i have hit the stage of anxiety/bpd where Everything Is About Me and now i think i legitimately want to hurl myself out a window (onto the same level on the other side of the window, but i need to bodily throw myself through something that will break loudly and maybe cut me a little) it is 1:49 am, i cannot fucking sleep, and i can't handle this right now
if the post(s) about your original story are out there, they can be read but the fact they can be doesn't mean anyone has to. it just means that people have the option to read them, which they wouldn't if the post(s) didn't exist. you are not forcing anyone into anything by talking about the story here.
i'm just feeling that way in general tonight, that's just one example i don't... get listened to. a whole lot.
I haven't been able to find the words often to reply, but I am and have been listening to the things you say, and I doubt I'm the only one.
current squirrels: my names don't feel right. jay doesn't feel right. pixels feels better but that's not right either. i don't know what my name is or should be. i want to check up on the election but i know trying to monitor it will probably make me irl actually literally physically vomit due to anxiety. i didn't register to vote on time due to brain bugs, and i'm in a recently-declared swing state. if trump wins, it's my fault for not voting. someone mistook me for someone else for a trivial reason earlier which triggered a bout of suicidal ideation because the other person already exists and is liked by more people so why would i exist. bpd brain: two people enter, i have to leave because why would i be here. i've been sleepy all day. i don't want to wake up tomorrow and have trump be president. it's not s's fault or p's fault that my social circle is this fucking small. it's not their fault my family is balls. i shouldn't want their support so much. i did a thing where i asked for tumblr asks about homestuck shipping. this is a special interest of mine. i got a lot of them and got to talk about it which made me feel like my opinions were asked for and made a difference or something. i posted a thank you and then got like 10 anon asks about it at once. i was not prepared for this much attention. before today, i'd bathed for four days in a row. whoops. gotta break the streak. maybe or maybe not gearing up for d&d tomorrow, but honestly, if trump becomes president i may not be able to, for brain reasons. i'm going to get yelled at for my haircut. i'm a burden on my friends. it's my own fault i only have like two friends, and it's my own fault that i try to keep leaning on them. i don't want to need people. i'm slowly trying to gear up for my psych appt in a week and now i'm just kind of scared that the psychiatrist isn't going to listen to me because that's kind of a theme in my life. i can't write right now. this feels horrible. it's all i want to do. and now i feel guilty even trying to bullshit with other people about things i maybe might want to write. because how dare i talk to people and take up their time. i feel like an outsider in my own life. i don't understand why people would include me in things, ever. i'm not usually.
xposted from tumblr Spoiler seriously, don’t read if this is going to potentially upset you. i’m about to have a public mental breakdown, and it’s not pretty. ev//er//li//nd, ro//ac//hp//at//rol, ha//nd//ba//gm//ur//der, sa//ff//ro//nh//el//io//tr//ope, ju//mp//in//gj//ac//kt//ra//sh, la//yl//ah, and va//st//de//rp existing and contributing still make me want to kill myself, five years later. there is literally no point for me to exist if these writers are in the homestuck fandom. and they do, and they’re unapologetic about it, as they should be. because when you’re good at something, you like to share it with other people. the only reason people like my writing is that i have very carefully learned to mimic E/L and S/H and L/L. not even a prayer for R/P, H/M, J/J/T, or V/D. there it is. that’s my big secret. i’m a complete fraud and i’ve parroted how to put sentences together and i reuse the same emotional phrases until even i’m sick of them and it’s still a dilution of the original because it always will be. i’m so afraid of being unoriginal that i have two books that i very much want to read, that i know for a fact are good. lolita and the martian. they’re sitting right here on my bookshelf. i’m not about to read them. because either i’m going to glom onto something from there and it’s going to infest its way into my writing and my fraudulent nature will just be reinforced by my unintentional osmosis, or i’m going to be suicidal because i can’t write like that. (i’m completely fucking serious about wanting to die and/or kill myself based on all of this. i fucking know it sounds goddamn ridiculous. trust me, i know. i thought it would go away, and then it doesn’t, because i still have my bookmarks on ao3, and i still emotionally self-injure by going back to read through them just to marvel at how much i pale in comparison. there’s one H/M fic i have bookmarked that i don’t think i’ll ever finish just because i know i’m going to be suicidal if i read it and i’m not willing to take the risk.) it’s also my own fault for not growing as an author. i know how much of a hack i am and i’ve realized that the only way to get good, reliable attention is to make things people like, make them often, and make them with some quality to them. replicating quality really helps, but it’s a shitty replica when the original is literally sitting right there if people wanted to compare and contrast. an easy way to get cheap attention is to make something porny and put it up for consumption and distribution. it’s positive attention because it’s something i did to contribute with something other people think is talent. i’m not trying to be manipulative, but that’s basically what i’m doing, and it feels shitty on my end every time i post something. i get post-posting jitters nearly seven years later, because the issue isn’t whether i’m proud of it, the issue is whether other people will pay attention to something i’ve done. i’m realizing now that i’ve pigeonholed myself, and that it’s my own damn fault. people don’t really like me as a person, they just like what i can do for them, and what i can do for them is write porn hot enough that they get off on it at some level, whether intellectual, physical, both, or somewhere between. another confession: it’s masturbation on my end as well. if i’m writing porn, i want to get laid. once i finish, i’m not so sex-hungry anymore. y’all are complicit in my sex life. it makes me feel disgusting. i need sexual attention and so i act out in public and people praise me for it. it’s really fucked up. if people only like what i can do for them, then there’s no reason for them to like me. i don’t add value, even with what i do for people. i might have my own stories to tell, but it’s all sex and porn and smut. whatever “story” there is, is buried under fucking nonsense. if i have anything else to say, people don’t want to hear it. because that’s not what i’m best at objectively, and it’s not what i feel good at subjectively. this fanfiction business is also a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately sort of game, with constant when-will-you-updates and please-continues. i know i’m swiftly going to become irrelevant if i don’t put out content, because people won’t remember who i am. it’s also frustrating on a personal level when i am so sick that i can’t write, and everything feels like sludge under my tongue, and even though i’m metaphorically cramming my figurative fingers down my allegorical throat, i can’t get it to come up, and i can’t get it on paper. not only am i not that great at what i do, and not only am i a shitty person for making the entire internet accomplices to my masturbation attempts, but i can’t even do it right now. and i know i’m becoming irrelevant the longer it is between one-shots and updates. if you’re not doing what other people think you should be doing, no one gives a shit. writing has always been a bad coping mechanism for me, because how the fuck do i expect to get through this unscathed if the existence of people better than me makes me want to literally end my existence, and why the fuck do i need the attention anyway, and no one has the obligation to care about anything i do, and as long as i’m literally getting off on it and/or hitting a relief valve in my sexuality i really ought to keep it to my fucking self. this is the only way i know of making myself into anything resembling a thing-people-like. and it really fucking sucks. {names with slashes through them are meant to have slashes through them, to fuck up tumblr’s search algorithms. it’s not these people’s fault that they’re good at what they do. my mental illness is not their problem. i don’t want any of them to find this rant and subsequently blame themselves for doing what they’re blessed with and sharing that with the world.} maybe i need to quit.
These answers both presuppose an inherent moral right to “narc supply”, and I don’t think that works. I mean, imagine that you’re sex-addicted. People don’t suddenly acquire a moral obligation to have sex with you! how does this work in real life because i want attention and validation and love and affection from other people but i don't think i have an inherent moral right to any of that, and i don't think anyone's morally obligated to give me those things but with a zero supply of those things, people die, or something, i don't really understand why because i wish i could just. subsist without it
This happens a lot sadly: Person: "These totally normal human needs and desires make me terrible." Me, literally every time: "Who hurt you?"
it's a complete bitch of a situation and I don't know what to suggest. I'm sorry. I can assure you that I read this thread whenever it updates, but I don't particularly know how to go about validating and most of my contributions to things are either shitposts or navel-gazing. but I am reading. even aside from the mental health aspects, you've lived a vastly different life from my own, and I appreciate getting to read about it.
i am certainly feeling some kind of way but it's hard for me to articulate right now eating is hard for no reason. sleeping, too. showering, brushing my teeth, cleaning. i'm bleeding down the back of my throat and i know this because not only does my breath smell like rot but i'm also blowing scabs out of my nose and picking them out at every possible opportunity, and occasionally twisting up tissues to put up my nostrils to catch any live blood before i remember that it has to scab to be any good. it's a nosebleed, but too slow to bleed out, so i'm just swallowing it instead. fun! one of my medications is giving me such bad brainfog that the only real opportunity i have to string some thoughts together is between 6 and 10 at night, sneaking in work between doses. otherwise, i can't hold everything together in my head at once. to use a metaphor: beading a necklace. bead in one hand, needle in the other, connected to the necklace. brainfog: i can only concentrate on putting a bead on the needle. if the bead is wrong, i just know it's wrong and i don't know why, and i have to set down the bead to undo whatever i threaded onto the necklace, for however long it takes for me to unthread it. lack of brainfog: i remember what fucking pattern i was using for this necklace and i know what color and size beads to use, even if it takes me a while to string them all on together. lack of brainfog and lack of executive dysfunction: i work on the necklace at a reasonable pace, taking breaks now and again. (lack of brainfog and surplus of executive function: i actually finish the goddamn necklace when i said i would.) right now i'm mostly in phase 1 and only have phase 2 for a few hours a day. i'm writing again, in those few hours. not very well, because i can't remember some idioms or vocabulary words or memes. it makes me want to cry. i'm not even working on what i want to work on, i'm working on something that's designed to be a writer's block buster. i successfully read one book and then tried to read another and i can't get into it, and i'm wondering whether that's my fault or the author's. changing my meds isn't working. i have to go home for christmas. i want a hug from someone who loves me. i feel painfully alone and overwhelmed by basic tasks and no one gives a shit that i can't do basic tasks.
apparently you did stay at a holiday inn express last night. the theory was that this drug would make me less anxious. the truth is that i'm just less able to hold a coherent thought in place at any given time. so, i'm not anxious! but it's because i can't process anything! plus i'm still not mood stabilized or anything close to it. we're only changing one thing at a time for right now and this was not the thing we changed this visit, partially because it had only been three weeks and i was just shruggeroni when it came to whether it was working. now i know it wasn't just me and it's definitely not working. next appointment is dec 28. i would honestly rather be brainfog when i'm home with family for christmas.
Checked into a Red Roof Inn Stayed up for several hours and then slept like infants. From the effects you are describing, they may as well be prescribing a half bottle of housewife gin a day. Probably cheaper, but hard on the liver. Ugg.
this would also be why i was adamant about not working while i was fucking with meds. but noooooooOOOOOOOoooooooooo, people don't listen to me when i tell them about concerns strongly rooted in reality that i would be unable to do my job while adjusting to new medications and possibly failing off of some while trying to find others that work! in other news, i brushed my teeth and my mouth still tastes like ass because i'm swallowing the contents of my nose down the back of my throat. So Attractive
