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[anotherfacelessjournal]

My grandmother probably isn’t going to be around for much longer, and visiting her might be one of the hardest things I ever have to do.

About two weeks ago now, I got a phone call from my parents. They told me that my grandmother had tripped over her cat, and that the fall had left her unable to walk. She couldn’t reach the phone from where she had fallen, and she’s always stubbornly denied the need for a duress alarm, so this eighty-something year old woman had no choice but to drag herself out to her front yard and hope that someone would find her. She was stuck there for almost four hours before one of her neighbors got home from work, heard her begging for help, and finally called emergency services on her behalf.

Apparently some strangers had walked past her front yard at some point, but when confronted with the sight of this feeble old woman, covered in her own blood and begging for help, they decided to run instead of stopping to help her. This knowledge has shattered what little faith I still have in humanity. Every time I think about it, I’m filled with a mixture of disgust, fury, and sadness that I can’t even begin to describe. Emotions that I have no idea how to express or process in a healthy way.

She was stuck in hospital for about four days, and given how much of a recluse my grandmother normally is, I know that she found every minute extremely uncomfortable. Her treatment was a necessary evil, of course, but I still despise the thought. They had to call in a specialised surgeon to stitch her back together, too, and he had to visit multiple times to fix everything properly.

That wasn’t the end of things, though. While operating on my grandmother’s leg, he found a tumour.

My grandmother is home now. She’s on permanent bed rest, with traveling nurses visiting her three times every day. She’s supposed to be building up her strength so she can have the tumour cut out, but apparently she’s barely eating. She gave her cat away to one of her other grandchildren. Even now, she refuses to entertain any discussions about getting a duress alarm, or a full-time nurse, or moving into a nursing home. Apparently she’s been talking about how the fall was actually a good thing, because it revealed her cancer, but my mother doesn’t believe her. She’s believed for a while now that Nana is just waiting to die, and I fear that her actions suggest as much.

My parents have been arranging a rotating schedule of sorts, to make sure my grandmother has a visitor every day. They’ve even reached out to some cousins that they haven’t spoken to in years, just to try and fill in the gaps. They keep encouraging me to join in, and I know that I should. I really love my grandmother, and I have plenty of fond memories of her from my childhood. If I don’t go and visit her before she passes away, I just know that I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. Seeing her in such a sorry state will be hard, but ultimately worth it, just to enjoy her company one more time.

There’s one little problem, though. Her home is the place where I was sexually assaulted as a child. I haven’t visited her in several years, purely because the thought of going back there fills me with dread.

My grandmother was a foster carer for a troubled teenager. I was so young that I hadn’t even started to go through puberty, had no idea what sex was, and I idolized him as my ‘cool older friend’ in the way that only young children can. We had known each other for several months without any issues, and we had the house to ourselves one day, when he suggested that we try playing Truth or Dare. It started off innocently enough, and even when things started to get darker, I was too young to realise that what we were doing was wrong. That it was the sort of thing I was supposed to tell the adults about.

I don’t blame my grandmother for what happened to me. She had no idea what was going on, and even if she had, she would’ve been powerless to stop it. This teen regularly locked her in her room, threatened and abused her, stole money from her. She opened her house and heart to this stranger, and ended up as more of a victim than I ever was. She was too afraid to report him, to get him moved to another home, for fear that he’d come back and take revenge on her.

I need to see my grandmother again. It has to be soon, before that option is stolen from me forever. But I’m not sure I can ever go back to that house again, even now, long after that horrible person is gone.

I’m going to try. I’ve picked a date, and I plan visit then, come hell or high water. I just  hope that my courage doesn’t fail me when the time comes.

[anotherfacelessjournal]

I’ve been having this one, recurring daydream for a while now.

That fact, on its own, is nothing remarkable. Daydreams have been my coping mechanism of choice for longer than I can remember. According to my parents, I used to beg them to read to me multiple times every night, so clearly my head was lost in the clouds before my age ever broke double digits. Ever since, I’ve been incredibly quick to slip into fantasy whenever the real world becomes too difficult to bear. When my parents were arguing in the next room over, I’d be befriending dragons and slaying monsters. Whenever class was too boring, or exercising became too difficult, I’d pretend I was studying magic, or training for some sort of duel. Whenever I felt like nobody cared about me, I’d dream up an overly dramatic scenario where I sacrificed myself for those I loved. A way of giving my life meaning, while simultaneously granting my wish for death.

I’d replay the same scenarios in my mind, over and over, like I was watching a movie. Whenever familiarity bred boredom, I’d just revise the script a little. Change details or add in new elements, while keeping the core premise the same. I could entertain myself for hours, until the real world inevitably called me back. Usually to my own disappointment.

In hindsight, this habit probably caused a lot more problems than it solved. If anyone had bothered to take me to a therapist, they probably would’ve called my daydreams maladaptive, long before I’d ever heard the word. While I never truly stopped, I like to think they’re less of an issue now. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I can force myself to focus while I’m at work, or visiting my family. I save my fantasies for the small hours of the night, when all the people I rely on to distract me are asleep, and I’m left alone with the worst of my thoughts. They’re a drug I use in moderation. Less an addiction, and more an old friend that I rarely have time to visit, but am always overjoyed to see.

Recently, though, it feels like something has changed. While my daydreams used to be the result of careful design, a new one came to me unbidden. At first, I didn’t think to question it. I just let myself indulge. This fantasy, though, isn’t content with secret meetings in quiet moments. It forces itself through the cracks in my focus, and washes over me at times I don’t normally allow anymore. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to keep it away. I’m not always sure that I want to.

It always starts out with me doing something mundane. Usually something similar to whatever I’m doing in real life. I’ll be lying in bed at night, or waiting for an appointment, or slaving away mindlessly at work. Then, without warning, something changes. There’s a subtle shift in the air, one that I feel more than see, and nobody else ever seems to notice. Then I begin to change, too. After a few moments, I’m not human any longer. Instead, I’ve become one of the fantasy creatures that I’ve always loved so much. I abandon whatever I’m doing without a second thought, fly or teleport or swim away, and leave my human life behind forever.

The first few times I had this daydream, the changes were quick and painless. A brief flash of light, a moment of strangeness, and it was over. No longer. Now it’s a horrific process, drawn out hour after imaginary hour. I can’t help but torment myself with images of claws ripping my hands apart from within, or wings that burst from my back in a shower of blood and gore. Spikes and horns that puncture my own flesh as they emerge. Each rendition is slower than the last, and filled to the brim with new shades of agony. The pain never feels like a deterrent, though. I always embrace it, confident that the end result will be worth such suffering, and quickly forgotten once it ends. It’s a penance of sorts, I think. Welcome pain that absolves and cleanses, the same way Christians like to imagine.

I like to pretend that all my fantasies are meaningless. That they’re all just idle thoughts, designed to help me pass the time. Products of a bored mind, with no real meaning behind them. If I’m being totally honest with myself, though, I don’t think that’s the case. Just as a painter reveals more about themselves with every stroke of the brush, I think every daydream offers me a glimpse of my deeper self. If that’s the case, though, then what does this new fantasy say about me? I’m not sure I want to know. I don’t think I’m capable of that level of self-reflection. Even so, I feel compelled to try.

Perhaps I’ll let myself be an optimist, just this once.

Maybe it’s not death that I crave, but freedom.

[anotherfacelessjournal]

I’m currently struggling with the realisation that all my old friends are gone.

I was never a popular kid growing up. Most of my days at primary school were spent following around a bunch of kids who tolerated my presence, but made no real effort to include me. In High School, I was harassed by a more dedicated group of bullies that I still loathe to recall. The only reason I survived those years was a small, tight-knit group of friends that I was very proud to call my own. Even back then, I strongly believed in quality over quantity. I never cared that I was unpopular, or that I never had a romantic partner, because I had them. The kind support and friendly distractions they offered was enough to make me forget the abuse I suffered, if only for a little while. The lunch breaks and free periods that we spent together remain some of my fondest memories from my early years.

When graduation came around, we made all of the usual promises. We told each other that we’d always be friends, no matter what. That we’d stay in touch and catch up in person whenever circumstances allowed it. I wholeheartedly meant it, too. I cared about this small group so deeply that I never wanted to let them go, and they seemed to feel the same way. We made group chats on multiple different platforms, kept them active, and did our best to make plans on a semi-regular basis.. While we weren’t seeing each other multiple times a week any longer, it was enough to keep me from feeling too lonely or isolated. I knew without a doubt that if I ever needed them, they were just one quick message away.

Things did start to taper off eventually, but I didn’t mind too much. Plenty of adults had warned me that it would happen, so I’d expected us to grow a little more distant as we got older. My friends had their own lives to worry about, and I tried to respect that. I was content knowing that they were off experiencing new things and growing as people. Whenever they had the time to talk, I welcomed them back with open arms. Listened with growing excitement as they told me about university, or work, or whatever was happening in their personal lives. Consoled them when they were struggling with relationship issues, or shitty managers, or suffering under an unrealistic workload. We might have been talking less, but whenever we did speak, it felt like we were picking up exactly where we’d left off. Like we were just as close as we’d ever been.

As time passed, we continued to drift further and further apart. I know the process probably took literal years, but looking back, it feels like it happened overnight. At the same time, though, I’d be hard-pressed to pinpoint an exact moment where it started. We eventually reached the point where we were lucky to meet up once a year. It became impossible for us to find a date where everyone was free. On the rare occasions where the stars aligned and we all agreed on a time and place, someone would inevitably cancel because they were simply too tired after work, or had too many university assignments, or had a personal issue come up that required immediate attention. I tried my hardest to avoid holding anyone’s absence against them, but the constant string of disappointments slowly wore me down.

Even so, whenever someone else seized the initiative and messaged one of our old group chats, everyone started talking and laughing again immediately. It would usually last for a day or two, before returning to radio silence. Those small glimmers of hope were enough for me to convince myself that it wasn’t truly over. We were just busy adults, and all understood that the others had lives of their own. I told myself that we were all still friends, deep down. Until the other day.

I’m currently on annual leave from work. My busy schedule has been wiped clean, leaving me with multiple weeks of complete freedom. Under other circumstances I would’ve used this time to travel, but the dual problems of Covid and my partner’s schedule have made that impossible. So I messaged my old friend group again, and tried to arrange another meetup. With my schedule so empty, I was confident that we’d be able to arrange something. That it didn’t matter when my friends were busy, or what their circumstances were, because I’d be able to adjust to suit them.

I was met with the news that two of my old friends have moved to completely different states, and that one of them had just started a new job. Yet another decided to leave me on read. A few years ago, these things would have been major talking points. Big news that would’ve been shared immediately, so that we could all be a part of the excitement. Now it feels like I’m being treated like an afterthought, kept in the loop only when it becomes necessary.

The logical part of my brain knows that nothing has changed. Functionally, there’s no difference in our relationship between yesterday and today. It makes no difference how far away they live, given that we never meet up anymore. Even so, I can’t stop thinking about it. Did these people ever care about me as much as I care about them? Do they remember our time spent together with the same fondness that I do? The distance between us has grown so much that I can no longer pretend that I know these people. I can no longer tell myself that we’re still friends.

I have a long-term partner. I have plenty of online friends. I don’t mean to downplay the role they play in my life, or make it sound like our friendship is any less ‘real’ because of the distance between us. I’m not isolated by any stretch of the imagination. But video calls and online gaming just doesn’t scratch the same itch as meeting up with people in real life, and my partner and I live together now, so ours days don’t feel as ‘special’ as they used to. I want to make new friends, too, but I’ve been trying for months without success. I know this isn’t a unique problem. Lots of people have had the same issues. But that knowledge doesn’t make this realisation any easier.

The absence of these people has left a hole in my life, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fill it.

[anotherfacelessjournal]

I’ve been pondering the best way to start this journal for a while now.

I’m tired of waiting. Sick of my own ability to procrastinate for seemingly infinite periods of time. So I’ve decided to begin with an explanation as to why I’m doing this. It’s not the deep, meaningful start that I wanted for this blog, but it’s better than nothing. Better than just leaving it stuck in purgatory forever. When I’m writing, I always find starting to be the hardest part, so I’m hoping that getting this out of the way will make the next part easier. I’m not planning on sharing this with anyone, so I’m trying to tell myself that it doesn’t matter anyway.

I have a physical journal. I picked it up years ago, after spending some time mourning how I never seem to write things by hand anymore. My handwriting was always atrocious, so I told myself that a journal would be a good way to practice, and that maybe I’d work through a couple of personal issues in the process. Two birds with one stone and all that. I still write in it semi-regularly. Usually while I’m on standby at work, and have plenty of time to kill. It didn’t really turn out the way I had hoped, though. Instead of a place for personal reflection, it became a simple record of my day-to-day. A collection of idle thoughts concerning everything important going on in my life. The realisation that I could sum up two weeks’ worth of my life in less than two pages didn’t help very much, either.

In theory, I could change that at any point. There’s nothing stopping me from sitting down, picking up a pen, and filling the pages with something more meaningful. Yet every time I try, I find that it feels wrong, somehow. I’ve never been very good at forcing myself to write. I prefer to let the words flow naturally, and just see where they take me. Perhaps it’s just my lack of experience, but trying to change the journal’s purpose halfway through feels counter-intuitive.

At the same time, an online blog feels more private than a physical one. Any one of my family, friends, or even workmates could notice my physical journal and ask me about it. Worse still, they could pluck it from my bag and read it while I’m not around, or not paying attention. Any serious attempt at deconstructing myself is probably going to contain a lot of things I’m not comfortable sharing, even with those closest to me. This random blog, accessible to anyone on Tumblr, tucked away amongst millions of others, is anonymous in a way that a physical book can never be. That feels a touch backwards, even now, but it makes sense to me. I’ve decided to just accept the fact, and hope that this anonymity lends me some sort of strength.

Hidden away from prying eyes, this blog will serve as a place for me to write the things that I can’t bring myself to write in my physical journal. It will be a place to air out the skeletons in my closet. A place for me to confront my worst fears in a safe environment. A place where I can handle my worst memories, over and over again, until their edges become dulled, and familiar. Somewhere that I can try in earnest to accept the worst parts of myself, and in doing so, find some small semblance of peace.

Let this be a new beginning.