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ikaroony · 15 hours ago

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day thirty-one, part two

content warning: abuse

the next morning was a bright one. i had a breakfast buffet, and it was everything i could dream of. i didn't cook the toast all the way, so it ended up tasting quite mushy.

we will introduce another new person: someone much like myself. we'll call her viola, derived from the word "violin." i wanted to choose a name that matched the type of character she embodied.

i don't tend to put much thought in codenames, but for this particular person, i wanted to do my best. her name is already very beautiful, so i wanted to give her a codename that reflected that. both her inherent beauty and the beauty of the name she has. i wouldn't actually call her "viola" irl haha!!

viola and i have been friends for a similar amount of time i had been friends with quill, gigi (not to be confused with ginger), and pea. viola too has been through difficult relationships of her own, much like myself. a point of similarity we both share.

viola is a good friend. there's something about her that makes me feel comfortable, as if i don't have to be anyone but myself. and i don't think this is impulsivity talking either, considering how i've technically known her since may!

this second blog will focus on her, particularly how we both use writing as a means of reflecting on the losses we've undergone as individuals. how we can choose to use that to better the relationships we have with our wider network. of course, i will not share the specific problems she underwent before we met. but i will share a few fragments of the discussions we've had, to better inform you all on how she has helped me move forward from this breakup.

following the museum, i decide to face yet another fear of mine: the fear of heights. and what better way to do it than to head on the ifs cloud cable car. i had already braved the seas last year when heading on the woolwich ferry: not that i was scared of boats but rather because i wanted to experience the passage of north to south.

as you may already know, this entire month has been focused on self-improvement: facing my fears and learning to become a better person. it has also been a month where i want to share the love i held for pea and give it to the friends of mine who deserve it most.

viola and i had engaged in some conversation. she reassures me that it will be easy, and texts me throughout the entire passage. encouraging me, telling me it will be okay. she wasn't the only one either: bee had also been giving words of encouragement and pride in knowing that i was facing a sudden challenge. the feeling of my friends behind my back had helped me in this exciting, overwhelmingly fearful challenge.

looking at the world as it shrank below me was a surreal experience. it had almost felt as if nothing else really mattered: as if the world was an illusion, and all that was real was myself and the cable car i hid in. so much so that were it to break, i would choose to let it happen, for i was embraced in the warmth of the purple moquetted carriage.

and yet it didn't collapse. i was safe and sound. returning to the surface, i am congratulated by viola. it was almost as if she was there, physically hugging me out of happiness knowing i filled my fear. but it wasn't just her. it was myself.

there exists two parts of myself. the part i show to others, and the "protective" part of myself. i initially assumed it was some form of DID. therapists assumed it was some form of autism. the truth was neither. it was my version of "omori" - a part of myself that was me, but the parts of myself i chose to suppress. the parts of myself i chose to reject. and yet it's me. it always has been me. it was me when i yelled at my family as a child, and it was me when i hurt the feelings of my old friend group back in year 12. it has always been me.

it felt like she had saw this unfold before her. she assumed the name of "alice" for a while, but it would be more accurate to say she is simply an "other" of some kind. this "other" part of me is me. and many months ago, she left me behind. it felt like i had lost a friend. but truth be told, she had never left. nor was she ever real. she is me. and i am her.

we're one. we always have been.

in choosing to write, in choosing to seek self-forgiveness, i must let myself fuse with the parts of myself i reject, and learn to protect myself. to not let the other do it for me. i am the one who plays the piano, who allows myself to feel the keys brush against my fingers, as i imagine a dissonant, uncomfortable melody, that slowly smooths into a crescendo of words that could not be said. notes that vaguely resemble the melodies i had played or hummed or listened to myself when in times of distress.

not much after that, i had retired to my relative's house for the night. i then headed back to my hotel and enjoyed some food. the next day was much the same: i had commuted into central london.

the feeling of being under the flashing lights and varied signage of the transport museum allowed me to stim openly for the first time in a while. feeling my hands flap as unfamiliar, seemingly childish, melodic sounds left my mouth. i was in my happy place. i was in a temple of public transport, and i was a visitor. i felt like i belonged. seeing those alongside me engage in idle talk about the rich history of the london railways made me feel like i mattered.

viola was happy to hear that, telling me that it was nice that i could stim so openly. that was when i remembered something that i may or may not have dwelled upon before in this blog. my autism.

as a child, i was ashamed of my autism. the moment i saw my parents disappointed in my inability to do anything for them, a spark lit within me. a desire to learn, to become smarter and to articulate myself in a way that matched the "normal" people in my life. i was a demon in human clothing. not to say that people with autism were demons of course, but rather the fact we felt different. we felt like outcasts. but we were happy. i was happy back at special school. i had people like me around me at all times. we could be the heroes of our own tales, the leaders of our own expansive stories. we didn't have to listen to the desires of humanity. we were free.

and then i was considered "too smart" for special school, and was transferred to a mainstream school with an autism support "resource base" building where fellow autistic individuals could gain support and had varied timetables that differed from the mainstream timetables that most had. i was under such a timetable, spending roughly 60% in mainstream education, while 40% of my time was spent doing lessons on social skills, separate music classes, and other activities that we had., a smooth, well-meaning transition. a transition where i still felt as though i could be the "demon" i want to be.

then secondary happened. there was still a resource base, yes. but it wasn't the same. no longer was there alternative timetables for autistic individuals. we were all looked at under the same expectation. we still had to follow the same behaviour standards. it was a harsh change. i was under the league of humans, and i could not suppress the demonic traits i held within me. so i lashed out. acted harsh, angry, and afraid. that makes sense.

i was abused as a child, after all.

i was abused, like the demon i was. i couldn't be enough for the humans in my life, so i had to be punisshed like the hellspawn i was. it made sense.

and that was how the other formed. how they were born from my suppressed demon traits. because as secondary school progressed, my masking became much worse. and the abuse wouldn't stop. that was why i created her. to protect me from the harsh outer world. to refuse responsibilities for the mistakes i made. for it felt like i wasn't the one doing them. it felt like it was all her. all of it, from the start.

being "half-demon, half-human," was how i lived my life for the longest time. my dad infamously said a few times that i was "no longer autistic," that i was human now and could do human things. i was no longer a demon in their eyes.

the beatings stopped for a few years.

being human felt great. it felt like i had finally belonged. i could do normal things, like pursue a degree, look for jobs, maybe even fulfil my dream of becoming a showrunner. i felt like i could do anything.

then it became too much. not only was i trans, but the demonic traits had shown themselves once again

and this time, i couldn't hide them.

masking was no longer enough. i could no longer hide the patterns i had hidden my whole life. i was a demon. and there was no fixing that.

and that's the thing with autism: autism isn't inherently "demonic," or any of the traits you would associate with demons. they're not evil, malevolent, or cruel. but we are treated like demons. we're seen as abrasive, as trash, as people who do not deserve the same rights as humans. we were ignored, sometimes even by our own kind. i'll see autistic people fighting one another on the most contrived arguments at times, and all it did was make me feel even more ashamed of myself. of this "demon" that lived within me.

but there is no half-demon. there is no "half-autism." i am autistic. and there is no changing that.

it felt like death was the only acceptable outcome for someone like me. i couldn't find a job. it felt like my demon "half" only made things worse for people. i was the definition of wasted potential. my human facade was crumbling apart, and it was no longer avoidable.

when pea told me she refused to believe she was neurodiverse, she said she didn't want anything "wrong" with her. she said that although there was nothing wrong with me or with other autistic people: every cell in her body rejected the possibility that things could have been different. but more importantly, she didn't want to stand with the other demons. she didn't want to be like us. she was ashamed.

in the moments where my "demon self" manifested, she would offer some amount of support. but it never felt like she truly loved me. it felt like the autism i had was a "mistake," a "blemish" in what was otherwise a good partner. if i could continue covering up these patterns, i could be just as perfect as she was. as her life wanted to be.

she pursued this desire of perfectionism, of "humanity" to the point where she would cast me aside once she had the chance. and that hurt more than you could ever imagine.

so as the holiday comes to an end, it is 1:29am. i have packed away most of my belongings after a lovely night of pizza in bed. i think back to the tragedy of rumi, of how she had to hide the traits of herself that were ultimately hers. but we can't fix it if we never face it, after all.

do we even want to fix it?

do we need fixing? are we not valid living as we are? are we demons not fine the way we exist? we may not be able to do as much as our human peers, yes. we can't do most jobs, and we ultimately need benefits to survive. but we provide our own views and perspectives and are still lives in this world. and maybe, just maybe, there isn't much difference between humans and demons as we realise.

maybe we're just the same, and these differences are merely arbitrary. in a hundred years time, a society initially built to support both humans and demons, will eventually evolve into a society for people. these differences will no longer matter. but in the meantime, we must fight. we must embrace the patterns we have been told to hide away. our existence matters.

viola agreed. we're both suspecting she has some form of autism herself. but unlike pea, she's choosing to accept that possibility. she thinks it doesn't matter if it makes her seem "lesser," because she knows her own worth. we both know our own worth. who cares about being perfect humans? we're fine as is.

we're free

we always have been.

i have decided to put this disjointed "book" to rest. i think i am satisfied with where i left things. it's very likely that "pea" and the past we had will continue informing the decisions i make in the present and the future.

but i think im ready to start loving again. not just myself, but others. it feels right. it feels like i can tell you all anything.

and "viola," if you're reading this. just know i care about you, a lot. and i know you can get over the pain you're going through. you're not alone. you never have been. i'm here for you. same to you, quill. and bee. and anyone who is reading this. crow, ginger, ika, anyone.

you all mean so much to me. i love you all.

so let's start a new book. and the first words of the first chapter will read as follows:

"putting on my london underground-themed moquette socks, i look back at the hotel i had stayed in for the past three nights. with my belongings by my side, i head downstairs to return the key i had been bequeathed temporarily. as the piano and violin play in perfect harmony, the crows fly across the sky, their quills landing in a field inhabited by bees that tell tales of ginger-coloured flowers and sweet pies."

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ikaroony · 17 hours ago

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day thirty-one

it's been 31 days since that incident.

i sit in my hotel room as i write this. the hotel room we booked together. rumi's voice echo in my ears, as i look back at the past month and think to myself... so much has changed.

my past few blogs have focused on other people, the interactions i've had with them, the confusing perspectives i've faced. making sense of this cacophony of voices, of hope and despair. of piano and violin. i figure i should dedicate a good amount of this blog to myself, allowing myself a chance to write as extensively as i can, without any outer voices telling me to sleep, or any pending responsibilites. for this hour, i can breathe. but first.

pea.

i know you will never see this. but on the off-chance you do, i'm glad we are not speaking again. i have friends and family of my own. if things go wrong, i won't need your help. i'll be able to save myself. you were never meant to save me. the fact that you tried to do that, only to fulfil your own ego, makes you a special type of wrong. but i don't think you're evil. i do think there is still some heart within you. i do believe that in spite of everything, the love you felt for me was real. that you did love me, even romantically. the eyes that i would stare into, i want to believe those were long looks of love.

that is the interpretation i choose to stick to. the narrative i choose to ink into this finished book, stored within a lost library of memories that forever fill the dark confines of my mind.

i don't think you were worth a book of your own however. i believe you shared this book with one other person. the ex i had before you, yuuri. as i am writing this, there are no ways for you to contact me without putting my life in danger. i know hatred is crossed in your heart. i know you want me dead. it's easier that way, it's easier for you to believe that i hate you. but that was never true. i could never hate you, even after the abuse you put me through. a part of my heart will forever hold some sort of fondness. much like how a part of me will forever be fond of the dates i went on with pea, even if they weren't real.

even if you both hate me, even if you both choose to manipulate and badmouth me years into the future, i will do nothing about it. the ones i care about the most know the truth. they have their own opinions on the matter. i can't change how you two feel, nor how the world feel about me. there are people who will always hate me.

there are people who will always believe i am some megalomanic manipulator, narcissist, or even at worst, an abuser. and although these viewpoints aren't true in the slightest: if it helps you sleep at night, i will let it slide. it is only if you attempt to bring these falsehoods to the public, will i then fight back.

the nature of the type of person i am makes me easily susceptible to manipulation. i am merciful to a fault, and yet i am too dense to understand the hidden demands and desires of those around me. i can be too self-centered, to the point where i fail to consider the impact of the actions i have to those around me. no wonder vivi and peach were horrified when i told them i wanted to end my own life.

now to myself. to the story i wish to tell.

i have enjoyed a few nights in london. my first truly solo holiday, where i don't have to listen to the demands or desires of adults around me. where i can choose what to eat, where to go, how to dress, what to buy. a truly liberating feeling. though i'm sure my bank account would disagree.

i remember walking into that hotel room for the first time, seeing that double bed in front of me. i remember a feeling of bittersweetness coarse through my veins. perhaps an otherworldly glimpse, a "what if" would echo in my mind. imagining the two of us together, laying on that soft bed, linen over our heads. being able to sleep in each other's arms for the first time, kisses echoing across the empty room. the feeling of hearts pounding into one, our souls merged in a fleeting dance that feels as though it could last forever. an eternity passing in an hour.

but that reality would never come to be. that reality would remain an illustration, a closed door in my mind. a door you chose to close shut yourself, and a door i chose to throw away the key. you gave me the option to still continue our holiday, perhaps just as friends. we could have still done everything together. but i refused. i knew that deep down, the only feeling i would hold is dissent. anger. unfairness. and even if, by some chance, you fell for me again - would i really say yes? am i someone worth playing around with - a sort of "second option" in case things go wrong? i have enough respect to refuse such a frivolous decision.

walking across the wharf, i see high rise buildings enroached in an unfamiilar maze that overwhelms me. after successfully riding the waterloo and city line - the last tube line i needed to visit - i had found myself experiencing this sense of wonder for the first time in a whlie. a feeling not experienced since i was a mere child. a feeling of joy, of a limitless world free to conquer. free to explore, to choose.

after putting my bags away, i explore the docklands. the wharf was confusing, like a true maze. though it frustrated me at times, i found myself feeling challenged in a way that i couldn't experience had i been with someone else. having to truly think for myself, without the guidance of other adults.

the wharf, in its splendour, would be a truly marvellous setting for a true crime story, or perhaps an episodic miniseries focusing on the actions of different people who stumble upon this behemoth slice of an already bustling larger-than-life city.

i decide to travel toward oxford circus on a quest of water. sitting in front of the DLR was a joy that would never fade: that feeling of the driverless carriage rummaging its way through the formerly tube-serviced tracks, now the plilars of an automated, almost living creature of metal. and sitting in front of it felt as though you were the driver: as if you had tamed this beast and were guiding your fellow band of passengers across that particular light rail network. upon alighting, i found myself at that familiar ramen place for dinner.

that same ramen place i had visited quite a few times. the staff were familiar, in a good way. my server recognised me after a few awkward seconds of silence and staring, and i would be granted the best service imaginable. if i could, i would add more to the service charge. "ramo ramen" is the name of the restauraunt, please visit it if you can!

that night, i would retire to slumber, feeling my eyes grow heavy, as the half moon would shine upon my hotel window. that very same half-moon, i am sure you are seeing in the sky, my lost pea. we used to talk about the moon all the time, didn't we? how in spite of everything, we still look at the same moon in the sky each night. a shared experience, even miles apart. even if one of us were to tragically die, our bodies (or what remain of it) would still stare at the moon. perhaps one of the only experiences we will still have together.

the next day, i acquire the delicious breakfast and head into the docklands museum. the history of the ships themselves didn't interest me deeply, but what my brain paid attention to was the history of the slave trade. the night before i went to sleep, i had a talk with a friend of mine who we'll call "corvus." corvus is black, and we had discussed (in vc) the consequences that slurs can carry to marginalised groups. we discussed the n-word, and how people in our lives would misuse this word almost as if it meant nothing at all. the shallow arrogance of these criminals, as they continue blabbering the harsh abuse subjected to us all, as if it had not mattered at all.

i am not black myself, so i can't truly imagine the pain corvus must have felt when someone close to him had said the word he didn't want to hear. he stood up for himself, and cut the criminal out of his life. racism is always something that has disgusted me. looking at the paintings of slave owners, both displayed in pride and in shame, felt almost as if it was a case of "war photographer" syndrome. we look upon these figures in an objective lense, refusing to let their sins die away in history. but the fact that there was a chance for us to stop this from ever happening, yet we never did.

whether or not the the slave trade was abolished because of immorality is an incredibly complex debate. but it would not surprise me if that wasn't the case at all, if it had only been abolished because it was no longer seen as profitable. not to say that the writings of abolitionists such as Ignatius Sancho were in any way insignificant, but rather the laissez faire attitude that the british embody, even to this day.

as we sit at our homes and witness the man-made famines occuring in gazan soil, we tell ourselves, "i can't take it. this is too much for me." so we turn the tv off. we take a break from it all, pretending for a moment that there is no famine. as if the suffering of palestinians is a "temporary" responsibility, and not a continuous moral position we must uptake as humans. we have the luxury of being conditional in our support of human rights. and that to me, is a great example of the war photographer effect.

it's easy to look back and tell others, "there was nothing i could have done to prevent this." many years from now, once museums of the nakba are built and the public look upon the sights of the starved gazan children whose unmarked graves are hidden away by the smoke of israeli shells, we tell ourselves, "never again."

But it will happen again. And again. And again. It will continue to happen until every last flame on this Earth is extinguished. Until the fat pigs that sit above us all are satisfied with their greedy hunger to kill and maim and destroy everything that displeases them. A court of pigs, where there is no audience. Only the sound of pleasured oinks, celebrating as they sit upon encrusted golden thrones, upon a stage of shining glass in a field of blood and ash.

Before I continue this blog, I would like to promote some fundraisers for Palestinians who are currently in crisis.

Please, if you can't donate, at the very least share/reblog. I will do my best to promote fundraisers on my Tumblr / Twitter account, and I will also promote news/information on the crisis on my Instagram stories.

We all get overwhelmed. I know I 100% do, especially given everything that has been happening around me. Yet at the very least, it helps to be informed. Reading, discussing, boycotting: all of these are the bare minimum we can do to help the displaced. If you have read this far, thank you.

I will take a break from writing for a bit, then get back to it in the next coming post <3

#sleepykittystar #reblog #free palestine

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