I have to work on this knee-jerk assumption that people don’t actually like me whenever I run into the slightest inconvenience. Is it more likely that no one wants to hang out with me and are just accepting all my invitations with excitement for the sake of formality, or that I’ve fallen into the role of organizer, and no one else is as scientific and aggressive about it as I am, so it doesn’t happen unless I make it happen?

I also think I figured out what exactly I’m good at. To expand, I’ve wondered since childhood what my role in the family is, what my specialty is, what exactly I’m good for. It’s on this blog, even. My siblings have their specialties, and I was always the dumb, pretty one. Which is, of course, demoralizing. But I wonder if it took some pressure off, too. I didn’t have as many notions set on me as my siblings did, because I’m not that good at academic pursuits (humanities excluded), and I’m not good at sports or anything physical. And frankly, I’m kind of a pain in the ass when I’m mad. Anything my family tried just made me dig my heels in more, so that by the time I decided to leave the entire fucking country for my gay lover, there was nothing they could do. But I got off-topic. What I’m good for, my specialization, my purpose in the family? Talking to people.

That’s it. I have people skills and a high EQ and a friendly, extroverted personality. And I have a lot of friends. I can always find someone to help me if I have a problem, because they know I’d do the same for them. And for a long time, I didn’t see this as a talent because it was looked on in our family as a flaw. How many times did I hear to stop texting, or to work harder on my grades instead of my social life, or to be serious for once, or to stop fucking talking all the time? How many times was I mocked for being a Barbie?

It got me where I wanted, though. Minus Emily being with my physically, I’m on the road to everything I’ve been working for. A hot fiancée, a gorgeous apartment in my favorite city, an ethical and decent-paying job, a car that’s fun to drive, a large and loving social circle, hobbies that I’m genuinely working on, Spotify Premium, and honestly, a nice appearance. It’s what I want right now, and the wonderful thing is that even though others might think it’s shallow, it’s not, not to me. I know who I am now. And I’m never going to stop growing, and I won’t allow myself to be derailed anymore. I have to continue to heal and grow and work for this dream-turned-reality that I’ve made. 

tw ana

 I’m so fucking haunted by Eugenia Cooney (twitch streamer) because that could literally be me. We have the same eating disorder, the same love for emo and weeb stuff, we’re the same age (I think she’s a year ish older than me), similar shitty family situation, same coping mechanisms, she even looks probably how I would if I were white and half a foot taller with my natural hair color and money to buy the clothes and makeup I want. Probably my small height is why I haven’t fully turned into a skeleton like her, but I could see it happening, and it’s so scary, but also weirdly motivates me to try and eat and get better even if it’s slow and hard to do. We live in the same city (although I guess she moved back with her mom now), and it’s possible we were even inpatient at the same place. I can’t stop thinking about her, and she makes me so sad. She’s so pretty, even now, and she seems sweet, and I really think she could have had a shot at modeling or acting before all of this, but now I think it’s too late. She’s dying, and we’re all watching it happen, and I know what she must be feeling, and I know that if I were in her place, I would die for sure, because I would be unable to give up the spotlight long enough to recover. And I can hope and pray and send all the good vibes into the universe, but she seems just like me, only with no support system outside of millions of screaming internet users, and her mom is way worse than mine, and I really do think she’s doomed. And I can’t stop thinking about her.

It’s terrifying, you know? I’m back in the double digits with my own weight, and sure, that’s less bad because I’m 5’1” and not naturally very curvy, but I don’t think a grown adult should weigh like a child. Or at least, logically I think this. In my emotions, though, it’s so easy to admire my flat figure and bony wrists and put shimmer on my collarbones to make them stand out even more and body-check in every single reflective surface I pass. And I keep fantasizing over how much lower I can “safely” go, and again logically I know the answer is “there is no safe way to go lower” and that I actually should gain some weight to keep my health, but how do I throw this out when it’s all I’ve known for so many years? Management bought lunch for the facility today, and one of the case managers told me, and I pretended to be excited, and then immediately booked it out of the clinic to sit in the hospital courtyard and eat a packet of nuts by myself. Because apparently we’re not even using poverty as an excuse anymore. 

It’s bad. My mental health is so much better now that it doesn’t even compare; I feel like an entirely different person than I was even a few months ago. But this part hasn’t been updated with the rest. And I’m still dying, just more slowly, and in a more glamorous and aesthetically pleasing way (to the outside world, at least). And I feel it now again, I feel the brain fog and the dissociation and the constant fucking exhaustion and the physical pain from not having enough body mass to keep my bones from hurting, and all the irritation and aggression, all the misplaced rage, all the fear and guilt and judgement. Sometimes my chest will hurt or my heart will do a weird thing, and I’ll know exactly what’s happening and why, but there’s a weird and perverse sense of excitement overlaying all of it, and I know full well that the illness is so entrenched that it’s making me romanticize my own destruction. It’s a weird place to be in, knowing what’s going on, and yet not being powerful enough to make myself stop it. If I did, I would. My progress has shown that. I can do almost anything if I decide I want to and buckle down and work for it, but I can’t seem to make myself want this, or at least not enough.

My benefits kick in on August 1, so I’ll definitely be using my shiny new health insurance to find a therapist, but man. This is just so unnecessarily hard, and I can’t seem to make myself take care of myself. 

Eugenia, I’ll do it for you, then. 

One of us has to make it.

 If it's true that I've really gotten this job, then everything is changing in the best possible way, and I can't be more excited. I knew I'd absolutely aced the interview, and when she showed me around and introduced me to the staff, I was as optimistic as one can be while still being wary of everything and everyone, as is everyone in the job market nowadays, and she told me that I'd receive word on a specific day (today), and I could barely think of anything else until I got the call, ten minutes before I was about to sign my contract for another company. And I accepted of course, and now I have a time-frame to look at before I start work, and I need to find an apartment and probably get some better work clothes. And I need to save like crazy so E and I can finally be together and get married. Thank God for the IRS, because I finally got my stimuluses (stimuli?) and tax return (my fault for filing so late), and that plus the amount I found stashed away from high school in an old bank account are enough to set me up. And while we're thanking God for things, thank God for salary. And for opinionated directors who don't mind hiring opinionated people with few professional qualifications. And for my personality, difficult and stubborn though it is, because I'm so glad I didn't settle for something less than this. I just can't believe it's real, not really, but it also sort of feels right, like all the important things in life do, somehow. Things happen how they're supposed to, and I have to remember that. Maybe that's as close to spirituality as I'll ever get. I guess I don't mind. If I'm important to anyone, a version of me will be in their afterlives anyway. 

Maybe I'm high, but Proust was right.

 Maybe I should rebrand and make this blog more like it was meant to be, which is just a dump for my thoughts.

So what's up with the fascists these days, right? Omg literally my brother thinks you can be a Republican and a good person at the same time, like honey, in this day and age? However, the state of the world is such that I now hate liberals too, so I suppose from a reductionist, inflammatory, uninformed, grossly-calculated-and-undervaluing-of-human-life point of view, it sort of makes sense.

Well, I guess that's why.

Renting in LA is such a procedure, like you have to go on a fuckin quest to collect the bones of four martyred saints and ask the Virgin Mary for a reference, and then the rent is 2000 per month and you live in a cardboard box outside the Wilshire/Western metro, and parking isn't even included. I feel like more people should be radicalized by the time they meet their first landlord, but that may be unrealistic. Surely after you meet your first landlord, though, you should be able to get it together. They're like vampires, but not sexy, and if they kill you, it's absolutely not worth it. However, they can also be gotten rid of with a stake through the heart, if you choose to go that route (*not recommended for people of color). Why do you need my credit history, bro? Just trust me! I do have to say, though, that I would rather starve to death in my own place than live rent-free here. I don't care if that makes me a total Marius (I mean I kinda do), like bro I gotta live my own life even if it kills me!! It might, but then at least I will die before the planet explodes, so swings and roundabouts, innit.

Also, I think more people should want to hire me. I'm superb. I'm exquisite. I have fat tits. Literally, what else could you ask for? Employers simply do not know the blessing among them, and that's the sad fact. It's why they're hiring on Indeed. It's true, I am also on Indeed, but I have a lot more sex appeal than they do, so I feel like it all comes out in the wash. Hopefully one of the interviews I have this week will pan out. I am SO FUCKING SICK of just being at home all day. I want to wear cute professional outfits and gossip around the water cooler with my normcore colleagues </3 What's a guy gotta do to get boomer-level job security around here??

Maybe I'll have to be an assassin. I don't want to, but I've always sort of been convinced that I would eventually be obliged to take up the gun, or at least I have been since I listened to Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge in my young and formative years. After that, I felt, it was just a matter of when before I was inevitably thrust upon the murder scene. I don't even think I would be good at it, really. I'm not what one might call tough. That means I might have the element of surprise on my side, though, because just as no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, no one (outside of a small society of anime nerds) expects the little 100-lb blonde girl to start swinging. Maybe I can hide arson materials in my pigtails like LynZ did when she auditioned for Mindless Self Indulgence. Oh, and you know I need a Ferrari and lots of couture clothes and shoes as well. I'll be like Catwoman!

 I'm trying to figure out why I feel so bad. Everything should suggest that things are going well. I have a job, a good job, and it's remote for now, so I'm even saving money. I guess the thing is that I need to finish the licensing course before I can sign a contract and be paid, so nothing is official. 

Do I need validation and approval that badly? Why does it matter if my mom doesn't think what I do is acceptable? I'm a grown woman, and I don't need to please her, or anyone else, for that matter. All I need to worry about is pleasing my damn self. It's so hard. Why is it so hard? I'm living in a near-relentless storm of negativity, doubt, and disapproval, and a severely emotionally unhealthy parent who is trying to have a codependent relationship with me. I know she's all kinds of messed up, and it all says much more about her than me. But it's hard to live here. I'm doubting my sanity, doubting my reality, struggling to keep my head up when it feels like I'm being slapped in the face every few minutes or so. Heaven help me, I've started to freeze up every time I hear the shuffling of slippers.

I never really got help. And I don't think it's quite fair for my parents to blame me for things that they directly caused. I'm not blaming everything on poor parenting; that's ridiculous. I've done my fair share of stupid shit all on my own volition. But I never even had a chance. Jesus, I mean no one even taught me my times tables or told me not to talk to strangers. I was a little gremlin child living out of a near-literal gutter with no support or guidance or positive reinforcement in any way. All I had was what I decided to be. It kind of worked, I guess; my younger siblings are fairly normal, character-wise, and have good social circles and gainful employment, so at least I didn't fuck them up, too. And my character is on the road to being what I want, and I've always been mostly authentic to myself, so that's a good thing. What if I'd had literally anything to help me, though? Imagine what I could have been if I'd been assessed for ADHD or anything besides being dumb/bad at studying? It's not that I was totally without help. I always asked my teachers for help and came in during office hours or lunch, and they knew I was doing my best, so they were patient with me, even though I'm sure I was annoyingly inept and dense. And everyone knew it was just math. I was so good at everything else. I'm pretty sure at least some people knew what was happening at home, too, but no one really did anything beyond being supportive and giving me embarrassing private pep-talks. I remember my gym teacher (whom I disliked because he made me run the mile) took me aside one day and asked about the scars on my arm that I hadn't been able to hide under the black tourniquet I wore every day (very obvious in retrospect, but I thought I was so sneaky and counter-cultural because I told people it was a symbol of rebellion against the man or something along those lines) because it's hard to wear that sort of thing in PE clothes or in the pool, which is where I think it happened. 

My family has always been very "do the bare minimum and call it fine," and that works for some things, but it didn't work for my mental health, because the bare minimum is just keeping me alive, and in fairness, that did happen, but there's so much more to life than just not dying, and I wish someone had realized that and helped me, because I was so lost that I didn't know which way was up, and I could help myself as easily as I could climb Mt. Everest. Eventually, I did gather what I needed, but it was so much harder than it had to be, and it took so much longer. Actually, all of this could have been avoided with some preventative care, but that ship has sailed. 

 Happy New Year! 2021!

It's not going well.

I really wish I didn't remember hurting like this. Always so familiar, and you can't even laugh because you can barely move. There's a disconnect; you want to do something, anything sometimes, but your body won't obey you. You'll sit in one place for hours if you can get away with it, but of course you can't, because you have no privacy. Everything about you is public property. 

I need to get out of here.

 How can a song, just a simple collection of notes, make me feel things like this? I feel like I can transcend time and interact with my younger self, this time with the added background knowledge of what's going on. I'm a character in my own media. Granted, I'm very high, but I think I would feel this way anyway. That post about how what we're into at thirteen has such a marked effect on us for life was really right. I feel like music helped me discover that I had a soul. It would not be an exaggeration to say that for a few years, until my dad restricted my access, music was one of the few things keeping me alive. I didn't know how to express how I felt, and even if I had, I wouldn't have wanted to, since I didn't open up even to my friends or significant others, but bands like MCR could draw it out of me by sort of putting it into words, and holy shit, man. I smoked last night and listened to Helena, and I damn near cried. I did cry when Cancer came on awhile later. I remember listening to The Black Parade for the first time and feeling like there might be something to this whole "life" thing after all, and I wish I could just package up that experience and gift it to people, because wow it's nuts. Anyway, all of this is to say that I have listened to the Summertime that was in the Danger Days, and it was delicious 🌚 so fresh and moist 🌚 Holy shit dude!!!! I really felt it. Summer, 2013. Eighteen, wide-eyed, ready to take on the world. All the parties, the flirtations, the crushes, the nights out, Market Nights in downtown with Talia; adventures with the girls; nights spent in front of a computer when you're finally able to have some solitude, listening to music to keep the scary thoughts away, because although you scoff and try to hide it, you're scared of the dark. You stay up late every night, partially because you can't sleep, and when you try, you usually stay up reciting prayers anyway (isn't it nice to have OCD and religious trauma), but you make the most of it, writing, drawing, reading, studying-- and planning. You're going to do so much, help so many people! You'll be a lawyer, immigration, you're 95% sure, and from then on, it's a path to Supreme Court justice, whence you will right every wrong, oversee legislature to prevent there being any more wrongs, and generally create the kind of global utopia that keeps Republicans lying up at night biting their nails. And the air smells like oranges, and you still have half an iced coffee left, so is it really that bad that you have to fly across the country in two months? And is it bad at all, anyway? The world is open to every possibility, and so are you. Still, that welcome cool night breeze gets chilly sometimes, and you wonder what autumn will bring. You know in your heart that after this, you'll never see some of your friends again. Memories will fade, unrecorded, stories will be forgotten, people will drift apart. No one's life could end in tragedy-- surely not, not us, not our generation-- but there are so many places to go. This last golden summer, this little sliver of in-between life, trap it in amber, keep it forever between the plastic pony beads of childhood and whatever life will bring you next. All you have is now. You want each minute to last twice as long, and yet, even at the same time, you're reeling with impatience for the future. Sometimes, your heart feels like it could bleed with the passion you feel for everything you do or even could do, everything the world is, everything people are. How can you contain it? You take walks at night, never too far (you know your limits direction-wise, and don't want to get lost with no way of contacting home), listening to music and singing when no one's around, because you're afraid you'll burst if the energy inside you can't be entertained. You want a million things, want to save the world in a million different ways, and nothing will stop you. Not you. And you're so pretty, so sweet and charming, a perfect ingenue beloved by everyone around her, and you have people tripping over themselves to help you if you so much as bat your eyelashes, and you have talent, and promise, and you know this is all too good to last, golden child, but when the time comes, you'll fling yourself into oblivion with tears and a prayer, and you'll never look back. You're brave and resilient, always have been, and thank goodness for that, because as much as you've been through already, poor darling, it's nothing compared to what's coming. So enjoy this mayfly summer, dream until you ache, and don't think about tomorrow. You'll have forever after for that.