in Utopia but we forget we had just as much stress, just over different things. And a bad moment in the past ripples forth into eternity.
A lot of my PTSD symptoms eased significantly as I learned to stop looking to the past for answers. I can't say how I've accepted that though; it has been less of a conscious decision and more just... something I gave up on. Then noticed I felt better.
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2 min read
I step out of the steaming shower.
I am primarily aware of the pain that seems to be the latest sign of my inevitable spiral down the path to old womanhood.
I've pinched something, somehow, somewhere, and now can barely turn my head to the right.
I've pinched something, somehow, somewhere, and now can barely turn my head to the right.
I look at my skin while it is still slick with water; what appears to be fine cracks across my legs are actually hairs that have fallen loose from my head. Is that another part of aging to? I wonder.
Losing hair at 32.
I walk past the mirror with my head cocked to the side so as not to irritate the pinch, and I see the most unfamiliar figure.
In the fog, and in the damage of my eyesight, I see a slender figure gazing back at me in the mirror. Who is she? Who am I? I try to sense my body; to feel something other than the pain radiating from the center of my back.
In the fog, and in the damage of my eyesight, I see a slender figure gazing back at me in the mirror. Who is she? Who am I? I try to sense my body; to feel something other than the pain radiating from the center of my back.
I want to feel how much space I take actually up in the world, but my mind plays tricks on me. I am not a slender figure, I am not of an average weight... I am still very obese and in my teens. Still so painfully awkward that the burning need to escape watching eyes still fires up often.
I don't want anyone to see what I am doing.
I don't want anyone to know that I am. I don't want to be judged by anyone who finds themselves superior, who places themselves above me on their own twisted human experience scale.
No, I would rather hide myself away, for I am not ready. Maybe I will never be.
I don't want anyone to see what I am doing.
I don't want anyone to know that I am. I don't want to be judged by anyone who finds themselves superior, who places themselves above me on their own twisted human experience scale.
No, I would rather hide myself away, for I am not ready. Maybe I will never be.
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sick
1 min read
From an objective stance, I'm rotting here
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this.
6 min read
Wow.
I've been a member of DeviantART for 11 years.
They should just GIVE people subscriptions at ten years, don't you think?
I haven't written in this journal in seven years. THAT'S even weirder, to me.
I guess I started this account when I was sixteen? Seventeen? Still no good with math. That's just about all I still have in common with my teenage self.
I used to post all my angsty teenage poetry here. It's too bad that we grow up, develop these terribly judgmental lenses through which we view the entire WORLD. I wish I could still appreciate the simple, small things.
Do you know it's been about seven years since I've written a poem?
Why did my ability to write poems stop so abruptly, and is it really gone forever?
Is there something I can do to make it return?
I'd probably write great poems, if I could. My understanding of the world has vastly expanded since those high school days of English class assignments and study hall diaries.
Today, one of my PTSD recovery buddies made me a whole youtube video. She called me "The Phoenix". A lot of people have called me that this year.
I don't know where I'm going with this, but I'm writing, and I'm going to keep on until this part of my brain shuts off and I go back into mental illness.
So some horrible things happened.
In July of 2012, I met a guy (later established as a sociopath) and fell under his spell. He convinced me to leave my home and become homeless, camping with him in the woods. I blankly followed, believing his delusions about being sent from God to save me.
Within two weeks, an unbelievable twist of fate occurred. We were both arrested... and (wrongfully) accused of attempted murder, kidnapping, and three assault and batteries.
We were absolutely without a clue.
The alleged victim was a complete stranger to us both.
We were imprisoned and then held on house arrest, before the charges went before a grand jury, and the case was finally dismissed (9/12/14). No evidence. No witnesses. No crime.
We both stood by the truth, refusing plea bargains from the District Attorney of this particular town, who began to swiftly realize what we knew to be true: it was a made up story. The alleged victim was discovered to be very mentally disturbed.
However, the local media had such a field day with our nightmare... no, MY nightmare (fuck him), there was just no way that the case could be dropped and swept under the rug.
Fourteen months, that damn case was open. Charge by charge, dropped. "Victim" changes story, several times.
Lawyers saying don't worry, there is virtually no chance that you will be convicted of any of these charges. The entire courthouse gradually begins to treat us differently on our monthly pre-trial hearings.
Just wait. Prediction: dropped case on the eve of trial.
Outcome: Correct. Set to go to trial 9/24, case dismissed 9/12. On what grounds? DNA testing came back, confirming that there was no possible way that the story was true.
Of course, the DA's office refuses to comment.
In the meantime, my co-defendant is cracking under the pressure. He's been to jail before, yes, but never for something he didn't do.
He begins to abuse me.
I am his captive, in a camper, in a remote location. Freezing. The winter of later 2012-early 2013. I will never forget those terrors. Every night, they haunt me in my sleep. Every morning, I wake up crying. Disoriented from the meds. Where am I.
It has been a year since the day the police finally responded to that obstructed 911 call.
A year since I've been free.
Free?
Well that's a joke.
I've lost everything. My hopes for taking legal recourse to get compensation for the endless list of things THEY took from me and ruined for me? Shattered. Circumstances. Not a foreseeably feasible case. No lawyers interested.
No income, for 1 1/2 years.
Living in a basement. Agorophobic. Terrified of everything. Living in a sick, self-contained and self-imposed prison cell. Memories on repeat.
I should have lots to write about now, right?
But I find no words. No interest in even speaking them.
My story would probably make me money if I wrote it all down and sold it as a book.
Can I do that right now? Psh, no. Can I even write a sentence down in a diary? No. Can I go a day without dissociating, having a flashback, having a night terror, wanting to hurt myself, wishing for the days long gone that will never again be?
No.
Who is writing this? It does not feel like my own hands.
I am crippled with hopelessness. At least, I was.
All of life seems to be on pause, as these words appear to grow across this screen.
A candle beside me just split its glass holder loudly. The flame reached out toward the altar cloth beneath it. I jumped up and blew out the candle.
Now it is not... right in here. The lighting is off.
My tooth hurts.
All of my teeth hurt.
I think of: pliers. Blood. No-- it would ruin the carpet. As I drop another pile of cigarette ashes onto the floor.
I called a psychic hotline this fall. I asked them "where do I turn for help?". They told me that they sensed I had some kind of story or message to tell, and that I needed to pursue something in the field of writing or public speaking.
How would they know that?
Oh, I've learned to read tarot cards. I'm getting pretty good.
If only it were a skill I could make money with. I'd do well for myself.
If I could do... anything.
Well, the black cloud is rolling back in.
End.
I've been a member of DeviantART for 11 years.
They should just GIVE people subscriptions at ten years, don't you think?
I haven't written in this journal in seven years. THAT'S even weirder, to me.
I guess I started this account when I was sixteen? Seventeen? Still no good with math. That's just about all I still have in common with my teenage self.
I used to post all my angsty teenage poetry here. It's too bad that we grow up, develop these terribly judgmental lenses through which we view the entire WORLD. I wish I could still appreciate the simple, small things.
Do you know it's been about seven years since I've written a poem?
Why did my ability to write poems stop so abruptly, and is it really gone forever?
Is there something I can do to make it return?
I'd probably write great poems, if I could. My understanding of the world has vastly expanded since those high school days of English class assignments and study hall diaries.
Today, one of my PTSD recovery buddies made me a whole youtube video. She called me "The Phoenix". A lot of people have called me that this year.
I don't know where I'm going with this, but I'm writing, and I'm going to keep on until this part of my brain shuts off and I go back into mental illness.
So some horrible things happened.
In July of 2012, I met a guy (later established as a sociopath) and fell under his spell. He convinced me to leave my home and become homeless, camping with him in the woods. I blankly followed, believing his delusions about being sent from God to save me.
Within two weeks, an unbelievable twist of fate occurred. We were both arrested... and (wrongfully) accused of attempted murder, kidnapping, and three assault and batteries.
We were absolutely without a clue.
The alleged victim was a complete stranger to us both.
We were imprisoned and then held on house arrest, before the charges went before a grand jury, and the case was finally dismissed (9/12/14). No evidence. No witnesses. No crime.
We both stood by the truth, refusing plea bargains from the District Attorney of this particular town, who began to swiftly realize what we knew to be true: it was a made up story. The alleged victim was discovered to be very mentally disturbed.
However, the local media had such a field day with our nightmare... no, MY nightmare (fuck him), there was just no way that the case could be dropped and swept under the rug.
Fourteen months, that damn case was open. Charge by charge, dropped. "Victim" changes story, several times.
Lawyers saying don't worry, there is virtually no chance that you will be convicted of any of these charges. The entire courthouse gradually begins to treat us differently on our monthly pre-trial hearings.
Just wait. Prediction: dropped case on the eve of trial.
Outcome: Correct. Set to go to trial 9/24, case dismissed 9/12. On what grounds? DNA testing came back, confirming that there was no possible way that the story was true.
Of course, the DA's office refuses to comment.
In the meantime, my co-defendant is cracking under the pressure. He's been to jail before, yes, but never for something he didn't do.
He begins to abuse me.
I am his captive, in a camper, in a remote location. Freezing. The winter of later 2012-early 2013. I will never forget those terrors. Every night, they haunt me in my sleep. Every morning, I wake up crying. Disoriented from the meds. Where am I.
It has been a year since the day the police finally responded to that obstructed 911 call.
A year since I've been free.
Free?
Well that's a joke.
I've lost everything. My hopes for taking legal recourse to get compensation for the endless list of things THEY took from me and ruined for me? Shattered. Circumstances. Not a foreseeably feasible case. No lawyers interested.
No income, for 1 1/2 years.
Living in a basement. Agorophobic. Terrified of everything. Living in a sick, self-contained and self-imposed prison cell. Memories on repeat.
I should have lots to write about now, right?
But I find no words. No interest in even speaking them.
My story would probably make me money if I wrote it all down and sold it as a book.
Can I do that right now? Psh, no. Can I even write a sentence down in a diary? No. Can I go a day without dissociating, having a flashback, having a night terror, wanting to hurt myself, wishing for the days long gone that will never again be?
No.
Who is writing this? It does not feel like my own hands.
I am crippled with hopelessness. At least, I was.
All of life seems to be on pause, as these words appear to grow across this screen.
A candle beside me just split its glass holder loudly. The flame reached out toward the altar cloth beneath it. I jumped up and blew out the candle.
Now it is not... right in here. The lighting is off.
My tooth hurts.
All of my teeth hurt.
I think of: pliers. Blood. No-- it would ruin the carpet. As I drop another pile of cigarette ashes onto the floor.
I called a psychic hotline this fall. I asked them "where do I turn for help?". They told me that they sensed I had some kind of story or message to tell, and that I needed to pursue something in the field of writing or public speaking.
How would they know that?
Oh, I've learned to read tarot cards. I'm getting pretty good.
If only it were a skill I could make money with. I'd do well for myself.
If I could do... anything.
Well, the black cloud is rolling back in.
End.
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stepping into the creek.
1 min read
It is AMAZING -- how the bad ways of dealing with problems that we learn early on usually end up being the only ones that really work.
In the end, it's just you and your mind.
All the extraneous words of advice and self-imposed rules skitter away like minnows as you step into a creek.
In the end, it's just you and your mind.
All the extraneous words of advice and self-imposed rules skitter away like minnows as you step into a creek.
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