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[nympio]

the here and there

for the longest time recently, i have been trying to understand the root of my confusion, the basis of my contempt. normally, i have run from my past, never giving it the chance to catch up to me, to even whisper in my ear. things have been neatly tucked away, unfinished and unbothered by the span of time. that word is something i find myself thinking of at any given moment or time, and how it all works.

despite my lack of therapy and the lack of control i have for myself, nicotine has been at the forefront of my coping mechanisms, that and the blade of course. i remember how things were, and how they used to be. especially during this time, which was normally my favorite when i was young. certain aspects of life are transitioning around my very eyes and all i can do is watch them glide through the passage of time itself. people are moving, people are leaving, people are coming, but there is just the constant force of time.

what is more confusing about the whole thing is that different parts of me are trapped in different times, which makes the present so much more difficult to navigate. i feel attached to each time, each place where part of me occupies is greatly louder than the next. i try to carry on and move about in this current time, but there is always something whispering in my ear, so faintly i cannot hear it most days. it is calming as it is seductive, almost lulling me into an unproductive hibernation of sorts. call it depression, or what have you, but it gives me the warmth and certainty that the past has provided for me.

decisions are to be made in the present, but all have long been awaiting a final answer. they are now overshadowed by the doubt of the past, leaving me utterly paralyzed in the present. i seem to not understand my role in the present along with what i should do. these events and things are changing all around me and there is still this hesitance to step forward with it. i seem to be moving, just painstakingly slow.

there is a newness coming, a change more drastic than the last, the final push of birth, the last labor. i feel like this past year and a half i have been avoiding it, partly due to fear, but partly due to my own stubbornness. as equally as i feel myself growing into this new person, i feel the past versions of myself holding my back. i’m not sure who to listen to. i’m not sure of anything. they each have positives and negatives to add to my life, but there is only so much i can do to appease them all. i can feel myself traversing through a dark and twisted cave, feeling my hands along the walls to read my destination at the end of the cave. i’m blind, only relying on the sense of touch and touch alone. i don’t know where i’m walking, or where in the cave i am going, but i know there is a destination there, regardless if it takes me where i am supposed to be.

~fine october 30th, 2023 3:28 PM

[nympio]

as the time rolls closer to the impactful day, i become more depressed, more anxious. it’s always able to sneak up on me, like after all this time it would think i would forget. after finishing my script, i find myself wondering if ana-marie chooses to live. even as the author, i don’t know myself, because if i were in her position, i would most certainly head to the afterlife, if there is any. i’d like to think that she chooses to live and maybe finds her peace one day. afterall, we are one in the same. that’s the thing about writing, authors have to tell on themselves sometimes. the dates are coming closer and i feel it in my psyche. it’s so interesting to me how numbers on a calendar can send a pang of fear through my chest, that a name can turn my mouth dry in seconds, that certain smells and tastes make me want to scream. i suppose that’s the purpose of it all, trauma, the big capital t. when you look at things, like the date for example, all that’s there is a clump of numbers mashed together with the current year. it’s strange, days can repeat themselves but only in the scale of numbers. because as much as my fear tells me that that date and event can happen again, the year is the one that reminds me that it can’t.

but the year also hurts me, because it reminds me of how long ago something was, and how present it still is in my life. it is a painful reminder of m inability to move on like other people do. it tells me, “hey, hey you! you’re still fucked up. anyone else would have dated more people, made more, friends, made more money, done something different. but you didn’t, and now it’s all those years later, and this date still shakes you. you probably need some help.” yeah, i know i do. but i’ve gotten the help, i’ve gotten the meds, i’ve gotten the yoga, the mindfulness, the meditation, the fucking this and fucking that. i’ve gotten it all. i still feel this. i still am covered in it. then i feel like her, like i’m at the end of my own screenplay. do i walk to return to the world where i came from? or do i leap into the pond of after life and enjoy myself there? ending all my therapies is probably a wrong choice, it’s probably very foolish of me to do that, as they have been in the leading force to not end my life. but i find myself impossibly more closed off, and untrusting, even though i have worked with these two therapists for over a year. i

i just look at them, and i can’t speak. it’s like my throat closes up, like i’m allergic to speaking. my brain is screaming at me to not trust them so loud, and eventually, i’ve stopped. i can’t remember the last time i was honest, when i really spoke the truth. instead i make them laugh, or entertain them with funny stories that seem relevant, but really just enforce the whole process for them. and by the end of the session, much to my despair, they finally lock in and find what i am hiding. but lucky for me they won’t remember it next week, and therapy is simply just a paid service. the world keeps on turning, and i am nothing but a case file in a google spreadsheet. i have to remind myself of that. or else, i get lost, thinking they might actually care for me.

if i am quiet enough, i can hear her footsteps on the soft grass. but i never know which way she is going.

fine ~ thursday june 1st, 2023 9:52 pm

[nympio]

pants on fire

lying has always come easy to me. it was the main factor contributing to my survival in childhood. which is why i have lied to my EMDR therapist for the past two months, saying i’m better, feeling better. i could not feel worse, i could not be worse. the new scars on my legs will speak to that clearly enough. i had come so far, only to fall short and slip on the blade of a razor yet again. and again. and again, and again, and again, and again, until i felt the satisfaction of my blood and pain. i drove past it, i think, for real this time. other times i had always been in the general vicinity of the area, but three nights ago i was positive. i drove the same car, got turned around in the same place, except now i am. three years older. surely, more wiser, but not healed, not healing, and viscerally left behind. the feeling of ice dropping into the stomach and the guttural sounds of me hyperventilating nearly caused me to faint driving the damn thing. could he see me? did he know it was me? is this going to make it happen again? My thighs squeezed together as my hand tapped at my throat, begging it to allow some air in. i felt the fear, the hopelessness, the sadness run all over my body. i felt his hands too, my fear reeked and circled around my head.

i probably looked like a crazy bitch turning my car around at the dead end, i had thought i had gone the other direction. i was lost. just as i was three years prior. just as i am now. lost. i felt like he would be there, standing at any strange corner with no particular look or stance. my chest was heavy, as if he was on top of me again, taking the air out of my lungs. except this time i was twenty one, and far from being far of the trauma. i had thought i did work well, i was doing the best i could. but this moment reminded me of where i truly stood, and that is in the same fucking spot. perhaps i’m being too harsh on myself, i couldn’t have possibly known that it was the area, the place where i had been killed before. i want to believe that, i really do. i want to believe that there is such thing as recovery, that i am not a person who is forged out of the cancerous scars of trauma. but i cannot. as much as i try. perhaps i was more angry in my failure to have gotten better, rather than the actual fear of it happening again. it’s still very much here, and EMDR seemed to only open the door to a more sinister aspect of my life traumas. that fear will always be there. and i am yet again, a helpless victim in it all.

fine ~ tuesday may 30th, 2023 3:44 PM

[nympio]

it dies off at a horrifically slow pace. agonizing, isn’t it? something that happened for only an hour of your life can still cling on to your present and sour you at any given moment. it gets better with time they say, but it’s still there and the fear is so loud. the fear rattles your spine and bursts your eardrums. but still, it get quieter each time. isolation and cold arms wrapped around yourself don’t do much good, and empty smiles and broken dialogue don’t scrape enough life at the end of the day. when people go to sleep, and they close all the doors you are once again locked inside with it. no one hears your cries or anything of the sort. they allow their assumptions to take form and you allow them too because deep down, you want them to be true. it’s tiring, out running yourself and the trauma at the same time. there is no rest for the wicked they say, but all you want to do is lay down and sleep. the raw, pure, icy fear grips you heart and shakes it violently. you can’t help but brace for its volatile actions as your body is jerked back and forth. your breath is not your own, and suddenly your body is not your own, but your fear remains rooted in your consciousness. you begin to contemplate all the grand things in life and the conclusions all come out to be the same ‘i just wish he would have killed me’. that’s the dice, that’s the winner, that’s the fucking chicken dinner. then you think of him, all of him, and lose your mind for hours trying to make sense of it, only to realize there is no sense in human determination. there is simply action and opportunity, then you fall into the self loathing phase where no one has shown. you kindess and no one has shown you love. all facts which are true in their own right, but don’t necessarily relate to the actual problem at hand. these circles, these cycles, these chains all end within the same spot. and you do not move. the only way to move to is to strike yourself down, and allow for the new you to arise for the next blow. eventually you’ll want to stop hitting yourself for someone else’s actions. 

 fine ~ saturday february 11th, 2023 11:39 PM

[nympio]

we are almost five months in now, almost half a year. it seems further away, like a distant memory that curdles in the past. there is some sort of emotional detachment from it, i quite enjoy that a lot. no one should have to feel the emotions of a soul being deprived of human light. the fog is still there, but it kind of dissipates the farther you walk through it. on the sides you can still see the memory, for it will never be lost to the abyss of unimportance. there is this perspective, however, of an outsider looking in, rather than feeling within the memory. this feeling is something i greatly cherish. 

my eyes are more tired than normal youth. my eyes have seen things that no eyes should see. they are heavy, and they are tired with the meager interpretation of what life really is after such an event. they sleep longer than others, and they see different things. where some people see opportunity and exploration, i see damnation and hopelessness. there is no medium between the two, and there is no justifying the attempt of whisking it away. it is meant to stay, unfortunately, but one can always dream of its lesser presence in the years to come. that is, if there are years to come. 

time is such a strange concept, and it is something i never thought i’d stress this much about in my life. everything seems clearer though, like when you realize you need glasses and finally find the prescription, or when you focus binoculars on an object in the distance. you know it’s far away from you, but yet you can see it more clearly. That is much better than not seeing anything at all. much like my future, i am beginning to see the blurry shapes and rounded edges of it all, it still takes time to adjust the focus on the binoculars, but it will be focussed one day, nevertheless. 

so much time has passed me by, and this current place of recovery has made me realize that all the better. my soul is tired, and wounded. finally in my twenty years of solitude i can admit that there is need for a recovery. much like trying to stay sober, trying to stay mentally healthy is the same. for now i will enjoy the stability of recovery and the warmness it supplies. i have always been lacking that in my life. i know you have to take care of yourself and your body, but it’s hard when you’d rather be wasting away like a forgotten painting on a masterpiece’s wall. 

fine~ thursday december 1st, 2022 8:06 am

[nympio]

in the face of it all

perhaps there is change in my well-being. after speaking with a dear friend that had moved away and along in their life, it used to fill me with a horrific anxiety and a nauseating dread. although, this time i just felt sad. corrupted as my life has always been, this time i did not bother trying to compete to trying to make sense of my life. it was simply a sad sigh, some narrowed eyebrows and a long, long stare into my own eyes as they spoke to me. it is almost reminiscent of getting your head held underwater, or when death finally releases its grip around your throat. you feel nothing, see nothing, speak nothing, and hear nothing. it’s almost poetic how soothing it can be to feel like a drowned, puffy person. 

emotionally constipated would be a pretty standalone term to describe my current facade of reality. death, life, the concepts between the two, and the image of myself has been pounding though my everyday life. it has left me so incredibly self absorbed, although that might not be a bad thing. all i seem to think about is myself, my transgressions, my stress, my past, therapy, and everything about my psyche. it leaves little space for anything or anyone else, but i quite like it that way, even if it may be wrong to say. with my broken heart, things are starting to make more sense, and not just objects of permanency but aspects of life and reality. i can almost agree with the poets and philosophers telling people how it all goes out. everyday i question my sanity, but everyday i am brought with the terrifying realization that i am completely sane, and utterly alone with it all. 

i find irony utterly amusing despite the fact that is causes me the most pain in my life. the absolute joke of it all seems to be in the act of life itself, the best thing to do is allow it follow you without making a sound, and eventually you’ll forget it’s even there. 

there are small little moments when i feel it, when i can see it in myself. when the light bouncing from side to side during my EMDR sessions takes me back to a former self in a former body. when a car swerves too close to me on the high way. when life decides to not leave my eyes but allows me to see just how close it was to doing so. when my voice becomes devoid of emotion as i detail events that are so uncharacteristically inhuman. when my eyes can’t shake their heaviness of solitude and i can no longer keep the strength to hold a crooked smile. when behind my eyes grow tired and so does my soul. it all culminates into this small grotesque conjunction of guts and feelings in my chest, ready to explode at any minute. its poison is lethal but slow, agonizing in its way of understanding. and the irony of it all, is that the poison is the thing that keeps me alive, even as it continues to burn every facet of my being. 

~fine monday november 21st, 2022 11:35 pm

[nympio]

it’s been a real long while now since i’ve seen myself. since i noticed myself. she is so far removed from my current reality but her presence is stronger than my own. i thought she had died a long time ago. perhaps versions of ourselves don’t die the way we think they do. like a phoenix, maybe you become reborn with the same DNA, flesh, blood, and bones.

“i am afraid to go back to the things that i used to love because i’m afraid to confront the old me, and what she has to do with the new me.”

i thought i knew who i was. what i became after being assaulted. i thought that all the versions and stages of me and in my life had died off, simply because i had to craft a new version of myself after the abuse. i did this proficiently, so much so that i completely lost the past in exchange for a more ‘realistic’ present.

in my crying episodes where i curse the world and the creator who made it, i often cry, asking myself where i went. “where did i go?” i normally would sob. i have asked that question more in my life than “am i enough?” which is saying a lot. i didn’t know you could come back to yourself. so many people romanticize the changing to this cold, heartless, and unbreakable persona after events. they are rewarded by doing it. however, it has only made me feel empty.

i view my past selves as memories, dreams, and ghosts, not as the mold that is Self. there are many pieces to me, and i used to think all of them died with me two years ago. i’ve come to find out i’ve just been living in a dead mindset, a dead brain almost. blocking their cries has always come easy, but when i have to stop watching films or reading books, or reading accomplished peoples life stories because i have such an intense fear i’m not doing enough or something is wrong, they choke me with their earnestness. you have to listen. some things in life, you just have to do. ignoring my needs is ignoring myself. acting gave me the clarity i needed, writing showed me the complexities of human existence and showed me i’m not alone, music guided me through my passions and self acceptance. younger me would be devastated to know i had quit acting, when i was young, i couldn’t picture my life without it.

acting doesn’t mean you have to be famous, writing doesn’t mean you have to be a new york times bestseller, singing doesn’t mean you have to compete on the voice. you make things how they want to be, because when you were a kid, you didn’t have that option. now you do, people don’t understand the potential that this brings. i have come to the horrifying and even relieving conclusion that i have let my trauma and abuse define my entire life since it happened. it’s ironic because as much as i fear people being unable to separate me from my trauma, i have in turn done the same to myself. unknowingly. yes, i got the things that i wanted, but i didn’t feed my Self. that’s why it feels like im dying inside because if you aren’t nourished, you die. just the same on the outside is what happens to the inside. the only difference is that these symptoms are hard to see, and quieter than most.

here i am, fighting tooth and nail for something that i don’t even know what i’m fighting for. i am watching life pass me by and not even participating in it. life is acting on me, i am not acting in my own life. my therapist suggested trying to find a way to seep back into the window of tolerance, to be able to face these feelings and memories without slipping into hyper-aroused or hypo-aroused state. i am constantly running away from myself, my desires, my feelings, perhaps it’s time to close the loop and face myself, all of myself. there is a lot of pain in my life, there is a lot of pain in human experience. perhaps this is where in life i must thrust myself into the unknown. trust the universe, trust the process, trust in myself. at this point, people could look at my situation and come to the conclusion that there is some divine intervention, a force bringing me to a destination that cannot even be seen by the original people of this earth. as terrifying as it may be, it’s something that i must do. maybe it won’t be so bad to have my life become more of a novel than an experience.

so now we reach the more pressing issue, to anyone reading these depraved sentences aligned by the slim aspect of my sanity. how do we come back to ourselves? how do we maintain that window of tolerance? how can i essentially fix the fuck ups of my life? i don’t know the answer to that. i don’t know what the fuck to do, but this goes beyond what therapy can help me with. it’s beyond what a life coach can give me, the only person in this situation that can help me regain my own fucking footing is me, all of me. i mean, i’ve taken so many breaks while writing this, to get my thoughts out in a somewhat coherent and understandable way. perhaps this is too much, perhaps i’m rambling now, talking into the abyss of nothingness that i identified about a year ago now.

the only thing you can do, is the essence of human evolution: to try. and to be intentional in doing so. perhaps it’s low-key acting lessons, martial arts classes, gun ranges, EMDR therapy, ketamine therapy, yoga, traveling the world, advocating for the issues that are important to me, honoring my ancestors, connecting to my lost culture, or listening to medicine men that get there when they get there. it’s something. maybe not anything i’ve listed, but it’s something. but i know one thing. after reading The Body Keeps the Score, i’ve realized one thing in my twenty years of life, and it made me fucking angry. i will no longer allow myself to watch my own life pass me by. i’d rather die a thousand painful deaths living my life than to rest peacefully with the knowledge i didn’t do what i could have, should have, would have done. that is the biggest thing i owe myself for the years that were taken from me. wasting more of them would only feed into the nothingness i have tried to keep down since that day in march 2021. it’s all i’ve got.

i went on a journey somewhere very far away that i almost lost my way. i don’t know where i went. but i hope i can steer my way back.

fine~ Wednesday, August 17th, 2022 10:42pm

[nympio]

most days i feel myself slipping away from the youth that was promised to me. i feel so disconnected with myself and with the world, it makes me wonder what it’s like to be human in a world where people seem to need little to no human interaction at all. i mostly feel loss. loss for who i used to be and who i’m meant to be. sometimes i think they’re the same girl. they seem just out of reach, almost like i can just grab the hem of her shirt, or the end of her hair.

this cracked, dilapidated version of myself i see when i look in the mirror drives me to the edges of sanity. for most of my life i have been living to survive. but what the fuck is it like to live to live? the concept of that is equally horrifying as it is hopeful. but there is doubt. so much doubt that it clouds my mind and fogs my vision. this doubt seeps into the deepest depths of me because deep down, the doubt has never been wrong. it makes me wonder if this is another storm coming into my life, or if it’s finally passed.

but it’s still raining. and now i feel more doubt. and it’s not like i haven’t tried, i’ve done everything the experts say, what the gurus say, what everyone says. yet i just feel like i am empty pit of nothingness encasing myself in my own aura of misery. anger and frustration bubbles at my core, but the doubt, and the trauma weighs it down, causing to mix and merge into this fleshy monster called a human body. and i loathe the sight of it. i loathe the sight of a soul i can sometimes see sneak out of the body.

they say ketamine will help. we’ll see.

[nympio]

sex and sexuality is what makes us human, it’s what makes us who we are. when we have been sexually abused, this creates a rift that cannot be compared nor explained in its intensity. i am nineteen years old as i am writing this. i have never experienced sexual or romantic encounters that were consensual.

it leaves me barren and empty. it leaves me with a shell of a human being in the world, it leaves me lost and alone beyond compare. it leaves me a tortured individual with no rest. it leaves me exhausted and maimed, unloveable and atrocious.

how could anyone look at this tarnished facade of a human and think they are worth anything to be loved? i wonder the same too. only i can never get an answer. i’ve done the therapy, i’ve done the pills, i’ve done the inner work, i’ve done the yoga, i’ve done the traditional means.

perhaps the problem lies in men, but obviously not all men. perhaps the problem lies in quantity, perhaps it’s in me, perhaps it’s just simply not anything at all. and perhaps that is the problem.

does this indicate a life of solitude with torturous regret? i thought all humans are deserving of love as people say? so why not me? are my scars that repulsive? is my baggage too heavy? am i just all used up? am i simply not there at all? who am i? what am i? the tough girl? the wounded warrior? the huntress? the basket case? the person who’s too rough around the edges?

whoever i am today, tomorrow, or yesterday doesn’t matter, all versions of me are