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The Woman Who Could Not Live with Her Faulty Heart

by Margaret Atwood

I do not mean the symbol of love, a candy shape to decorate cakes with, the heart that is supposed to belong or break;

I mean this lump of muscle that contracts like a flayed biceps, purple-blue, with its skin of suet, its skin of gristle, this isolate, this caved hermit, unshelled turtle, this one lungful of blood, no happy plateful.

All hearts float in their own deep oceans of no light, wetblack and glimmering, their four mouths gulping like fish. Hearts are said to pound: this is to be expected, the heart’s regular struggle against being drowned.

But most hearts say, I want, I want, I want, I want. My heart is more duplicitous, though no twin as I once thought. It says, I want, I don’t want, I want, and then a pause. It forces me to listen,

and at night it is the infra-red third eye that remains open while the other two are sleeping but refuses to say what it has seen.

It is a constant pestering in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum, a child’s fist beating itself against the bedsprings: I want, I don’t want. How can one live with such a heart?

Long ago I gave up singing to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled. One night I will say to it: Heart, be still, and it will.

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Miami 80's style @liminaldestinations

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thinking about how when you experience a lot of shame in your formative years (indirectly, directly, as abuse or just as an extant part of your environment) it becomes really difficult to be perceived by other people in general. the mere concept of someone watching me do anything, whether it's a totally normal activity or something unfamiliar of embarrassing, whether I'm working in an excel spreadsheet or being horny on main, it just makes my skin crawl and my brain turn to static because I cannot convince myself that it's okay to be seen and experienced. because to exist is to be ashamed and embarrassed of myself, whether I'm failing at something or not, because my instinctive reaction to anyone commenting on ANYTHING I'm doing is to crawl into a hole and die. it's such a bizarre and dehumanizing feeling to just not be able to exist without constantly thinking about how you are being Perceived. ceaseless watcher give me a god damn break.

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Melchior Lechter, Orpheus, 1896

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Artist : Luigi Maria Brunelli (1883-1976)

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Mimiko Mcveigh, Emman, Nassia Matsa, Amelia in Archival Vivienne Westwood by Sebastian Kapfhammer for Dazed April 2024.

Styled by Tré Koch. Hair by Aya Kuraoka. Makeup by Tilda Mace.

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Jessica McClintock/Gunne Sax, American Vogue, March 1988. Photograph by David Robin.

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im have many thinge to say, such as, mrrp. mrew. brrrrrrrnp !

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LEGEND (1985) dir. Ridley Scott

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- and I said of course I don't believe it. that young man, blue in the face, one blue-black bootblack blackjack-jacketed friend to goldfish - there's no way. you might as well try to tell me the same of someone's brother. we've all made mistakes. I bought a boy a collar I still think about, ghosted a fucking catboy, I've been bad. but if you want me to believe someone who saw through all that shit in 1993 - get out of here. when you've died as often as I have, you know it when you see it.

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Your Majesty Flare, November 2011 Photographer: Chris Nicholls Models: Emily Fox, Finlay Moore & Dani Jacket by Alexander McQueen 

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it’s weird to think how many mental disorders are diagnosed less by what the person actually does and more by how others respond to that person. like how in hysterionic personality disorder (off to a great start) a literal diagnostic criteria is the person’s emotions don’t seem convincing, which is obviously going to depend hugely upon a doctor’s personal bias. and in bpd, though it isn’t a criteria, you hear about clinicians diagnosing people based on the “meat grinder sensation” (feeling like their own insides are being ground up while talking to their patient), and with autism based on the “wall of glass phenomenon” (feeling like there is a barrier in reaching the person). they’re such weird ways to talk about people especially when the clinician’s own biases are rarely taken into account. 

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♫ But what will we do with so much love ? Show it to the world or conceal it? We’ll do all that is forbidden. We’ll go together to the snack bar. We’ll smoke a pipe in secret. We’ll stuff ourselves on cake.♫

Donkey Skin (1970), dir. Jacques Demy

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I can't be autistic bc I'm actually great at understanding social cues!

[Cut to my POV, a Terminator-style overlay analyzing word choice and body language while over everyone's head a bar labeled Are They Mad At Me shows varying levels]

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Jeremiah 31:15