It’s just a ride
From the sister you miss
To the father you don’t want to write
It’s just a ride
It’s just a ride
From the lover you loved to the one that you’re frightened to find
It’s just a ride
It’s just a ride
I took a photo with my father. He thought we were at a restaurant he did not want to return too. He was covered in spilled food and my mother had to pull his top over his pants, which were unzipped. I don’t know why I wanted this photo. Because of people whose only connection to me are blood? Maybe when my half sister and brother took the photo with him they found some sort of comfort in it. But you always said I was the most like you. I can see how miserable you are. I feel your torment as my mother frantically snaps away in denial. As I sit here on a beach smelling salt and tasting unshed tears I am reminded of the anime–Ghost in a shell. Say cheese.
It’s so much simpler to blow up at someone than say “hey, I like you.” I have actual feelings and it terrifies me, so much so that I would actually be angry at you, not really, but angry at me and you absorbing that and have you hate me because its easier isn’t it? Much better to be hated than be dismissed. I’d rather you despise me than hear how you don’t care. “Well, you certainly succeeded in that” the ice oracle of self fulfilling prophecy whispers smugly in a tone that sends a trickle of cold water down your vertebra. “Smile at your win, darling” and you feel your lips stretch out like a disjointed mannequin and you wonder at the salty sea ocean saline pooling into your bared teeth.
I keep dissociating. The thought clouds swirl past like waves of cotton candy floss at a fun fair, leaving my ears plugged and throat choked. I feel sick, my body is telling me to rest but my but all I want to do is run run run away. The last two people I fucked were Gemini’s and I wonder what that says about my mental health.
Where is home? The basement with the sewage leak? Not the ex fiance. Not the family who taught you to be sweet as cooled cherry pie, smile as saccharin as splenda to strangers while leaving the baking fire at home, the ultimate gaslighting oven. I really don’t want to go to therapy tomorrow and that is the first time I can say that because I just don’t think it’s working for me long term. I need a job, I need to commit to a project, all talk is just that. It’s time to get into ACTION–even if I can barely breathe. I’ve started art installation sketches and my goal is to start working on models. Conceptualizing my anxiety/depression/triggers.
The only way to stop the suicide ideation is to create.
Or maybe, just for a moment, I want them to walk into a space and really *feel* what this is like for me.
Life is passing by too quickly for me to capture it. I feel like a fisherman who has lost his net. I see images and words and stories all floating in the sea but I am too impatient to write this down, to feel this. Everything is blurring in an impressionistic canvas cranium. I don’t want to feel. I notice the tears well up despite the emptiness and wonder at their origin. I am an empty latex fetish suit. Don’t cry you will ruin the makeup. Life is just a cancer ward cabaret after all.
I’m feeling sad and insomniac. I am scared to trust myself. I am scared I am too impulsive and scare people away. I am scaring myself and my mood keeps on cycling so like one min I can be absolutely fine and the next anxiety. It’s making talking to anyone pretty hard because its not them I don’t trust. Need faith. I don’t know what I believe in but I just need to believe in this moment everything will be ok.
Lots of anxiety. Really concerned over my friend in ICU. Going to force myself to yoga or something.
Life is passing by too quick for me to capture it. I feel like a fisherman who has lost his net. I see images and words and stories all floating in the sea but I am too impatient to write this down, to feel this. Apparently one of my biggest things I am working on right now is when a negative thought attaches to a feeling. It’s when my loneliness or fear/anxiety attaches to “I fuck everything up” it stops me from fully processing the feeling and I get stuck there. Also, wherever I am I want to be somewhere else. (complex ptsd) Everything is blurring in an impressionistic canvas cranium. I don’t want to feel this. I feel the tears well up despite the emptiness and wonder at their origin. I am an empty latex fetish suit. Don’t cry you will ruin the makeup. Life is just a cancer ward cabaret after all.
CW: physical and sexual Assault So…a huge part of my PTSD involves grooming/coercion. I’ll go into more details somewhere else, but in a nutshell how this affects me now is because I am afraid of my own mind. I am in constant anxious fight or flight. Yoga helps, but I can’t always practice everyday. Meditation helps but sometimes nothing feels like enough and I just want to jump out of my skin and watch the empty pink suit deflate like a condom in a murky duck pond. I want to transcend away, away from all of this. I thought I was going to be a star right before my assault so I feel like some of these self destructive urges kick in when i’m actually doing great. I feel crazy crazy crazy and want it to all stop.A
Pixie is feeling lonely 😦
18 hrs ·
Really want to go out and see friends but literally no energy. None. Like…. I spent today making avocado toast and doing laundry. And while I know in theory there will be other nights, other drag show cabarets… I’m sad.
I think one of my strangest recent encounters was with someone who was complaining they felt people were using them for weed. I replied “we don’t have to smoke weed.” I don’t like people feeling I am using them for anything. Then they just said that they really wanted to smoke weed (regardless), and it made me wonder how much people project things they don’t like about themselves onto other people, like someone else I know who says they never drink alone, but are rarely alone.
I am not sure how I actually feel about astrology. It’s really popular in Brooklyn and people talk about it all the time. Then again others say how its all bullshit because planets have shifted in alignment since then. I like magical/mystical things and stuff like magick, tarot, etc but at the same time cafe astrology said me and my ex were a perfect match, and also I don’t understand why people use it in colloquial fashion ie; “I’m sorry I was X, it’s because I am such a Pisces!” “And I am a Scorpio so I say everything the wrong way.” I don’t see how astrology is relevant to the conversation. Rather it’s like, are you using this to justify what may be viewed as poor behavior? If so, why? I can justify lots of behavior because I have been diagnosed with all this crap, but instead I try to modify my behavior as best as I can.
I’m terrible at being honest colloquially myself. I repeat other phrases I know will get a decent response because I feel really insecure a lot and don’t always trust myself.
Hello and welcome to my new Blog, Searching for Tara.
The adventures of a single 27 year old New York queer woman living, working and dating with complex PTSD
(you can find my previous work at http://www.pixiedreadful.com)
A mix of Prose and Social observations.
Entry No. 1
I don’t like you
About two woman
It was your essence that entranced me.
You were a shimmering, glistening incandescent pixie. Your hair was red/gold/blue….the colour of a flame.
There was a screening of Rocky Horror at a Halloween pub night and we sat in the worn red velvet chairs gazing at Dr. Frankenfurters lips.
Oh Oh Oh Oh At the late night double feature picture show
You were with a man, tall dark Australian but I didn’t care about him it was all you, laced tightly into your dark velvet corset, cut away so your small hip bones jutted out, white wisp of a tutu skirt.
Do you ever really love people, or do you just feed on love itself that is like the thick flowing golden nectar of flowers.
Oh butterfly, flitting from country to country, lover to lover, inhaling the fumes of adoration like the pot we smoked that time out of the bong you made using an apple and tinfoil, leaving us dazed by your glory before it is time for you to fly away.
My cherry, but you never really were, were you? You belonged to you and you alone. We bonded over American Beauty, Bjork and Die Antwood as we gorged on the sushi you hand rolled yourself. You were the first girl I asked out on a date, did you know that? Does it matter? I was high at the time, maybe on the substances at slimelight but more likely on sharing the same air as you. You weren’t over HIM yet. You said no, of course, but we could still kiss. Is it any wonder I am the way I am around woman? I crave emotion, a bond, connection, depth…Pure physical contact when the other is emotionally withdrawn wounds me too deeply to gain any satisfaction on my part.
Anyway, it doesn’t really matter because I don’t like you.
It was the poetry that drew me. How you kneaded loaves with your words, compared the woman you liked to freshly baked goods, warm and rising, a fresh breath of morning air, flower petals unfurling, glistening with dew drops blossoming on a morning horizon. The way you pounded on the piano keys like a banshee, screamed and writhed on the floor, like, its ok to release your emotions, let it out let it out. After years of being repressed, sealing myself in a glass coffin called comfort, perfecting the image the way morticians do to corpses, flash those pearly whites, the diamond ring, the platinum hair, the furs and sweeping new york city skyline views.
Somehow I woke up. I developed brief crushes, infatuations. I never seem to dive into mutual desire. Am I a masochist? I wonder after a night of dreaming of the sunshine girl with the flaxen hair and heart of gold. How she blushes and stammers. Does she know how adorable she is?
I think of the musical episode of Buffy…. “I’ll never tell” Where is my Tara? She is not the girl of gold, nor the one of the lilac name. Was I really being that obvious? Was it the champagne? I mentioned her lipstick, was it that? That awkward hug when getting into the uber. Of course I laughed it off, said it was nothing, just a stupid game, Dia gave me a lapdance pass it on pass it on.
Of course I was just kidding, mockingly offended when I was the one you did not want. Of course, just girls being girls. Right?Don’t mention how I thought of you that christmas eve, how I was meant to be flirting with the guy with the european accent who practices yoga and holds international passports, how you liked him and I realized, fuck it’s not him I am thinking about tonight. “We can both go for him” you said, but I don’t see the point in competing for anything I don’t really want.
How can I think of men, cold and hard and easy, when it’s the warmth I crave, the softness and perfume and laughter glinting like a babbling brook. Tread carefully, the voices whisper. Even the clearest rivers have jagged rocks just waiting to grind your bones into dust drifting to the bottom of the sea. I cannot stop these feelings. But why let it show? After all It’s so much easier in the end just to say
“I don’t like you.”