not-that-blog - Tumblr blog

[not-that-blog]

So I keep seeing swerf shit while looking for some cool art (literally on the site I'm on, I typed in masturbating, and it's one specific swerf who's clearly got a decent enough following to be buying her stuff).

And it's that popular 'your boyfriend masturbates to women being SA'd' thing.

And don't get me wrong, I am aware of the attention snuff films get...

But all I can think every fucking time is; dude, they're getting off to me and one of my coolest friends putting our titties in each others mouths, me making her cum because I am competitive and she refuses to not cum genuinely in her porn, so when we're together I like seeing how many different ways we can play. And then we have fun filming that shit, taking photos and being super excited and hyping each other up.

There's a better chance that your man is getting on VR chat and fucking someone in an 18+ online dungeon in a custom skin and fucking someone also in a custom skin and having a blast.

Or that he's watching videos on OF or Fansly of POV deepthroating or riding and watching titty and ass jiggle.

Like girl, if your man is worth it, he better be paying for his porn and watching these girls masturbating for coin and enjoying tf outta themselves.

Or watching paid for custom fetish content by SWers who specialise in it.

Some of us even specialise in hardcore pornography, and do it because we enjoy it.

I have intentions of getting into some harder stuff with time.

Like, swerfs suck and they're fucked up with how they treat everyone as these criminals for experiencing an ounce of attraction or a fetish or kink... and at the same time criminalising and diminishing the real work and dignity of swers.

Like damn dude; I chose to get fucked on camera.

I chose to take photos of myself.

As a fully grown adult in their mid twenties, I made the conscious choice to do digital sex work.

Knowing fully well what it entails.

Just let me suck cock in peace.

[not-that-blog]

Fuck the perception of the man or bear argument.

Bc someone said how if it was a man they knew, of course they would pick the man over the bear.

And I will be completely honest... no I fucking wouldn't.

If I had to unexpectedly face a man in my life or a pissed of red belly black snake or a funnel web or a brown snake (ya know, more realistic for my actual area because all three are available within a 20min drive and probably a 20-30min walk from where I live)… I would pick the wild animal.

Like 1. None of the men in my life hike so like, no.

But 2. You think after 25yrs with 23 of them being straight up trauma at the hands of men I even completely trust the ones I trust?!?

There is two, just two men who wouldn't trigger an immediate reaction of fear.

Both of whom I have ran to and cried into the arms of after realising that I was being abused by someone in my life.

Both of whom I have essentially lived with at some point for at least a month.

But I do not want to run into any men in my life randomly in the bush, under any circumstances.

And like I have reason, I don't trust my brothers, I don't trust my father (who has physically assaulted both of my brothers at some point in a way that could easily be described as potentially lethal intent), I don't trust my uncles, I don't trust my male friends, I don't trust anyones boyfriends, I never trusted either of my grandfathers (rightfully so bc one was an abusive asshole the other was a worse abusive asshole).

I don't trust men.

I have had men that I knew for seven+ years get drunk, handsy and sexually assault me.

I had men who actively engaged to prevent one kind of sexual assault happening to me to later feel entitled to my body because of that.

I had men who I believed were my best friends at the time later make it very clear they saw me nothing more than a body the group of them were just trying to sleep with regardless of my feelings about it.

I have been physically assaulted by strangers, by family, by friends.

Avoided handsy adult men as a teenager by being ridiculously loud and vocal. Constantly. And making it a threat. Making my voice a very clear and direct threat that no matter what you threatened me with, I didn't care enough to keep my mouth shut.

And that only worked because I had already kick started a criminal investigation into an adult man who was 'highly respected' in his communities and unfortunately my biological grandfather who is genuinely the worst human being.

So I was known for just going to the cops and when the cops couldn't do shit, I took it into my own hands by not shutting tf up about it.

I don't need to be asked 'bear or man' or 'snake or man' or whatever fucking else.

Nothing on this fucking planet is less trustworthy than a man.

And somehow this because a 'man or bear but the man is XYZ' for some reason...

The answer doesn't change.

Nothing makes me change my answer.

If I can't trust my own brothers, or my father to be someone I would be comfortable running into the bush, people who have lived with me most of my life, why the fuck would I even hold hope for a stranger?

Even the men whose moral codes I have trusted, do you really think that I ever fully believe in them to keep it? When I have watched the seemingly kindest and most protective men that I had willingly given my heart to, get drunk and refuse my no and still be stronger than me when they are completely smashed and I am stone cold sober.

When men I was ready to spend my life with decided stealthing was the route they were taking, or that they were going to constantly masturbate over me in my sleep and clean it up with my bright pink girl guides towel, ruining a priceless piece of my childhood by linking it to traumatic events, or deciding to rape me in my sleep, while I was dressed in a shirt my dad gave me when I was like 7 and winter pj pants... just pulled my clothes down, pinned me on my side and raped me... first thing in the morning while no one else was home.

Those were men that I had trusted.

One of them I had actually gone hiking with.

I have also faced a freshly shed, starving red belly black snake as it considered biting me for getting in it's way and almost stepping on it but the wallaby it was going after ended up being its choice.

I have grown up around brown snakes, at hatching season there's regularly just baby brown snakes on the foot paths where I live bc I'm close to an embankment where they lay their eggs.

I also live near a rainforest that is known for having a few different species of funnel webs, yes I have seen them first hand, on a tour of the rainforest thankfully with a professional showing us them.

Anti-venom on site.

But I have seen how incredibly fast and huge and deadly they are first hand.

I have also seen the damage of a fully grown red kangaroo on a truck, or the speed and bite of a dingo, feral pigs, crocodiles taking down prey in Northern Queensland, the head injuries from a dumbass who pissed off a cassowary, etc.

Like I am not 'blissfully unaware' of how violent and dangerous these things are.

But I know without a hint of doubt, that I would rather take on Australia's deadliest animals, knowing that I have no fucking reflexes to defend myself from them... then ever deal with a man.

Because there is not actually a single man who I trust enough to meet in the bush even if sometimes I say to them I would.

I don't believe in trusting the hands of anyone to not be violent, because I don't believe that anyone is truly a complete pacifist because I believe every act of peace and kindness is a choice and a conscious one, and so are acts of violence.

I would rather experience a torture by another creature than violence by a face and hand that matches mine.

[not-that-blog]

I'm lowkey trauma dumping to the internet again in the tags bc it got to me.

[not-that-blog]

I relapsed into alcoholism.

It's really easy to be pushed over the edge when it's December but today hurt.

A little lie from someone probably not meant to even be noticed by me but I checked discord bc I was waiting for a message from my niece.

A friend mentioning intent on moving to the other side of the world is 6mnths.

My mother blaming me for my breakup and also blaming me for other things.

Grief hitting like a bitch.

My birth control changes causing cystic acne that makes me super self conscious about working, because it's all over my body.

Struggling to clean my depression room.

CPTSD meaning constant flashbacks atm and me not being able to say what I really want to say to someone which is 'actually I feel really scared but you make me feel safer, please come hold me.'

And just other things that are lowkey crushing me.

So I grabbed a cider and a bottle of wine and honestly feel both really guilty and like I just don't care because it hurts so bad and dissociating doesn't help.

And alcohol doesn't either but it feels different.

And alcohol takes the edge off the shame that I didn't cause myself.

It lets me just admit it hurts.

Let's me cry.

Let's me acknowledge that I was so so broken and that what happened to me was incredibly fucked up.

God it's so fucked up.

[not-that-blog]

I fucking hate that I still have feelings for him.

I hate him.

I hate him for breaking my stupid heart.

I hate him for hurting me.

I hate him for doing everything after I left.

I hate him for not loving me when I was there.

I hate him for calling me.

I hate him for asking me to stay.

I hate him for working his stupid way into my stupid stupid heart and getting into it.

And fuck him for not leaving it alone.

Fuck him for hurting me and then acting like I'm fine.

I'm clearly not fine.

JUST FUCK YOU FOR LOSING ME WHEN I WAS FALLING SO IN LOVE WITH YOU AND YOU BROKE THE PROMISE OF EFFORT.

[not-that-blog]

I'm stubborn, angry, hurt and very heartbroken so the diary style posts will be continuing for a while.

Especially because irl I can't complain or work this stuff out without accidentally creating fucked up consequences for one of both of us and neither of us deserve to be punished socially for trying to heal from an amicable breakup that was just human flaws meets human nature and shit just ends.

Not dramatically or easily, but enough that it's an end and that hurts.

Anyway this is one of those dramatic diary style posts.

I have become stubbornly self care obsessed a little.

Learning how to love my body when I have hated it for two deca because I wasn't the 'beautiful child' to anyone and that was exploited by a child predator.

So I am now an adult working through trauma and trying to tell myself that every part of me is loveable just by existence.

And the parts of me that are hard to love are probably not what people expect.

I have no issues with the stretch marks or the scars (bio oil was amazing for the few faint self harm scars I had left and most people, let alone the people who've seen me naked in the last handful of years will never know where or what scars I once inflicted. I personally can see the slight discolouration in my skin, but no one else has ever seen or commented on it) and I have no issue with my stomach or thighs and the dysphoria from my boobs is minimal.

My actual self image issues are like my ass or the way my neck is floppy when I have seizures and that my joints never really fit in place and that I have anxiety about if I can see my ribcage because that was such a thing on eating disorder forums that the fear or seeing my own bones is real and the idea of someone tracing my collarbones and 'dipping their tongue into that well' makes me feel sick and weirded out (if you know the posts, you know what I mean).

And like; I don't actively think of those things often anymore. Usually just in mild rage or laughing at how we romanticised something so fucked up because accepting that we were dying an ugly and painful death was way too traumatic and we painted it as something else and were way to gothic romantic about it. I can't think of a worse way to die for honour, because it was sickening what we did to ourselves.

Being afraid of numbers and food, upping our mathematical ability while killing the brain cells needed to do it. Hiding secrets like we were doing something right for it, cheering each other on by tearing each other's bodies apart with insults and yelling praises at every bone and thigh gap.

White panties with pokadot hearts in red and a red ribbon, laying down and breathing in and feeling hip bones…

I didn't consider myself recovered until I had a layer of fat over every bone I had sent photos of in proana kiks; my hips especially.

And I am now obsessed with my oral hygiene for my own health and wellbeing, not to try and hide the effects of when my ed slipped into the other side and binge-purge became a thing.

And then just cycling between eating disorders for years.

And now I have a lot of fucked up health problems and a heartbreak that isn't being met by starvation but by actual looking after myself and trying not to hate my own guts.

It's kinda weird when self harm isn't your first instinct anymore. But it's kinda nice to when it starts to feel less familiar and less like home.

It's always there; but it's not the road most travelled anymore and choosing it wouldn't feel like strength it would feel like the ultimate failure.

It didn't feel like that at 16.

At 16 it felt like this fucked up hope.

Hope someone would love me, but not want me, that I would be so boring to fuck that no one would want to. I would be nothing.

And now as an adult, I don't care who wants to fuck me or why. I care about having a body that might actually function. I care about living past 35 and making a sustainable and loved life.

That's it. I just want to love life.

[not-that-blog]

Conversations of existential crisis:

Me to Gemma: 'What if I am single forever? What if I never date again?! What does my life look like if I don't have a nesting partner who is there and get married and have kids? What does my life actually look like if I maybe never take a lover like that again?'

Gemma: 'You're not actually afraid of being single right, because you can date?'

Me: 'Oh no, I know if I was that terrified, I could very easily play perfect house spouse and get married and have a husband in like two, three years. But like, doing this, planning to be alone; I don't know how to do that.'

Gemma: 'Oh yeah, no clue.'

[not-that-blog]

If you ever find yourself questioning how you constantly feel like your needs are unmet but all of theirs seem to be…

Realise that you're probably carrying the fucking relationship again.

[not-that-blog]

Sometimes the cruel things that make you feel insecure were never the things aimed at you.

My sister is the most critical voice in my head, her opinion is the one I valued most growing up and I wanted to be her… this cool, powerful, protective, unstoppable force that no one was capable of hurting. (Aka; I was a very isolated and abused child who couldn't stop feeling so I idolised my older sibling and cousin who seemed to be able to avoid/cope with the pain.... they were not, but a small child looking at an older punk teen who manages to seem stronger than the cruel adults is always the 'cool' one).

But the thing with the person who raised me and was my default background voice (and often still is) being an angsty teenager who was grunge/alt in the 90's and early 00's; is that voice is cruel and judgmental af just in a super different way than the rest of the family's impacts on my brain.

And today it hit how much that hurts.

So I am still okay and I haven't relapsed into anything; which is probably an important note to add.

But I had a photoshoot today and I was vulnerable and my insecurities were on display, but so was my body. And I haven't seen myself in a full length mirror outside of a shopping centre since early February.

And I have gained weight and my body and face has changed on T and I very much look like an incredibly different person.

And I still think that I look great, I am fat, I am plus size, there's no arguing that and I give very few shits about it; because I don't see that as insulting or bad... it's my body and it's neutral and the only frustration I have is knowing that I have been bed bound a lot lately and I can see the early stages of certain pressure sore prone spots starting to get into the red and irritated warning sign stage. (Because I am disabled and I do have to keep those in mind)

I also look like my family members that my sister and other family members whose voices were my internal dialogue for my youth spent a lot of time insulting physically.

Mostly my grandmother and my aunty.

I look like them, eerily so sometimes to the point where I recoil because the last person I want to feel like I look like when taking photos of myself in lewd poses is my aunt... but like ignoring that context where anyone would have a 'oh that feels too similar' moment; I as myself never looked at these women and thought of them as anytime but beautiful.

But I can hear the insults that were made about them and the dieting rambles of theirs and it hurts.

Because my sister would never say those things to me (I think anyway, if she did they would be shut down with full harshness) but those comments about my grandmother and my aunt are imbedded into my brain to the point where I know that is a perspective she would potentially have about me.

That she may have given her children about bodies like mine and they may never be able to look at people around them with the knowledge that a body is just a body and people are beautiful.

I look at photos of myself and regularly hear my father insulting his sisters appearance (the sister who you could put photos of us together and not know whose belonged to whom) and my sister and mother also commenting on her weight and appearance and their comments on my grandmothers body and weight.

I remember the 'chicken wing/turkey neck/lunch lady arms' comments and I was so confused for years.

Because all I could see was women who had been strong, women who carried heavy objects and had rough pregnancies and hormonal conditions and who fought really hard.

I never looked at a body with that cruelty until I was taught to.

I am so angry that their insults at other people, people who even if I despise for other reasons; I can still acknowledge are beautiful in their own right, have impacted how I see myself to a point where I had a viscera reaction of fear and horror at first to seeing my weight gain.

I'm so beautiful and I am so proud of myself for gaining weight back after years and years of killing myself because of anorexia, and I still have to fight those voices.

And the worst part is; they're crueler than my eating disorder.

Yeah; the comments that my family made were bitchier and crueler than the mental personification of a disorder that was determined to kill me or control me.

But my disorder didn't make me feel irreparably ugly. My family did that.

And honestly, if my father didn't have dementia, I would make their life hell for it.

'Why'd you do something like pierce your face'

'Because I wanted to and you were calling me an ugly toad every time you call your sister it because I am her fucking clone; so… like I give a fuck what you say anymore.'

'Grandma was fat'

'Yeah, and I am the same body type as her; there's valid reasons to call her a bitch, let's go with one of those... including her obsession with policing everyone else's bodies because she felt insecure in hers and that if we actually grew we weren't the kind of target her abusive husband wanted'

'That thing looks so ugly, why tf would you do that?'

'Idk Megs, probably because I just don't give a flying fuck about being pretty when no one good or kind gives a fuck if I'm not'

And that's really it isn't it; no one worthy of my time gives a fuck if I'm not traditionally attractive. So why should I be.

[not-that-blog]

Today the realisation came that the csa started in 2001.

When my mother was in hospital pregnant with my little brother for months because she was high risk and it was a genuinely almost fatal pregnancy.

I was SA'd at 2.

It was a lot less traumatic when I thought it started at like 5....

But it probably started as a genuine infant and no one noticed because there was never a change of neuro chemistry....

I was just genuinely always set up to be suicidal and depressed because I wasn't safe for infancy.

… I don't know how I'm going to cope with coming to terms with that but later I will be angry about it.

[not-that-blog]

My dads forgetting me.

Dementia. Early onset. Maybe 5-15yrs left.

With a dad who doesn't remember me.

Or my brother half the time.

And my siblings hate me.

My cousins don't know me.

And I lost everyone because I spoke up about sexual assault.

My best friends siblings, mother, aunt, cousin...

Full support, full love, full care and respect and belief.

Mine didn't do that.

They still don't do that.

And the thing is; why?

Why was I so hard to love?

Why was I, a small child, so unlovable?

Abbi is the age I was.

Babs is 13.

She is tiny, this tiny precious thing.

So small and gentle and she looks so so much like I did.

And I look at this kid; this genuinely a small child.

And wonder how anyone can be so heartless and cruel and hateful.

And why did I not get loved?

Why wasn't I kept safe?

Why wasn't I looked after?

Why wasn't I worth it...

Just why.

[not-that-blog]

'I love you, but you need to get ready earlier'

Me; who's been trying really really hard today and just failing: is about to cry and may just go hide in the closet about it.

[not-that-blog]

I can't sleep.

Partly bc I had an allergic reaction to something last night and feel a little nauseous still.

But mostly bc my partner has a beautiful face and looks really sweet and cuddly on facetime and I am super sappy and excited because I get to see him tonight and be his again. And I ~need~ that. Like genuinely am going to cling to him because it's been a week and last night involved some feelings that distance makes harder.

So I'm just blogging and thinking and I am really really happy to be his soon. Just melting into his arms and letting everything fade away.

And you know what I don't blog about elsewhere that I love? I'm reclaiming my body and my sexual side after all the fucked up shit from Dakoda and Natalie.

Because I trust my partner completely, because I know him and he's wonderful and gentle and soft with me.

And we've started exploring things that I never thought I'd be comfortable going near again.

And not because he wanted to or he asked or pushed; but because I felt safe enough with him to think about it, joke about it, kink blog about it and then when he said 'I'm in' and we researched a little and talked about it and flirted and slowly started trying some things.

And I felt safe, I tapped out well before I needed to so we knew that I was being mentally and physically safe, he instantly checked in making sure there was no trauma, no pain, no stress or anxiety, if I needed anything, if I wanted anything. He listened and checked in and really took care of me.

And I was safe, like completely safe.

And I feel like I could marry this man not because ~I'm in love~ (I am, but in a peaceful way not a heart racing excitement kinda way) but because this man is dedicated and committed, with full compassion and trust, he is everything that I could ever want and more.

You know the 'love is patient, love is kind, etc' and how you should be able to say your partner's name and have it fit? He does. All of them.

And then afterwards; he still has more things about him that I admire and love and think would make him a fucking incredible husband and father.

This man is my hype man, he is my biggest cheerleader, sometimes more than my best friends.

He is the definition of unconditional love and support. Because we have strong boundaries and respect and know each other's limits and agree if it ever got to breaking certain ones we walk away... but that's such a big part of unconditional love and respect and support; acknowledging the limitations and challenges that might be there and going 'okay. I love you.'

He loves me in a way that I think is the most beautiful thing in the world.

He loves me in the way that I want my children to be loved.

And that, that is the thing that makes the world of difference.

[not-that-blog]

TW: this is a post about clothing size and the realisation of the pride of my ED recovery while acknowledging the family patterns that triggered my ED.

My family is very very size biased. Like horrifically so and I didn't really see the full extent until now. Not because I didn't know; but because I just realised why I'm having anxiety buying new clothes.

My mum when I was growing up would tell me that she was absolutely overweight because of the size of her jeans.

My sister used to chuck a hissy fit about the Marilyn Monroe was a modern 14 at times, because she somehow lives in the '0-6 is a normal size' (fucking peak 90's heroin chic era teenage years did a number there).

And it just hit me; the reason I feel both normal but bothered by my current size and the fact I'm still gaining weight; despite having wanted this for years and being thrilled to have tangible proof of ED recovery and life... is that they hated this.

I'm wearing my mums jeans from my childhood; I remember her complaining about her weight and dieting then. She was in her 40's.

My sister and I used to share clothes, I was sulky when we no longer could.... now I look at her with concern because a healthy 20-30yr old should not be the same size as a 15yr old with an ED.

And the thing is; I don't really have a fear of my size or being fat by mine or anyone else's internal definition. I'm afraid of healthcare workers ignoring me; but that was already a problem.

But hearing my families judgment is so weird.

They're so harsh and critical and treat food as morality and control instead of substance and joy.

They treat weight and size like a prize and a choice and a defining characteristic.

And I'm here like: 'I'm almost a size 16 and I feel better with the weight than I ever did as an XS'

Like; I miss the cheap pretty clothes from valley girl and ali. But I also don't miss the constant food anxiety and the feeling of being just a number.

Like you know what fucking rocks? Stretchy flare pants. Size 14 jeans that make my ass go POW. Flowy tops and the way my crop top looks now that my body is soft and smooth and not lowkey showing my trauma from a clear sign of neglect via food restriction

Like recovery is feeling my boyfriend's hands on my hips, my waist, my thighs and not feeling my bones against his hands and lowkey being afraid of pain and triggered into a spiral space about size and if I'm small enough but also 'oh god is the ED obvious' but instead; feeling just his hands. Just the full sensations of his hands grabbing and holding and pushing me gently to bed or pulling me into him with the intention of covering me in kisses and affection and love.

Recovery is warmth and laughter and looking at my sister and her babies and no longer seeing what I aspire to be in what I thought she was but being ready to fight her world view and be very defensive about things to protect her kids from her self destructive behaviours.

Recovery is being excited for size 16 jeans (bc they're easier to find than 14s).

Recovery is saying fuck yeah to 3-4 meals a day.

Recovery is loving myself no matter what and loving myself means food and nourishment and happiness and kissing my boyfriend and sitting on top of him completely unafraid of my weight.

And recovery means realising what they taught me consciously, thinking it's fucking stupid and hilariously ignorant and dumb and moving on with my life knowing that beauty and happiness are intertwined only because you find beauty when you find genuine happiness not the other way around.

[not-that-blog]

So I am low key having a meltdown because my brother gets married on Saturday.

The one who is part of the mutual family disownment.

He's mad we didn't go.

We're mad he asked us to play nice with an abusive pos.

But because of this and moving; I realised said abusive pos has like almost all of my childhood photos and videos on their computer.

Which as you can imagine is actually super distressing.

Because I don't want that.

I want them to never see my childhood again.

They destroyed it.

But they have evidence of my childhood.

But bc it's all ~innocent~ and not online... I can't do shit.

Because part of me was like 'On Monday, I'll call my grandmother and tell her to delete every photo and video of me and my childhood.'

Except:

1. She almost definitely won't.

2. I have literally no legal standing to make her.

And that infuriates me.

They get to keep my entire childhood and a collection of memories of me and other children they're not allowed to interact with because he's abused children...

And I get no say.

No right to my childhood.

To my privacy.

To knowing that I have no access to said stuff but they can access it every day.

And I regularly want that house to go up in flames because I hate them for what they did to several innocent children.

But now I want it to go up in flames because I don't want my face in their house.

There's a chance my photo is still on their walls.

Do you know how painful it is that they probably still have a photo of my cousin and I that I don't hanging in the spare room; or in the rumpus room or in the living room or the clock in the kitchen.... I was abused in that house and they still have all these photos of me.

I am terrified of it.

I'm angry about it.

I don't know what to do about it.

[not-that-blog]

Me: 'Man, I really want to do something on my birthday to celebrate the end of the birthday curse'

Me: *tries to plan anything with absolute failure and feels like I'm slightly invisible in my wants and needs*

Me: 'Fuck... is it actually over or am I just never going to matter.'

Like 5min ago I was so fucking optimistic and then I asked people about things and suddenly I feel invisible again.

It doesn't help my morning involved being told how everything I wanted was wrong and then how everything that the thought 'should' be there was actually is actually incredibly inaccessible to me and not a single suggestion took me into account or my wants or needs.

And then I'm consistently told how hard and frustrating I am when I have already changed several plans for other people and I am now ready for another autistic meltdown because I'm overwhelmed.

[not-that-blog]

You know, being neurodivergent is hard.

Being physically disabled is hard.

Needing to actually ask for help from 4 different loved ones in my life is really really hard.

My mother coming in and telling me how she feels like I make a big deal out of nothing because I'm stressed about it is just a dick move.

Because it's not the packaging. It's the sorting and the trauma memories and the cleaning and decluttering and the stress and guilt and shame and grief.

Like of fucking course she could pack it… it's not her stuff.

I promise if she had to ACTUALLY pack her shit to move it would take a while too.

Because packing is emotionally and physically exhausting even when you're able bodied and neurotypical.

I'm neither of those things and I'm hyper independent and I hate asking for help.

So I am so proud of me for doing this.

But the way it's just being treated by her as an inconvenience and a problem for who I am and how I exist is fucking painful (and is part of why I want to move).

JUST FUCKING LET ME LIVE WITHOUT YOUR NEEDLESS CRITICISM AND LET ME ACKNOWLEDGE HARD THINGS ARE HARD!