shipsailing

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I want to scream at you and shake you.

what the hell do you mean you’re in love with him?

is your love really so flimsy, so cheap, so easily-won, that one month after the ending of our first-love romance, a love that began before either of us transitioned, or entered adulthood, a love that we both entered as virgins and left tethered, you can say it firmly and mean it?

how dare you ready your tongue and spit on my name, tell me that you don’t even know who I am, when I have done nothing but give myself up for you, over and over again? was it really that worthless to you, the way that I bled? the way that I willingly let the fire blister my skin and burn me inside-out?

you claim that I didn’t care or truly love you simply because you never understood my emotions. someone who can’t understand my emotions could obviously never understand the way that and the intensity with which I feel and express love. I tricked myself into believing that you really did understand me, but that was never the truth really, was it?

nothing that I confided in you was ever safe or secret. I should have been wiser than to trust a soul that is chronically pulling away, and that could never be alone to give any part of our rocky and halfway-collapsing relationship any respect. everything that I ever tried to express was met with abrasive misunderstanding, and I tricked myself into believing that it was the love you repeated back to me with your words and not your soul and heart.

I never truly had your love, did I? I was useful to you, sometimes. you enjoyed my dedication, but you didn’t appreciate it. the way that I express feelings wasn’t worth it to you either, was it? I wanted so desperately to have finally found someone who could appreciate and withstand the emotional storm that I brace against within myself every day. desperately, I wanted not to be alone, not to be the sole survivor of it, constantly pushing against the wind and rain by myself. I clung to you and I made you into what I thought you already were; but that was a fable that I told to myself, really, wasn’t it?

you make me sick. the easy way that you were able to give up on me, on our love, makes me ill. someone who feels deeply could not, would not, do this. I have made the mistake of loving someone who only knows how to detach. I tried to build a home with popsicle sticks in a floodzone, at the foot of a landslide-prone clifface.

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enjoy that honeymoon phase, dismissive avoidant <3 it will never feel fulfilling for long.

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I am a creature that operates on love and light and you are a being that operates on darkness and isolation and that is really what is comes down to in the end, isn’t it?

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I have realized now that you’re gone that your version of love was not adequate for me. it isn’t a fulfilling, substantial, or sustaining form of love.

doing things for me is not enough. simply existing near me in proximity is not enough.

the lack of comfort in the face and wake of my emotions was disappointing and cruel. it never even felt like you cared when I would cry, certainly not towards and at the end of things; you let me spill out my guts with a blank expression and if you did help to put them back and sew me up, you would do so not with care and affection but instead the equivalent of shoving them back inside me uncaring of your degree of gentleness, and stabbed the needle and thread through my flesh just to get the job done so that I would stop bleeding on your sheets.

it never came from a place of real care, and like an animal whose instincts warn of being constantly predated, it put me on edge with you. I knew that I couldn’t trust you in my body before I accepted it in the mind or heart. when someone is so careless, can watch you cry without batting an eyelid and feels no need to offer soft words or to reach out and touch, it becomes very clear what degree of care there is there even if you repeatedly and purposefully blind yourself to it out of the desire to persevere in love and to be kept, and the desire to stay borne from fierce loyalty, the tenderness and curating of history, and of genuine adoration the way that I did.

you say that your form of love is all-encompassing, for those that you choose to give it to. that may be true; but that statement in and of itself it sickening to me, especially to read it directed towards me. because what you are essentially saying, is that you chose not to give me the love that I so desperately wanted and needed, and was actively communicating that I was lacking. my crying was never something that was supposed to hurt you, but you always took my complaints as a personal attack rather than seeing me for what I was or seeing any of my outbursts for what they really were; sobbing for the love that you were lacking in giving to me. the focus and attention that you tout as if it’s golden and ever-flowing when, for me, the supposed closest one to your heart and soul (or at least, the one who should have been that to you, certainly after all of the years of blood, sweat, tears and effort that I gave trying my utmost to love you and to be loved properly in return), it was increasingly finite until it dried up like an old well, and yet you continued to expect me to take what I was given without complaint.

and that is why our love died. you stopped working with me. you did not accept my communication as communication, because it was emotional. you decided that I was too much for you, and made it so. you decided that I was unhinged for my tears and hyperventilations, instead of seeing me as your partner who needed you to see him. you did not want to see me, and that is the cold and honest truth of the matter, and what winds all of our history up and ties it up with its own neat little bow. the reality is that I chose you, and that situation, countless times when I did not need to. I loved you at your worst. I let you remove me from anywhere and anyone that I felt safe at or with. I trusted you wholeheartedly to protect my soul and to start a life with me. you are the one who chose to spit both of our efforts back into my face, and you are the one who decided on your own that the relationship was unsalvageable and that you did not want it, and that it did not serve you.

I promised you a life together, and I imagined and worked towards our future as a unit. you, on the other hand, were incapable for some reason that I still cannot explain, and that was the catalyst for everything coming down on itself. you did not trust me enough to plan a future with me, and to rely on it. and that is not something that is my fault, as much as you’d like to say and believe that I made things too unstable or that I made things feel too unsafe for you. relationships are a two-way street, and taking zero accountability for your shortcomings while trying to jumpstart moving on too quickly with someone else whilst hating me is not going to be the cosmic saving grace that you’re making it out to be. deciding that I was awful in every way and touting that rhetoric to anyone and everyone who will listen does not make it any more true than it makes you better than me.

at the end of the day, I can sleep well knowing that I carried things to the end with a full heart and soul. I get to know that I tried the best that I could, tried everything that I could, made as many attempts to communicate and create an open emotional space for both of us to share that I could, and that my love for you wasn’t based on anything besides unfiltered and unconditional adoration and care for another person. this rings even truer when I ponder and realize that nothing that I miss is something that I was getting from you or from our relationship, but rather all the things I miss are things that I would do for you, and your presence in general. my love was selfless and it was light. I don’t know if you will ever realize how golden my love and touch truly was.

moving forward and letting go is not going to be as impossible for me as I think you’ve convinced yourself that it will be. this is simply because I’m not going to lock myself into my head or my world and hold onto loving you, or waiting for you. I’m not going to do either of those things. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of you, at this point. I wonder, though, if you ever will turn around, and what that might look like. I really do not wish ill on you, and would never wish it on anyone. I don’t have the capacity for negativity and hate, because that rests too heavy on my heart and soul to be worth it. but right now? I really am quite angry sometimes. because the person who was supposed to love and protect me for the rest of our lives, who I trusted wholeheartedly, opened completely for, and was more afraid of dying than leaving made the choice to actively betray everything that we built and that I stood for, and that I thought that *we* stood for.

if your capacity for love was always there, enough so that you insist I could have uncovered it or unlocked it somehow, and that you can give it to someone else already— I really do think you should be disgusted with yourself for that. if anyone deserved your effort and the benefit of the doubt, it was me. to claim that you tricked yourself into being with someone you don’t think that you know after knowing me in every intimate moment and intricate detail is something so insulting that it is almost vulgar.

I’m not exactly sure how to end this one. all that I really have to note is that, after telling me how badly you needed to be alone and selfish, letting someone else into your life should make you sick at yourself. a good person who was honest and true does not move like that after the end of a five-year relationship which died at their hands. there is a necessary grieving period that doubles as a period of respect both for the bond that you shared and for the other person who you inflicted that world-changing and self-altering pain upon.

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Daily reminder that porn is not some special category that is magically devoid of artistic meaning or personal expression.

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Weird question of the day: so what is terfs’ actual endgame?

Like I know the middle game is “everyone identifies with their assigned sex and no one modifies their body in ways that alter secondary sex characteristics.” But then what?

They say they’re feminists, so that would imply the actual endgame isn’t just “the destruction of the transcult” but the end of patriarchy.

But how is everyone identifying with their asab and not modifying their body supposed to do that?

It’s very Underpants Gnomes.

Recruit trans people who doubt.

Destroy the transcult!

…..

End patriarchy!

?????

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and as a side note, I don’t think that you have this blog/know that I have it. but in the case that you do, please leave me to my vent and peace. I am keeping quiet everywhere else but here. let me be safe to share my thoughts and feelings without being hurt even worse than you have already hurt me. just leave me be. let me breathe and let me live and let me accept your leaving. I am trying to leave, too.

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you killed it you killed it you killed it you killed it you fucking killed it, are you happy? are you finally satisfied, now that it’s dead? do you feel freer? do you feel fulfilled? you choked the air out of it, squeezed the heartbeat to a stop, forced the blood to stop throbbing through it. now get my name out of your mouth the way you spat out the love I tried to feed you.

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I saw it coming and I still cried.

I thought when you left, you'd leave my mind.

No I don’t wanna hate you, but you chose your pride;

when I needed a hug, you held a knife,

but I still wish we had more time.

Must be crazy, right?

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I whined for you like a dog.

I feel pathetic about it, now; the way that I was so loyal to someone who now I realize did not want me to be their resting place in the way I made them mine.

the skill of detachment is something that I never learned, the persistence of love and loyalty feeling more binding and stellar than anything else to me. More important. More weighty.

I have always seen the persistence of love as more freeing than letting go, or maybe it just feels more cosmically sacrificial; admirable agony, rather than the cowardice of running. I never understood how or why someone could decide not to fully process, to submerge themselves in feeling until the feeling has finished with you, left you shaking and weak and gasping and new.

but, now, in light of the most recent and deepest gouge to my soul, the cruelty in the aftermath, the confusion of the whiplash and the strangeness of every twist and turn, the instability of it all? I’ve realized that my mind is pushing at the precipice of detachment. I want it, for the first time I’ve ever felt it. I want to let go. I want to forget.

how could you make me, of all of the rest who have already been so scarred in the heart and torn in the soul, who had held onto that light and innocence with nails and teeth locked into it, lose something that I’ve held onto by force for over two decades now? throughout every pain and trauma? Every horrible loss?

You wanted access to my softness, and I gave it willingly. You told me that you simply had to be needed, and I needed you fully. I gave you my trust without guard, without protecting myself. Now you’ve subjected me to the fate of choking on the bitterness of regretting it until I work out how detachment is done.

I’ve never looked towards detachment and tried to master it, nor understand it. It feels as if you’ve gripped both sides of my skull and roughly turned my head towards it, cricking my neck, nearly breaking it from my spine with the roughness of the act.

why would you be so ruthless with me? How could you want something of me that you know fully how I’ve worked, resisted it? Why is this your wish for me, for us? I don’t want to be taught this. I never wanted to be taught this.

But oh, what a mess of things you’ve made. There is no forgiving it. There is no way back from here, not if I were to trip over myself walking backwards, and I can’t turn around. I can’t hear, see, or smell, like cotton is stuffed into every opening in my face. Reeling.

I’m learning. I’m doing it. I’m doing it? Aren’t you looking back to watch? Are you gone? How gone are you?

Realizing how monstrous things really were helps some. You were never the force of good that I made you out to be. Perhaps that stings the most; that I believed in a love that came from me, that I believed in something that was only words to you. It was almost religious.

You killed it like it was a living thing. Choked the life from it while I clawed at your forearms to stop you. Listened to it wheeze and writhe and struggle beneath the press of your thumbs, felt it squirm and felt it buck, for you and I both know that it did not die easily. And even now, looking at its crushed and broken body upon the earth, cords severed and bridges burned to ash, I sometimes wonder if I can see it wheeze for life. But how cruel would it be, if it were still alive, in the state that it’s in? How cruel of me it would be to try to resuscitate it, to keep it alive.

And so you’ve forced my hand. I must let it die. I must let you kill it. I must let you snap my writing utensils and drop the works of us into the sea to be swallowed.

There is no going back?

There is no going back.

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people who want to live in lighthouse - i hear you, i understand you

but i raise you

living in water tower

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crab crab crab hand hand hand frighten

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Scrunchie time.

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coming back after 3yrs just as this site is shutting down to post jayviks and name drop my other socials - find me on twt @OmenBairn

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If your life is horrible and you need a new source of meaning and direction.... Do NOT find religion. Learn to identify plants.

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'I need you.'

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