atropos-invicta

[atropos-invicta]

on my wedding day

Years ago, when I was young, my mother told me that when she got married, her father asked her on her wedding day "Are you sure?" and made it clear to her that if she wasn't sure, the wedding would be called off. He would not be upset with her; he would be proud of her for listening to herself and her instincts and saying "No, I'm not sure." He promised her that if she wanted to run, he would be there for her and make sure it was something she could do.

He did not offer this because he wanted to split the relationship. He offered this because he was of the opinion that everyone, no matter what, should be offered the opportunity one last time to say "I have made a mistake; let me out of here" before being tied to another. He said it was a tradition he thought should continue to be carried on, because too often people are not reminded that they still have the option to say no before they say "I do."

My mother offered the same question to her best friend when her friend finally remarried; the friend had no-one else to ask it of her. My mother thought it should be asked; that the opportunity should be offered because too often, people become caught up in that dear old sunk-cost fallacy and sometimes, all that is necessary to help you see that is that someone offers an out. So she asked; she was answered; the wedding proceeded. Shame they didn't ask the eldest daughter, who thought the relationship was too rushed. Shame they didn't ask the son, who thought the same. Shame neither child spoke up, because they were the ones who suffered the most from feeling like this new figure was a horrid parent. They were the ones who suffered and felt like they didn't have a father, but a tyrant.

My mother told me about this tradition. She swore to me that on my wedding day, she would ask me if I was sure. If I wanted to proceed with the wedding. I waited and waited for her to ask.

She never did.

I would have said no.

[atropos-invicta]

an update to the status of my crumbling mind

He says there's a 90% chance he won't touch me again if I don't lose weight. A 25-30% chance he won't touch me even if I do lose weight.

Barring reproductive intent, of course. Because he wants kids. Of course he wants kids.

But what happens when my body is "ruined" after children? When it sags and has silvery stretch marks everywhere? When I can't lose the leftover weight from pregnancy, because it's less "excess weight" and more "your body contorted itself around a being and can never go back to how it was before?"

Because he isn't physically attracted to me now. (Now. Now; this time; today, because it always changes - now he says he can't get to the point of physical attraction anymore with me. Last time we talked, it was because he just didn't think sex was a part of a romantic relationship. What is it, really? The issue? Will I ever know?) Which means there's no way he'll be attracted to me then. He's a visual creature; all men are, and I'm not his type anymore. Was I ever? Will I ever be again?

Do I want to be?

Do I want to be. Isn't that a statement.

Gods, it sucks being more in love with someone else than they are with you. It fucking sucks being attracted to someone's mind when they couldn't care less about that (or maybe he does, but it will not be enough - is not enough); they only find themselves attracted to your body. It creates a cracked, aching feeling in your chest when you realize that no matter what, the way you look will always be more fucking important than you, in and of yourself.

And the cherry on top? It makes me feel like a hypocrite. How many times have I reaffirmed for others that their worth is not tied into their physical appearance? That the most important thing is health, not whether or not they conform to arbitrary standards of beauty because, after all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and chasing perfection will lead to nothing but heartbreak. Perfection is an ever-changing, unattainable goalpost with inherent flaws in its own right.

How many times have I tried to drill into someone's head that they should be loved for who they are, not what they look like? That they should reject the imposed beliefs of anyone and anything that tells them anything other than well-being matters? And yet here I am, contemplating whether or not I am willing to remain with someone who has stated that he holds no sexual interest in me due to my appearance.

Sex is so important to me. The connection, the vulnerability - it is integral to my sense of fulfillment and value in a romantic relationship. The trust required to permit someone to see you laid bare and then to touch you? The quiet wonder from marveling in each other? From delighting in the touch of your partner, and in touching them? From drawing such private responses from them that are only shared between the two of you?

Mm. It is glaringly obvious that my love language of choice is touch. Idiot that I am.

Furthermore, I miss having him look at me with hungry eyes. Nobody looks at me like that. Nobody looks at me like they need me; like they crave my existence; like I am water and they have been crawling towards an oasis (kissing him was easy as taking a drink). Nobody gazes at me. Nobody even sees me most of the time - that's my fault, to an extent, but is it really unfair to hope that he would ask me if I was okay? If he would ask me how I'm doing even just once a month? And not in the "oh, I can see you stubbed your toe and are in immediate physical pain" way, in the "are you okay? Is your mind overwhelming you? Would you like me to hold you?" kind of way.

I look at him like I am starving. Like he is the only one I would have ever wanted. When he smiles? Or laughs? Or demonstrates his knowledge, his enthusiasm, his pride? I look at him like he is sacred because to me, he is. He is the sun breaking through the clouds above me and he gilds everything he touches.

He does not look at me like this.

Is any of this fair of me? I firmly believe everyone is entitled to their preferences, which means I cannot be upset that he is no longer attracted to me. And a marriage is not dependent on sex; there is so much more to a relationship than sex. I have no right to be putting so much weight onto that as a singular concept. It isn't fair to be upset with things I am not receiving when they are not necessary to a relationship.

And, I've always been good at hiding how I'm doing. It is a point of pride that I am very good at being very invisible when I want to be. But -

That's inaccurate. He picks up on it. He walks on eggshells when he realizes I'm upset. Sometimes, rarely but sometimes, he asks if I'm okay. Always "did I do something to upset you?" And coward that I am, I say nothing because I would rather not deal with his pussyfooting around any more than he already is because he beats himself up mentally for not providing the connection; I grow more hollow wishing for it but knowing that asking only ever leads to further distress on his part and no resolution in any way.

So I have no right to be upset.

[atropos-invicta]

touch-starved

You know, normally my tastes run more on the kinky side of things, yeah? but these days, I'm trying not to cry at the idea of someone reaching for me. Literally just that - reaching for me. Wanting to hold me so they're reaching for me instead of the other way 'round - me, reaching out, asking, begging without begging, hoping for even the briefest of contact - so that for once, I feel like someone wants me. And not like I'm intruding on their space by wishing for human contact.

Why is it that the simple action of wishing someone would reach for me hurts so badly? Why does it feel like I am always the one reaching? Always offering? Always initiating? And why does it feel like even when this is happily reciprocated, I'm still giving away pieces of myself? Why do I feel more and more empty every time I give a hug when all I want to do is be hugged and held? When all I want is for someone to reach for me, instead of it always being on me to reach out.

I haven't been able to get the image of my partner, absolutely disgusted with the physical evidence of my arousal, physically repulsed by me. Or the fact that my partner has mentioned their absolute hatred of anything adult and explicit in nature. They've "never understood" the draw of marital privileges; they've "never thought" such things were part of a relationship. Just something people did to reproduce. According to my partner, they can grit their teeth and perform their duty; they can grit their teeth and get it done because now? they want kids.

But I don't want to bring children into a relationship wherein one of us is always on eggshells. Wherein one of us feels like they cannot make any noise, and the other feels like they cannot ask for the basics like a hug without being a burden. And worst of all, I cannot stomach the idea of my partner "gritting their teeth" and "performing their duty" simply with the intent of copulation. What happened to the mutual desire? The *want*? The pining and the ache?

Gone. Vanished, in the same shudder of disgust that demonstrated how much my partner doesn't want anything to do with me.

So now I cry when someone offers me the simplest of brushes; the quickest of hands against my shoulder. Even a jostle in the hallway, but we're not able to only handle a simple jostle - are we, class?

[atropos-invicta]

Immortal

Oh, this one should probably have a trigger warning for mentions/discussion of suicide.

Of course I'm not suicidal. I'm the only person I know who isn't at least a little suicidal, and it's so strange. I'm the only one of my friends who doesn't want their "miserable existence" to cease. The only one who isn't just barely surviving, who isn't just barely keeping the demons at bay long enough to go to bed and wake up again. I'm the only one angry at how little time we have.

I mean think about it - at best, you've got what, forty good years? The first twenty suck. You're too young to know how stupid you are, and you're too enamored by your own perceived greatness, your own invulnerability that you don't even realize how much time is flying by you. And by the time you've figured it out, your body is no longer growing; no longer repairing itself the way it used to. By twenty-three, you have to be careful because these injuries? They're going to last. They're going to alter your ability to function for decades. And all the dumb shit you did as a kid? It's starting to catch up with you. But at least you're finally (typically) done with the bullshit hormone dumps and crazy mood swings, right? So the good years finally start, because you can finally think clearly.

Then you're thirty, and statistically this is where the decline of the body really begins. Your metabolism slows, your tissues don't repair themselves at anywhere near the same efficacy they used to. Worse if you've got any kind of chronic illness and, let's face it, most people do. More than we realize, at least.

Forty, and if you had kids at 20 (I hope you didn't; you were still a kid yourself) your kids are now twenty. Maybe they're leaving home. Maybe our economy is so ruined that nobody can afford to leave their parents homes anymore. Maybe our parents can't afford their homes without the additional income. In this economy, you basically need three or four incomes for a good house, much less a proper diet. And dear gods, but isn't that infuriating? One used to be able to fuck off west, into nowhere, and build a home. Claim a homestead. You can't do that these days. And maybe, maybe, given enough time, you could change something. Given enough time, and money, and influence, you could begin to change things for the better! but -

Oh, that's right. You don't have the time. Between trying to make enough money to survive, and trying to be able to spend time with your family, it's been twenty years. You're sixty. If you've managed to make it that far without offing yourself or enduring a major injury, congrats! Now the physical decline begins to seriously accelerate. Despite best efforts, our bodies simply don't hold up the way they did when young. The process of aging is inevitable, and we still haven't found the fountain of youth. You got forty good years, physically speaking, and now you might (might) get to retire. Just in time to spend the (statistically) last 15-20 years of your life likely in assisted living or long term care because our society no longer holds value on the elders. They cannot as effectively contribute to our capitalist hellscape. Best to relegate them to forgotten corners and let them stagnate (literally, because how can one have integrity when forgotten and pushed aside? all that is left is stagnation and despair).

So no, I'm not suicidal. I'm angry. There is so much of the world that I want to see, so many things I'd like to do and experience and I don't have time. I don't have time, because we have such short lifespans - whispers of dust amongst the stars - and there is so much to appreciate. There are so many myriad things that make this life beautiful, and painful, and in that pain there is always eventually beauty because if it did not hurt, how could we know what it was like to be happy? If I had never known heartbreak, I could never love as freely and recklessly and deeply as I do. Heartbreak is not a pretty thing; I've discussed it before. But if all I focused on was the heartbreak, I would always miss out on the sheer joy of loving my husband. The euphoria of interacting with my friends. I would never notice how good the leaves smell in autumn as they crunch underfoot. I wouldn't be able to appreciate the crisp cold breeze that smells like the promise of snow. I wouldn't giggle at the snowflakes getting caught in my husband's beard, and I wouldn't eagerly call my friends over to look at the amazing sparkly rocks I find. We wouldn't travel hundreds of thousands of miles to vising the American National Parks and gawk at the glory of the ancient waterfalls that've been here longer than we have and that will be here long after we are. If all we focused on was how many things hurt, we could never see the beauty of a work of art, or appreciate the ancient graffiti that is so similar to ours.

There are as many infinite, tiny, myriad joys as there are myriad pains, and please, why can't you see them? Living requires as fierce and wild a joy and fury as being sad requires a determination. It is a difficult thing, both to be happy and to be sad. Why is it so difficult to also notice the things that make this life worth living?

Be furious. Be angry, because there is so much life to live in too little time. There is never enough time to notice all that should be appreciated. Love life with a relentless joy, with a passion equal to your hatred of living.

And please stop telling me paw prints in the snow aren't a good enough reason to be excited.

[atropos-invicta]

You know how sometimes you come home after a long shift and you're sure you can't possibly be more drained, more tired, and you walk through the front door and realize there's something you forgot to take care of at home? And now, somehow, your bones are too heavy. There is no fight left in you and what wouldn't you give, to be able to just collapse for a moment? To breathe? And exist without any pressing duties or responsibilities?

But you cannot take that moment. If you do, you might never muster the resolve to stand again because this corporatist hellscape is so draining and if you lose what forward momentum you have, you doubt you'll ever gain it again. That's a law of thermodynamics, isn't it? An object at rest and all that jazz.

And so we keep moving, keep pushing forward with the endless march of time because there are things worth continuing on for, even if those things are as simple as the fresh breeze on your face or the sunlight and the way it heats your hair.

It is still so heavy, though, and I must wonder if there will be a day I cannot continue. Cannot find the effort to continue. What happens then?

[atropos-invicta]

I've got a friend (three friends, actually, but I mean a SPECIFIC friend this time. The one who's the best at this) who can read people like I read books. He's terrifyingly good at dissecting your entire traumatic history and knowing ALL of the shit that happened just based off of how you function. Which is cool and all, but see

I am used to being that person. I am the one who reads people. I keep a finger on everyone's emotional pulse. I ensure everyone is doing well enough that they aren't actively suicidal. I make certain my people are hydrated, rested, fed. Nobody reads me; I read everyone else.

And this fucker reads me like a goddamn book? Calls me out on pretending that I'm fine? Tells me to be careful with my oversleeping, because there are a whole host of nasty effects that stem from depression sleeps? Is trying to convince me that my childhood was fucked up too, and I need to acknowledge that instead of acting like I'm fine?

All of that I could be okay with. Really! I could. Means somebody gives a fuck AND can see through my bullshit. Rare combination. I've got exactly four people who can do that (in varying degrees of success) in my life, and one of them is my husband. There's just one tiny problem.

My goddamn tiktok feed is agreeing with him and making the same points. He has tainted my feed.

[atropos-invicta]

Sometimes I miss who I wanted to be.

I adore my husband, don't get me wrong, and I know it's my body and I can do with it what I want but there is a certain level of respect I like to afford my husband. Tattoos, piercings remind him of people from his childhood I'd gladly kill. Cigarette smoke makes him "irrationally angry" (his words, not mine) because he associates it with being five and his father putting a knife through my husband's arm. So I will not get the inking I wanted, and I will not get the piercings I wanted, because I don't want to fuck with my husband.

But I miss what I could have been. I wanted Eastern dragons twining up (down? Their heads at my wrists) my arms, screaming their fury and breathing their anger to the world in ways I never could. In red, so they looked a little bit like scars because that's what they were to be physical representations of.

I wanted a phoenix, wings spread, between my collarbones and the bottom of my sternum, to remind me I could always stand back up and rise again. I was seventeen and angsty, okay? It felt like I was being kicked back down every time I got a chance to stand.

I wanted Yggdrasil, branches full but with spaces (like planets) left for a dozen little things like my fandoms and small pieces of the people I love, as a full back piece.

I wanted a nasallang, with a chain over the top of my nose, because I love that aesthetic. I wanted ladders and industrials in both my ears for the same reason, and I was simply never brave enough to go get any of it done.

And now I probably never will.

[atropos-invicta]

At Heart/Night Shift

(TW)

All the trigger warnings, probably. Seriously, you have been warned.

Let’s be honest for another moment, yeah? 

Because if we’re being honest, I’m absolutely a romantic at heart. I fall in love with the smallest of things and doing so breaks my heart every day. I love too easily and take too long to hate. I’m no longer cautious with who I care about; the tiniest bit of attention, the barest hint of loyalty and I will kill for you. If we’re being brutally honest. 

When I’m not being honest, I try to make people believe I don’t give a single fuck about them. I paste on my cold, distant persona that I crafted out of pieces of my mother and my father and the books I wasn’t allowed to read and the shows I shouldn’t have watched so young and I try my damnedest to convince the people that I’ve begun to grow attached to that I couldn’t care less about them. It works, sometimes. But it always hurts when it does, because if we’re being honest (and we are being honest, right?) I hate making people think I don’t care. Keeping that distance hurts. It hurts and I don’t know how else to protect myself because people use those attached to them and I’m tired of being used. I could always just start repressing the attachments, the affection again, but it was so lonely and I never want to go back.

Which leaves us here. Honestly, I’m craving connection, attention, Hell even interaction. So lonely it hurts. Even in the room, in bed with my husband, curled up with him - so lonely it hurts. I think it’s the bit where he’s behaving like he’s ace - nothing wrong with that, but I wasn’t expecting that kind of a change considering how we were before we got married. And the lack of vulnerability, the connection that unfortunately only occurs during sex? I feel fucking touch-starved and I’m being given all the snuggles I could ever need. It feels like something is missing and that is the best way I know how to describe it.

And dear gods, if he tells me once more that I can “just take care of the issue” (that’s what he calls it, when I’m aching and soaked) by myself, if I am told to “Just use your toys!” one more time, I’m going to start sobbing because yes, the release is nice but it’s so absolutely not the point and I don’t know how to tell him how it fucks with me when he physically recoils with that look of disgust from the evidence of my arousal.

See, I know this is probably part of his past trauma. He says he’s still attracted to me, but “the idea of sex is disgusting. Oh my god. I used to stick my penis INSIDE of you. We had period sex. That’s so…. disgusting. And so unsanitary.”

I mean, that sounds like a trauma response, right? He vaguely remembers being assaulted as a child, by a “sketchy neighbor.” This is absolutely a trauma response. He needs support, and to be reminded that I’m here for him and I love him no matter what. I shouldn’t be affected by this so deeply but my gods

It feels like something’s wrong with me. It feels like I am overreacting. Like I want something I shouldn’t. I should be able to handle a lack of fucking sex. It’s literally just sex; plenty of people go without it all the bloody time. And here I am, losing my mind over it. It feels like I’ve done something wrong, like I have failed somehow and I don’t even know how. All I know is that ever since my husband got drunk and hit his kill switch, I have been losing my shit one day at a time and I can barely hold myself together anymore.

(My husband has a kill switch. He shuts off his emotions just like some people shut off lights. You can physically watch the life leave his eyes and it fucks with me so badly. Last time it happened, I was so fucking close to hiding in the bathroom and leaving a few lines in my hips because I know that makes my brain shut up but I didn’t. I kept it together better than that. And our friend, the Kid, tried so hard to get my husband to turn it back on but it didn’t happen until my husband woke up the next morning)

Now, there comes a hollow ache in the middle of my sternum at about 0300 every night (early as midnight some nights). It’s familiar and it’s old and it’s something I thought I outgrew years ago. Like an old ex you can’t get rid of because you were childhood friends, it’s back and it claws at my lungs the way only a childhood friend can. It feels like my chest is collapsing in and maybe, maybe if I fold into it enough it’ll fill. I’ve begun to hate the night, to hate the dark - an old friend of mine, one who was always with me when I was crying alone and young - because night means I’m alone again (the joy of night shift. Heaven for an introvert, hell for an extrovert. Or someone who craves interaction, like me).

And while I got used to being told I was a bad person all my life, and being told I wasn’t good enough or that I was worthless - got used to being pushed to the side and neglected (that’s why I try so hard to help others, apparently, ‘cause everytime I stop someone from feeling as bad as I do emotionally, it heals me ever so slightly), it doesn’t mean I’m still used to it. Doesn’t mean I’m still capable of shrugging and turning away, because I let go of that armor when I learned what it was like to be around people who openly, kindly, gently expressed their love. I’m not used to being alone anymore, and anything that makes it feel like I am alone again cuts to bone.

It makes me want to cut to bone, either with my words or in regards to my own skin. Well, maybe not to bone - shallow scrapes burn and sting longer and hurt more. They’re better for the endorphin rush that makes your brain go nice and fuzzy. Quiet. No more of the thoughts that make you question your worth, no more of those stones that are other people’s words weighing you down. Just…. silence. Clarity.

Honestly, I miss it. I miss the peace. The calm. The ability to fall into dreamless sleep instead of tossing and turning and overthinking. And I’m trying so hard to stay away from it but lately, it’s been a losing battle. At this point, it’s either “feel like I’m begging for attention” or it’s “use a potentially dangerous but very effective coping mechanism.” I’m too proud for the first and (unfortunately) smart enough for the second. Yay, intimate knowledge of human anatomy.

Anyways. If I’m being honest, I’d like to be fucked and held and dominated and adored, and I’d like someone to play with me and sit next to me in comfortable silence as we both do our own things. I wish my husband would ask me if I was okay more often. I wish I was more comfortable asking for help. I wish I had friends nearby who were okay with me showing up at two in the morning and I wish I was okay with falling apart on their couch. I wish I wasn’t so good at staving off the complete mental breakdown I can feel coming on and I wish I was better at repressing my shit so I didn’t have to worry about mental breakdowns. I wish my brother still talked to me. I wish I’d known better when I was a child. I wish I’d known I’m okay with open relationships when I got married and I wish my husband was too. I wish I’d fucked more people before I settled down. I wish it had felt like my parents loved me instead of tolerating me growing up. I wish I’d never stopped dancing and I wish I was ageless and able to make those I wanted ageless and I wish I’d been good at fighting and I wish my childhood had been more traumatic so I’d have justification for feeling the way I do and I wish I’d had a good childhood so I wasn’t this fucked up and I wish I’d never learned what it was like to be sad and I wish I’d never learned how easy it is to make it all

Stop.

[atropos-invicta]

Drinking - TW & NSFW

You know, I’ve never been drunk. Not actually. Tipsy, yeah, but never drunk.  Tonight a few of my friends tried to get me drunk but all it felt like was having low blood glucose and I fucking hated it. I hate the feeling of being almost in control but just not, and I hated the fact that everyone else was happy and giggly and sloshed and I was just…. not. They were definitely drinking more than I was, but I hated what we were drinking too. I dislike the feeling of alcohol on my tongue and I hate the way it burns even when you can’t taste it. 

Tonight, though, I got further past tipsy (still not drunk) than ever before, and being relaxed and giggly was nice. The lag time between my body and my brain sucked, but it was sort of doable. 

But then we went home, my husband and I. I got my husband home, and tucked him into bed, and he’s happy and asleep and cozy and dear gods but I’m so hollow. I feel hollow and empty and I just want somebody to fucking talk to so I can ignore how hollow I feel. 

It’s like there’s an ache in my chest, at the bottom of my ribs, and I don’t know why it’s there but it is and I. Fucking. Hate it. That hollow, empty, lonely feeling and it hurts so bad I want to cry but I’m not going to cry, I have nothing to cry about and no reason to cry and most importantly, nobody to hold me while I’m crying. 

Is it because I slipped up and told them about my brother? The way he pinned me to the floor before sinking his teeth into my thigh and raping me? Is that it - that I wasn’t going to tell them about that but did, because fuck me but they asked and I’ve promised to answer questions when they ask?

Is it because they reminded me of that? Because in telling them, I had to relive it a little bit? It shouldn’t be. I got over it.  I had to; we had a 18-hour car ride two days after he raped me. There was no way for me to *not* be over it. We had to sit next to each other in the back seat of the truck, and I couldn’t be freaking the fuck out every time made physical contact with me. I had it under control 6 hours into the drive. It helped that my younger little brother noticed something was off and I was panicking every time the older little brother touched me. It helped that he sat between us and played everything off each time my parents got suspicious about how badly I was reacting. 

I still get touchy when people touch me unexpectedly. I still react badly to being pinned down (most of the time. that one’s weird). I’m don’t ever give up control, in my personal life or at work, because there are VERY few people I trust enough to relax around and I don’t know how to keep my shit together when I’m not in control.

Maybe I didn’t get over it, after all. Is that why I’m so spooked right now? Why I feel like sobbing but won’t let myself? There’s too much to feel and I don’t want to wake my husband and I don’t want to feel all of these things alone. I can’t feel them all while I’m alone. If I lose my shit alone, it’ll reinforce the idea that I shouldn’t talk to or trust anybody. That would be bad. Very, very bad. Because then I wouldn’t talk to anyone anymore and I already push off my own health - mental and physical - because I don’t feel I’m worth taking care of. I’ve come so far, I can’t relapse now. 

But I’m so hollow. And my chest hurts so much. Maybe I should curl up in the corner. I could do that. I could handle that. 

[atropos-invicta]

[atropos-invicta]

TW: SH

My friends keep thinking I'm joking when I ask if they'll do me a favor and crack one or two of the metacarpals in my left palm. Just one or two; not bad breaks, just fractures - enough it interferes with opening pill bottles so I can't work but not so much I'll have permanent issues - and they think I'm kidding.

They don't realize I'm serious.

I offer to pay them, and laugh it off with a "my husband is violently protective, so you'll need to be able to hide for a few days, take a trip" and they don't think anything of it. They think I'm just using dark humor to cope with the stress of work because godsdamnit, nursing is hard and overwhelming and understaffed and overworked but isn't everyone? Why is nursing any different?

They think I'm joking.

Joking when I ask if they'll fracture my bones so I have a "valid reason" to not come in to work. Let's be honest - I have the PTO and I could absolutely call in and say "I need a break; I need a mental health day" because it's nursing and they view that as very important. After all, you hold people's health and potentially their lives in your hands. Making sure you're in the right headspace is important.

But I'm too much of a pussy to think my mental status is a good enough reason to fuck over my coworkers or my residents, so I won't call in and say that. I could! But I don't see it as a valid reason to call in. After all, it's just all in my head.

I ask them to break my bones and they say "I'll do yours if you'll do mine" and laugh, because they're joking so I must be too, right?

My friends haven't realized that I ask them to break my bones not because I'm scared to do it myself, but because I have a history of self harm. Of cutting and burning my flesh until it was the only way I could sleep at night. Until the blissful, cool wash of endorphins from the slices was enough to bring instant relaxation and enough to make my brain shut up for long enough to fall asleep. I'm scared to break my own bones because I'm worried I'll start hurting myself again. I miss the instant clarity, the pure relaxation that hits when I split my skin open.

I ask my friends to break my bones because if I do it, I'm worried I won't stop.

How fucked up is that?

[atropos-invicta]

There Is Room

“There is room for you here,” the voice whispers, “there is always room.”  But the girl dances away with a twist of laughter, shies away and teases with a flick of golden hair. She conquers and outmaneuvers, wins against impossible odds, and ignores the voice calling - the one that always reminds her that there is room.

“There is room,” the voice calls. She is older now, and laughter does not follow her everywhere she goes. The solemn call of the blindfolded Lady is what she hears now, haunting her every footstep. She does not shy away from that, but she is still scared of the Voice offering her room.

“There is room,” the voice hisses, “room for you here.” The girl nods to the voice, acknowledges it, but does not accept the offer. The voice is a companion now, near to her as a shadow. It offers her solace as often as she blinks, but she will not accept the offer. She has too much to do.

“There is room,” the old voice screams, breathless and hoarse and overwhelming nearly all other noise, but the golden girl (a girl no more, a mother now) hears another voice in the night - her son’s voice - and heeds it instead. “You are not my friend,” she tells the Old Voice, “Not my friend now nor ever.” She is broken and bleeding, but she staggers away to follow the other voice.  Her husband calls; her people call.

“There is room for you here,” the Old Voice reminds her. “There is always room.” She turns to the Old Voice and smiles sadly. “I have room elsewhere for now,” she says, “And I am needed yet. I cannot rest.”  The voice nods.

“There is room for you here, in the grave.”

[atropos-invicta]

Terror

My brother got married.

I'm worried by his wife, the way she controls him. The way she isolates him. The fact that he no longer stands up for himself.

And at first, I was just worried. It wasn't me she had him cutting off. It wasn't me they were blocking.

Now, I'm terrified. Terrified, because my brother isn't talking to me anymore. He's told others he doesn't want to talk to me right now. And we never got along very well - we always butted heads; we were both trying to be in charge and were trying to be the oldest sibling and it never went well for our relationship.

I'm old enough to see that now.

Perhaps it was foolish, thinking and hoping that the time and distance would make it possible for us to become actual friends and not just siblings - now that we weren't fighting for the same thing.

But now he and his wife won't talk to me.

I'm so scared of losing this relationship, this connection that never got to blossom and so few people understand that. So few people are capable of understanding how much this is tearing me apart because I don't know what I did wrong I can't fix this I can't apologize and repair something I didn't even know got broken until they wouldn't talk to me.

I am hoping, praying to all the gods and ancient things that I am wrong about how it looks like she is isolating and manipulating and controlling him because I don't want to be right! I don't want to be right in saying that it looks like she is setting the groundwork for a highly abusive relationship and I don't want him to be isolated either way. If I am right, if I am wrong - I just want him to be safe, and happy, and I want him to know that I'm here no matter what.

But I can't tell him that, because he won't respond.

[atropos-invicta]

This is my cat, Brigitte.

24 hours after I brought her home, I got a mindblowing job offer.  Since I adopted her nine years ago, my life has become an amusement park.  She has brought me good luck ever since I took her into my home.

I’m telling you, there’s something about this animal.  Good fortune follows her everywhere.

I don’t want to be selfish.  I have everything I need and then some.  So, I’m sharing her with you.

Reblog Brigitte and you’ll receive fantastic news in the next 24 hours.

And when you do, please remember to help your local SPCA and support them in the difficult work they do for wonder animals like Brigitte.  Any donation helps your SPCA, even if it’s just five bucks.

Kitties like Brigitte are counting on you to give back when they bring you good luck.

Thanks, and congratulations on your good news!

[atropos-invicta]

Vicious

I was going to write a soft, gentle piece tonight about fuzzy blankets and how my lover has gotten me addicted to them, or perhaps about how the word “please” is now part of my vocabulary and it’s all because of him.

But then someone mentioned that I was “one step closer to eating the rich” and I couldn’t help but say no.

No, because simply eating the rich would be kind.

It’s too quick a death. Starve them, or infect them with a chronic illness and allow them to waste away as they cannot afford the medications necessary. Let them lose hope as they are made test subjects as they made the helpless suffer for their own developments.  Any gluttonous bastard who refuses to properly treat their employees or who tries to manipulate the proceedings of a once-bright government or the lives of a once-free people or who tests innocents ESPECIALLY without their educated consent and masquerades under the guise of compassion and generosity deserves nothing less than the living death they sentence others to.

And besides - why kill them? I’m sure they could be useful for something. But tear down their corporations and the dreams they have risen from the earth - let them watch as those better, those kinder and more compassionate, rebuild their small businesses and allow the lifeblood of the country to flow again.

Let the people choose again from whom they will purchase - cut out the megacorporations like the cancers and weeds that they are. Allow us to end the leviathans that dictate too much of our lives.

This world has been corrupted and manipulated while blind Justice has been bound and gagged with her blindfold removed and forced to watch as her scales are hung and then weighted by greedy hands.  The balance is no longer set but rather altered to fall in favor of those who neither need nor deserve that favor.

There are wanted names. Isn’t it time to retrieve them?

[atropos-invicta]

I was reading a story - a pretty thing about an immortal witch and her mortal beloved, and that's probably why - but I realized I wouldn't be able to handle your death.

As I am writing with this, I'm fighting to breathe because I have remembered we are mortal - fragile, mortal humans - and that one day, one of us will likely leave the other behind.

And I can't handle the idea of living without you.

The very thought has me falling apart even though I know you're alive and well right now and I know I've never felt this way before. Never needed someone this badly or been this happy. Never been this willing to protect or to give so completely.

This is a love to rock the stars, Lightbringer - a love that will remain in me even after the end of time.

I don't think I'll survive your death, my love. Perhaps it's for the best, then, that we plan to go together.

And I know this is darker than it should be, and I know we are too young for me to be thinking of this

But the ache is so deep and the only thing I know how to do to help is write. So I'm writing this down, and praying to every deity I've ever heard of that you come back to me, safe.

Until this planet is nothing but dust on the endless breath of space, lover. I will always love you.

[atropos-invicta]