Writing is like a rainbow

No, that’s shitty. I don’t know what writing is like. Like a psychotic half blind black cat? I have one of those, and writing can be similar to her. Everything will be normal and fine, then suddenly she’s in my face, trying to eat my donut and not giving a shit as she swipes at it with her claws. So then I lay down, because I finished the donut I and I’m too tired to try to pry her claws out of me, and she gets on my chest. She refuses to leave and wants my soul.

I’m hungry, bitch.

Yes, that is what writing is like.

I have 2 blog posts just waiting to be put up here, just waiting for their links and pictures. Damn. I’ll get on that. Not right this moment, it’s almost 4am, Buffy is almost over, and Dianne is going to wake up any moment wanting to know why I’m typing and not sleeping.

I need to get back into writing stories, or at least editing the ones I have. The problem is my everythings decide to hurt, and they are crap motivators for writing. Great motivators for TV watching though. I finished the whole season of Terra Nova in 3 days. Damn Netflix.  I’ve been trying to catch up on my tv watching. It sounds bad, but when you have a queue of around 200 shows/movies, its daunting. And when I finish a show, it feels like I accomplished something. Even if that something is just to yell repeatedly “Its a motherfucking pterodactyl!” and then insist from this point forward if you’re going to use the word pterodactyl you precede it with motherfucking. And I feel special that I spelled pterodactyl without spell check. Go me.

I couldn’t find a Pterodactyl from the show Terra Nova, so I got you this T Rex instead.

PS: I invented a club, it has a slightly changing name but basically its “People who don’t like being fucking told what to do”, our acronym is BITCHES. I’ll be adding this to my about page eventually as well. Admission is free, the password is BITCHES, yelled loudly and inappropriately, preferably around children who will repeat it later.

PPS: I’m watching The Secret Circle now. I’m trying to give myself an easy break during the winter season break of all my other shows. At some point I will actually watch Doctor Who. Someday.

How far is too far?

I couldn’t sleep, as happens to me at least once a week, and that’s even with a combo of muscle relaxers and ambien. I finally gave up at 6am, got some cereal and looked to see if one of my two favourite shows was on: Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel.

In the name of all things Whedony we pray

A little back story: I watched Buffy when it premiered, I was 16, and my first girlfriend and I watched it together every week. We watched Angel too. It wasn’t until my current girlfriend that I saw Firefly, Serenity, Dollhouse, and Dr. Horribles Sing Along Blog.

And now? One of the things I love best about my girlfriend is her extra nerdyness. Mine had hidden inside for years, due to constant pressure that femmes weren’t nerdy. Bullshit, by the way.

We both are huge Joss Whedon fans, known as Whedonites. We watch movies that Joss Whedon known actors are in, just to watch them again. I’ve seen the awful unaired Buffy pilot. We own all the seasons to everything but Dollhouse- which is still on netflix if we feel so inclined. We both have twitter accounts that largely follow other Whedonites and actors from Joss Whedon projects. I even set up a daily game that is played on twitter called “6 Degrees of Joss Whedon”. We both can quote various shows off-hand as just normal conversation. Lastly, James Marsters singing “Let Me Rest in Peace” is the ringtone on my phone.

Why is this important??

Does this make us obsessed? No. I can only say this because I’ve seen obsessed. I’ve seen twitter accounts that post paparazzi Alyson Denisof from her dentist’s office that sicken me. I’ve seen some of the most horrifying fan fiction in existence. (Side note: I’m not a real supporter of fan fiction, but I’ll explain that another time.) I do not need clothes, or props from any of the shows to keep as idols in little glass cases that I sit in worship over. I wouldn’t try to steal Sarah Michelle Gellars straw from her cup if she was at some restaurant I was also at. I would not attempt to clone her through DNA left on said straw. I have no Whedony tattoos anywhere, which is something that can border on obsession. I also spend a good part of time in reality, not wandering around in a Sunnydale set that lives in my brain like my own “Normal Again”episode daily.

Plus no one tells me to kill my friends

I don’t know the point of bringing all this up. Perhaps its as my girlfriend and I meet more Whedonites, I can see those obsessed fans that actually scare us. I also feel sorry for the actors, directors, and everyone that obsession gets attached to, because that’s their privacy that being violated to feed into someones obsession. I don’t like the scared or angry looks on some celebrity’s face because a jerk is thrusting a camera at them, yelling obscenities, to try to get their attention and get a reaction.

This image of Sarah Michelle Gellar was so very important for the paparazzi, how would we know she drinks coffee without this??

These are the points you understand why Michael Jackson put masks on his kids. If they can’t even protect themselves, how can they protect their kids. When will this obsessive fandom boil over and those people we love to see lock themselves away because they’ve been broken? Authors and creators stop working because all the fan fiction created from their work, sent to them, begging them to change original plots, finally makes them give up?

I just want to love this silly globule of pop culture, and I’m worried it will be smashed.

The Cut

Trigger warning: this post contains details and pictures about self harming. 

 

 

There’s this idea that people who self harm are all angsty teenagers looking for attention. Or that the person really just wants to commit suicide. Also, that its something we can just stop, just decide (or be told) to stop doing, and that’s it. I wish.

I wish I could be “normal” in that regard. That when something upsets me or bothers me, instead of it going straight to my core, burrowing itself inside until I let it out, that I could purge it some other way, some healthy way.

I’ve been doing this since I was 14, in various ways. I try not to, it really is a last resort. It’s also the healthiest of the things I could do that make me feel better. Some might think I’m not exploring all my options, I’ve explored plenty. I’ve done therapy, anti depressants, xanax, crying, talking, meditation, everything I can think of. When it comes down to it, there are a handful of things that make me feel better: cutting, binge drinking, and xanax (sort of). If I have to choose between fucking up my arms/legs/hips, drinking until I black out, or burying it inside xanax, only for it to still bother me once it wears off, I’m going with cutting.

There are only two things I am ever ashamed about when it comes to my cutting. The first is that although I feel better when its done, I hate the remnants. I don’t want these marks, I don’t want people to see them. I don’t like waiting for them to heal, feeling the pain while they heal. I wish I was like Wolverine and I could heal instantly. The second is that it makes me feel like a child or crazy, this is something you hear about teenagers doing, not adults, especially ones in their thirties. Or that no sane person does this, why would any sane person cut themselves when they can’t deal with crap from the world.

Me, at 24, marks on my arms

My cutting ebbs and flows. Sometimes I do it once a week, sometimes I don’t for years. When it happens its unexpected, and I try to fight it. I tried today to find someone to talk to, to cry until it didn’t hurt anymore, to think of other things, to be so distracted I didn’t keep hearing those things I read over and over. I don’t cut because of a general depression. I have triggers, one thing that will set me off until I can’t stop, or think about anything else. When I cut, its a purge, a way of physically letting out the emotions I feel. I feel drained and relaxed afterward, and usually better. If not completely better, enough to function. Whatever triggered me might still bother me later on, but for the moment I’m past it.

The healing process begins, 9/1/2012

I cut myself on the arms usually. Not because I want attention (if I haven’t made that clear already) but because its the easiest place to reach, and doesn’t brush on clothes while its healing. I’ve done other places, like my hips, because of having to be in public. I know the risk if someone see’s them and decides to be nosy, especially one of my doctors. In a sad way I’m lucky now that I’m too sick, so I don’t leave the house more than every couple weeks.

I’m not asking for help, but in all the writing I do, maybe this is a piece of understanding of where things I write come from. I don’t have an answer on how to stop, but maybe someone else will feel better when they read this that they’re not crazy, or alone, or stupid.