placeholder-entity

[placeholder-entity]

I don't have any value unless someone is fucking me, and I can't get it together long enough to trick someone into doing that. I don't know what to do. I can't handle rejection, I've never had to take it. When I was younger and I wasn't sick and I could think straight women would approach me under the assumption I was worthwhile. Now I'm 26 and I'm chronically ill and I don't have any redeeming surface qualities anymore. I have to actively trick women into seeing value within me and I just can't. I fucking can't. No one taught me how and I just fucking can't. Every time my friends or coworkers send me away I become suicidal. I won't be able to handle it if a woman tells me no. I'll spiral too far out to recover. But I can't trick them into perceiving me as worthwhile anymore. It's hopeless. I'm hopeless. I don't know what to do.

I want so badly to have value but I can't if no one is fucking me and I can't trick anyone anymore. I don't know what to do. My eyes are too swollen and my sinuses are too infected to ramble anymore. I can't do this. I have to kill myself

[placeholder-entity]

I hate me. I hate him so much.

I just got HANDLED. That's all I'm worth anymore is being HANDLED. The first time it happened it was my uncle, acting on behalf of my grandfather. My stupidity had rendered me homeless, and I went to them for help. Grandfather has a massive house, I thought he could give me an address long enough to work my credit card debt off. Instead he sent me to a hotel while he confered with my uncle, who arrived with a copy of Profiles in Courage, and some sugary snacks, the type of which you give homeless people when you don't care about them. He wouldn't meet my eyes, or even say goodbye. Inside the snacks was a letter, declaring my disownment. That I had no place in the family until I fixed myself.

I just got handled by my coworkers. I didn't even ask for anything, I just want to be near people that's all I want. I can't stand the silence I just want company. They sent me away. It was a group effort I don't blame any of them personally. I just can't take this. I'm trying so hard to have value but I'm not being fucked. I can't have any value if I'm not being fucked and i can't get it together long enough to trick anyone into fucking me. Just like i couldn't get it together long enough to trick my family into helping me. I asked my family for help but I wasn't worth it. I'm not even asking my coworkers for anything verbally and I'm STILL being handled. How the hell am I expected to take rejection when it's my every day? I can't ask a woman out and risk getting turned down it will fucking kill me. I can't even hang out with my coworkers without being sent away and I didn't even ask for anything.

[placeholder-entity]

The most beautiful woman I had ever seen was striding towards me. My heart skipped a beat and I crushed it on its return. She was obviously walking towards the persons either side of me. I geared up for my usual combo, quick eye contact, small smile, eyes back down, shuffle out of way. But when my eyes flicked up they met hers, unmistakably, powerfully. She was furious.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she demanded.

My jaw flapped. "I-uh, I'm sorry, am I in the way? I can move."

"Uh YEA, youre in everyone's way" she shrieked. Someone had followed her, a friend maybe, flashing concerned eyes between me and the woman.

"I dont know what the FUCK you think is going on," she continued, "but this is a place for HAPPY, UNDAMAGED people to enjoy each other's company. Your self-hatred is keeping us from doing that."

"Wh-what?"

"GET OUT."

Tears brimming, I walked out. What was I supposed to do, lie? The whole evening? About who I was? Pretend to be EXTRA okay and EXTRA outgoing? I could fail at that just as well at home.

I couldn't make it out of the parking lot. How? What had given me away? I had been moving my body to the beat of the music, I had a positive expression on my face, I hadn't even covered up my arms or my legs.

I bit the steering wheel as hard as I possibly could, twisting my head until my every misaligned tooth had sunk into the grip. Was it just RADIATING out of me? I hadn't even been thinking about suicide, that was the whole point of going out. I would dance a little, smoke a little, and admire everyone's beauty. Push the impulses away with a little directed activity. What the hell gave it away?

My jaw finally letf the wheel as I screamed: what do I do now?

[placeholder-entity]

The need to kill myself finally outweighed the offer of social contact. 14 years since the voice started and it finally won a fight that matters. I gave it everything else. I gave it my body, my mind, my career, everything I thought I could live without. Finally, at 800 calories at 7pm, when an offer came to see friends at a bar, it kept me still and silent. I hope I find the strength to kill myself soon. I'm so tired of fighting it

[placeholder-entity]

[placeholder-entity]

I dont mean to be this fat. I'm so sorry about my weight just please make it leave me alone. Please I'm sorry I know its a problem but I checked with my primary care physician and they told me my cholesterol levels were healthy and the high blood pressure was down back in acceptable levels. Please I'm so sorry I know the fat makes me ugly but I can't even handle dating anyone right now with the state my mind and my finances are in just please make it stop. Please please please. I wear such outsized neutrally toned clothing you can't even see the shape of my body much less determine if I'm fat or not, please make it stop. Please I'm so sorry but I can't handle it anymore, it's going to drive me to suicide if you don't make it stop please. Please I don't want to die. I'm so young, I've got so much to live for. There's so much I haven't experienced yet please make it stop. I deserve at least another 30 years please please please make it stop I'm so sorry I know I'm fat I know just please make it stop I can't take it anymore. Surely you agree that if 14 years of telling me I'm fat and ugly and worthless didn't get me in shape then it's time to try something else? PLEASE can't we just try something else? There's so much you haven't let me try. I WANT to work out, I have time and energy and money to work out but I can't if you won't STOP IT. We haven't tried working out or positive affirmations or walking or therapy or cooking or listening to music or meditating or being in nature or beauty products or new clothes or skin care or painting or writing or film or composition. You won't let me try anything we weren't doing in middle school when you showed up and it's unbearable and there's no way I can loose weight if you won't STOP IT. JUST STOP IT. JUST LEAVE ME ALONE. SOON ILL BE THIRTY AND SOCIETY WONT PERCIEVE ME AS YOUNG ANYMORE AND THEN IT WILL REALLY BE TOO LATE PLEASE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE

[placeholder-entity]

I'm not stupid, I just hate myself.

Every day I come up with ways to improve. I have access to the internet; functionally infinite methods of self improvement are at my disposal. I don't even have to step-by-step activities that will improve my self or my life, I can get those lists with a twiddle of my thumbs.

It's not that I don't know how to improve, I just hate myself too much to do it. I don't need more advice. I don't need more lists. I don't need to discover "the perfect aesthetic". I don't need a broader or deeper understanding of my psychology or neurology. I don't need a course. I don't even need a raise or a fucking stimulus check.

I need to know how to stop hating myself so powerfully. I'm not trying to blame a mental illness anymore, I'm not suffering a delusion anymore. I know this is my fault, this self hatred. I'm trying to take responsibility for how badly I'm treating myself. But I don't know how to stop. I'm worried I might he addicted to the self hatred, and I'm almost certain you can't just scream CUT IT THE FUCK OUT, JUST FUCKING STOP, at an addict and expect it to work, can you? You can't just take an addict's substance away, hand them a list of chores, leave them alone for 8 hours, and expect those chores to be done or that addict to feel pride in doing them, can you?

I dont know what to do

The say the opposite of addiction is community, because addiction is essentially isolation. I don't know how that helps me. I can't use people around me as a crutch, especially when everyone has their own struggle they need energy for. I don't know what to do.

[placeholder-entity]

Christianity demands you deny the existence of the human body. To even *acknowledge* the human form is sinful, sin and the power to define it being a tool of social control, control of the human form being the end goal for social control, and the acknowledgment of the body being the first step to taking control of the body. People having control over their bodies defeating the entire purpose of the religion, hence the blanket denial of all aspect of the human form by demanding it conform to "divine standards" by repudiating "impulses of the flesh".

So I left the religion and renounce it in word and spirit every day, but I cannot take actions against it, because I am well and truly in denial about the beauty of my human form. They made me view it as disgusting, monstrous, and amoral for my entire development. That made me deny it. Blind luck made me come out slender and acne free. I offer my body nothing. Not sleep, not a healthy diet, not skin care, not even consistent bathing. To do so would be to take control of my body, and to do that would require I acknowledge its presence in my moment to moment existence. And to do that would require I stop viewing that acknowledgement as damnable. And I can't. The fear is too overwhelming.

I want to feel sexy. NOT I hasten to add, APPEAR sexy. I don't want to drop my weight and increase my muscle and slim down to fit a socialized perception of sexual attractiveness. I want to wake up from 7 uninterrupted hours of sleep, take a luxurious shower in which I apply a variety of products to my various regions, dry myself, moisturize, and take pride in the result. I want to feel soft to the touch. I want to admire my reflection. I want to put such food in me as to elevate my mood and my metabolism. I want to clothe myself with aesthetic preference.

But I can't. I can't acknowledge that my body needs tending to. I left the religion but I can't act out from its tenants even though I can debunk them in word and deny them in spirit. Blind fucking terror overwhelms me at the first hurdle, and the mere thought of getting enough sleep. So i overstimulate until 1am. My alarm goes off and immediatly the terror of acknowledging my body deserves a LONG, RELAXING WAKE UP SHOWER crashes over me with such force I hit snooze until there simply is NO MORE TIME REMAINING and the shower has to become a stressful race against the clock. All time for products, moisturizer, admiration, and even breakfast is already cut out.

I have no idea what to do. The fear is too much. I know there is no hell, no divine judgement. But I can't escape the terror. I cannot stop seeing my natural self as "flesh" inferior to a "divine form", even though I don't believe in either concept, much less a dichotomy of the two. I can do whatever I want with my personal philosophy, it doesn't matter one fucking bit. Nothing changes in my worldview. I don't sleep, I don't bathe, I don't moisturize or eat right. I work at the bottom rung of a corporate factory despite my ambition and intelligence, because I can't acknowledge what the chemicals and labor are doing to my form.

I'm so unhealthy and so unhappy. Both states are avoidable, but not unless I change.

[placeholder-entity]

I feel like I've got no artistry in my words anymore. In my head the language I speak is a tool for creative expression, like a pen or a musical instrument. But you can't actually draw something without it *being* a drawing, and you can't actually play a note of music without it *being* a note of music. A single blot of paint on an otherwise untouched canvas is a painting. But I feel like I can write as much as I want and it still doesn't become art.

I wrote a few stories in high school, ACTUAL stories with beginnings and middles and endings and things that purported to be characters. Whatever the quality of those pieces, they were art. They fit a definition for written composition that I identify as "art". The thing is, I hate those stories and I hated writing them. I did NOT write them the way I wanted to, I wrote them in accordance with the woefully outdated standards of High Literary Criticism, broadly, and more specifically in imitation of the prose style within "A Seperate Peace" by John Knowles. Even though they were my (debatably) original ideas the content of the art explicating those ideas wasn't original to me in the slightest. I wasn't writing to fulfill a want or a need or a drive or a passion. In the rare instances that I wasn't writing to appeal to my father, I was writing to appeal to a system of criticism that didn't know I existed artistically.

Obviously I stopped writing. That was my entire idea of writing and I got sick of it. I woke up halfway thru my English Bach and realized the only difference between my academic papers and my fiction was the inclusion of original dialouge. My voice had become complete pedantic and unfulfilled. So I stopped. I dropped out of college and I stopped. Stopped writing, stopped reading, stopped thinking about the language as a tool for artistry.

Now I've got nothing

I met a woman just the other day who reads screenplays. That type of person has never been presented to me outside of caricature. That sentence itself reads like the descriptor of a bad Manic Pixie Dream Girl. "Delilah was too high-minded for novels; she interpreted screenplays. It was much more open, she said, because the scene directions left so much to the imagination of the actors and thus to anyone reading it. That made it a challenge as much as a pastime."

But she does, and she does so for a valid reason, dragging her from the world of caricature into our reality by force of sendibility and reason, which stands in direct opposition to idyllicism and quirkiness . She reads screenplays because she wants to direct, and in her own words "if I read enough of them I'll internalize the formatting and structure and best practices." Which I think we can all agree is basically how scholars and creative have mastered their fields ever since their spheres were formalized.

That could have been me. I could have been intelligent enough to *stop reading stuff I hated and regurgitating it* but that literally never occurred to me. Ever. That's why I quit, I didn't have the fucking sense to stop performing the activity in a way that made it joyless. Or more actively, I lacked the imagination to perform the activity joyously.

Now I can't justify the expenditure of my time or my mental health on the activity. The unmedicated anxiety and unresolved trauma combines into a hateful doppelganger that hounds me to commit self harm. I can't argue with it, because it's not a schizoid entity, it's just my genuine desire to harm myself personified, and lacking the tools to resolve and pacify it I've been drowning it out these last 12 years. And the only way to keep it from speaking is to engage enough of my brain that there isn't any power left over for *conscious thought*. Any ability to reflect or ponder my own thoughts results in a violent urge for self harm.

So unless I can craft a perfect story in one go without the need to pause or look back, I can't even write one sentence. The interruption of creative flow to look back and edit gives the doppelganger enough cognizance over the situation to fight me, and it always wins. And frankly I don't value *any* art enough to fight the urge to self harm just to experience it, I really and truly don't. I would much rather continue living in stagnation that spend any more time fighting the urge to self harm than I already do. It might make me fat and miserable and slovenly, but that to me is better than fighting the urge to self harm JUST so I can write a fucking story. I would far rather spend the energy fighting it when I need to go out with friends. Going out with friends is important to me, for a variety of reasons, and committing to that activity also triggers the doppelganger. I don't want to waste vital energy i need for my friends on fucking *art*. Interaction with my friends might eventually trigger a social scenario where I gain a significant other or partner. What the fuck is *art* ever going to net me?

And now this is all I can do. Whine. Regurgitate *these* sentiments over and over again like a computer with a stupidly limited data set to iterate on. This is all I can do without the doppelganger showing up. It works its way into everything. I can set up the most fantastical scene I like and it will write itself in and assault me. This little bubble of misery and regret is all I can create. I'm guessing that's what it wants

[placeholder-entity]

Just got blocked by a bot 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[placeholder-entity]

Lain a LANSA I have never been catfished as hard as I just was 😭

SHE GAVE ME A BACKSTORY. Who does that?!? She even had all the signs of being a phisher but they've never bothered with a BACKSTORY before. Like the weirdly quick responses and the bad spelling and the subject jumps were all there, but they were about her EX BOYFRIEND. I consoled her over an entire breakup before she pulled out the "so here's my rates"

Oh my Lain did I just get emotionally used 😭 was that a real person trying to get an emotional fix while also scaring up some business? I STILL CANT TELL IF THAT WAS A BOT. Who scripts a bot with an emotionally burdensome backstory?!?! How is that catching phish 😭 is there Venn diagram overlap between men who like to offer emotional support and men who are desperate enough to pay for a woman's company?!?!?

Is anyone getting the insanity of this? There's only 2 types of catfishers: actual professionals who lure you in before springing the offer on you, and bots who spam cashapp requests with their nudes to get cash out of you with no possibility of meeting. That's literally all there is and I've seen both types, but neither has EVER pretended to be going thru a breakup for 30 minutes before springing the offers.

I knew something was wrong when she said I was handsome but what kind of person do I wanna be? The 16 year old insecure loser who responds to compliments with "nah I'm ugly what's your angle", or the 26 year old adult who's willing to believe an attractive woman might find him attractive? I'm so freaking devastated 😭😭

[placeholder-entity]

I feel it's important to remember that Cèzanne created this with the EXPRESS purpose of blowing people's minds. The little descriptor card next to this work (which incidentally I saw hosted in a museum called SPEED) quotes them as saying "I will astound the world with two apples"

And apparently some little blotches for grapes XD

Anything can be greatness. Anything can blow your mind. Nothing has to fit a previous definition for "great". This is literally just apples, on a table, next to a plate that might have grapes or might just have a design of grapes painted on the porcelain. And Cèzanne was proud of this.

Be proud of your work

[placeholder-entity]

Aha, I exist. And no one knows I exist too, that's good 🥰 existing sucks when it gets too involved