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I was finally able to make some improvements to my living space today. I got my dresser back from my old roommate, since we'd originally left it behind due to concerns about whether it would fit in the little living room I'm staying in. With that back in my possession, I was able to make some much-needed rearrangements with my stuff, and I wound up draping an oversized sheer black scarf over it that I'd recently obtained from the nearest thrift store. It makes my worn dresser look so much better, and some decorations atop the scarf transformed the whole thing into a gorgeous piece of gothic beauty. It's nice having some little thing to make me feel more like myself again.

Depression is an ugly beast.

There are many terrible things about it. The sorrow and alienation that permeates your day to day. The crying until your nostrils swell and it's just harder to breathe. The times you just kind of lose your sense of taste and everything tastes like ash, or you lose your whole appetite for days, or you do really want to eat, but only if you're guzzling all of the things that are most unhealthy for you. The fucking lethargy. Skipping simple hygiene tasks because you just... can't... move that much. Not being able to just cook for yourself when your only food options at the moment involve cooking for yourself. Worrying about how you're supposed to get through a job interview or a day at work when you're constantly on the verge of a full breakdown, and you're expected to be smiling like a maniac for your capitalist overlords.

There's having the "jUsT aSk FoR hElP" narrative shoved down your throat in a world where so many literally cannot access mental health care. In a world where ableism runs rampant and you're just as likely to be judged as you are to find support of any kind. In a world where so many people don't get paid sick days away from work. Then there's the matter of even the most well-meaning people offering help without stopping to consider whether they can in fact help- most people certainly can't cover the cost of your therapy or meds, and most people are not themselves mental health care professionals, and they can easily say all the most harmful things or find themselves at a loss for words.
There is also the issue of how the symptoms of depression and mental illness in general affect your ability to obtain treatment, even when treatment is otherwise within reach. It's hard to get to an appointment when you're unable to tear yourself away from bed, or when you're crying too much to drive, or just crying too much to be even remotely comfortable being seen in public. It can be hard to make it to an appointment when you're in the bathroom with severe GI distress because your depression diet is catching up to you, and your bowels are ANGERY. It can be hard to make it to an appointment because the depression has affected your memory so badly, you can't always remember your appointments or to write them down. All that is just a small sampling of the ways in which the illness itself creates barriers to treatment.

And there is also the matter of how patients are treated when they resort to, or are forced into, psychiatric facilities. Some people get lucky, and have a fairly good experience, but those who aren't find themselves in a place that treats patients worse than prisoners, even in highly rated hospitals. If you ever find yourself considering inpatient care, I am not saying that you just should not, but you really do need to take precautions. You may not be allowed to say anything negative on the phone, so set up a code word with someone who can get you out if you find yourself subjected to abuse.

But what I really wanted to get to, after this long entry about the horrors of life with depression, is the thing that really scares me.
The sheer existential dread of finding yourself doing almost nothing for hours, because there is nothing, not one thing, you actually have any desire to do. Not because you actually want to be doing nothing- you don't want to be doing nothing, but you don't want to be doing something, either. It's the days where you don't want to do anything that would normally fun, and you don't want to do anything productive, and you don't even want to be sleeping. You simply have no desire to do anything at all except maybe slap a magic button that somehow removes the incurable illness from your brain. So you just zone out, stare at your walls, or maybe a social media feed.

You're just waiting for the day to end. Waiting for everything to end.
Like a condemned person.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5pyhBJzuixM


I seem to keep going back to this album when I'm painting, lately.
Apparently Satie was criticized in his time for having "unstable" compositions, but to me, all I can hear is a dream-like, peaceful, bittersweet beauty.

I want to tie every last flaw in my own work into a breathtaking bouquet of damaged brushstrokes.




**I tried looking up how to properly embed the link, but I think only premium members can do that. Apologies for the underwhelming presentation.

The universe has such a mean sense of humor.

Several years ago, I developed an uncommon allergy to toothpaste. Almost all kinds of toothpaste will remove skin from my mouth, every time I try to brush with them. I'm at least lucky in that one of the only kinds that doesn't trigger my allergy is cheap. Even so, it's not an allergy you want to develop, especially after being denied dental care as a child, and being unable to obtain dental insurance as an adult.
America is an actual dystopia.

More recently, during the pandemic, I started developing eczema, which has been becoming more severe of late. I found out today that one of the recommended treatments is literally avoiding soap. All soap. Which, y'know, I literally cannot do forever. I have been known to occasionally slack on showers if I'm depressed and don't have anyplace to go anyway, but I can't just let myself go full on filthy. A couple of days without a hop in the shower is one thing; trying to stretch how long I actually skip it into, what? A week? More? No thank you. I fucking hate bad hygiene and gross smells and oily hair and all the rest. I hate being itchy, a lot, but I'd still rather be itchy than disgusting.

I also love hot showers and baths, and until up about a month ago, I wasn't able to enjoy any hot, luxurious showers or baths at all because the house I was staying at had a hot water heater roughly the size of a pea. I could get a hot shower for about five minutes, close to ten on a good day. But baths were always pointless. The water would turn cold by the time the tub was barely halfway full, sometimes less. Guess what else is apparently really bad for eczema? The hot water that I'm finally able to enjoy again. I just can't skip the hot water that helps me not feel rushed in showers and not bummed out in the bath. I need bathing to be comforting for me, because, again, I can't just stop doing it.

I think it struck me as funny tonight and made me think of this site because I remembered hearing some vampire lore that suggested they couldn't touch water. I don't remember where I heard that, which myths or stories that one was attached to, but I suppose it doesn't matter. I can still eat normal food, at least, since I've more or less been spared from food allergies so far, and the diabetes I'm at risk for hasn't set in just yet. Although it is getting harder for me to take the desert sun.

Maybe one day I'll just burn to death in the sun and no longer have to live wanting to tear my own skin off due to the dysphoria and the eczema. I'd probably think the burning was just one of my bad eczema flareups and not even notice for a while.

I've been having a lot of nightmares, lately. Tonight was especially bad. I thought I was done having nightmares about what my mother did to me as a child, but apparently not.

Originally, those nightmares stopped when I finally admitted to myself the full extent of what she'd done to me. But now they're back. I'm afraid I'm about to have many more unwanted memories if the nightmares keep happening.

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BloodRoseTristesseX
06:57 Feb 17 2022

Dreams may be Prophetic. Or just a way to deal with your trauma.

I hope it's not all too much to take in.

*hugz*

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This has always been a hard day for me.

Having been single for over a decade due to having been hexed isn't a good time any day of the year. It's especially difficult on a day like this.
It's been ten months since I was able to break the hex. I know, there was never any guarantee of me finding someone quickly after breaking it, especially with a raging pandemic still going on. But that doesn't make it less of a bitter pill to swallow.

I'm a romantic person. It's a major part of who I am, and no amount of mindless platitudes will ever change that. I have dreams and aspirations that bear no relation to my romantic needs- it's not as if I literally have no other purpose in life.
But regardless, I was born to love and be loved, just as much as I was born to pursue the arts. These are the two dreams that have pushed me forward in life and sing to my soul every day.

I do not believe I was given this drive for nothing. If I know in my heart of hearts what I was born to do, if I feel it deep in every fiber of my being, permeating my entire soul, how could I ever possibly give up on it? How could I possibly consider going against the core of who I am?

I'm not some desperate person, either. I've had to say no many, many times, and will still say no when there's glaring incompatibilities or major red flags. I've been in abusive relationships and I've been in incompatible, unsustainable ones- both are worse than being alone, no matter how much sorrow is attached to the circumstances of being alone. I'm not falling back on that.

And I still know you're out there, somewhere. Whoever you are, wherever you are, I know that eventually, we will meet and know love. It is surely as inevitable as springtime, no matter how cold the winter. I will raise my glass to you, here in my lonely home, and light a candle for us.

Here's to us...

I think I'm coming down with something. The timing is terrible- I have an interview in a couple days, and I'm going to have to try to reschedule it. I really, really need to get a job soon, but I can't do that if I have to isolate.

But I can't and won't risk spreading illness at a time like this.

I miss my familiar.

My old roommate had the most wonderful, precious calicos. There was Olive, a chonky senior cuddlebug made out of pure marshmallow, who would purr her head off and make air muffins if you gave her the slightest bit of petting. She loved belly rubs, and you could actually lose your hand inside the folds of her tummy. I was always very fond of her, even before I moved in there.

And there was Sparrow. Sweet and sassy Sparrow. A fluffy, spoiled princess who knew the house was her castle, and that we were her subjects. For the first month or so I lived there, she didn't really want much to do with me. Then my roommates took a trip out of town, and she came to visit me while I was cooking dinner a day or two later. She walked up to me and looked at me as she were saying she wanted to be held, and I scooped her up and held her while I made my dinner with my one free hand.

From that night on, she made up her mind that I was her human. For a few weeks, she would approach me indicating when she wanted to be held and cuddled, and I would hold her until she decided she was done. Then, she started allowing me to pick her up and hold her any time I wanted. She wanted to be involved in whatever I was doing- she'd even get into my paint water if I didn't watch her like a hawk. She chatted at me when I made dinner. She followed me into the bathroom almost every time I went in there. For some reason, she really loved hanging out with me in there. I started calling it the cuddle palace because she was so damn obsessed with being in there with me. And I'm really happy she spent all that time with me in there, because I have PTSD and sometimes being in small bathrooms makes me feel closer to that place of horror and dread.

Sparrow treated my roommate like chopped liver while I was around. She wanted to be in my arms or on my shoulders at all times. He could be out in the living room and she'd meow outside my door for attention. I almost felt bad for him for stealing away the affections of his cat, but as we all know, cats are kind of just like that.

She was always hugging me too, actively wrapping her front legs around my neck, and would actively resist if I tried to set her down before she was ready.

I remember the chirpy trills of excitement she'd make when I left my room, and she'd run up to me to go meet me in the bathroom for cuddles.

She was there for me the night I got screwed out of my job, sitting patiently by my side and giving me so many kisses while I cried.

The bond we shared was incredible. And I feel like such a terrible cat dad. Because as much as I loved and cared for my own cat, after all the years we'd shared together- I had never felt anything like the connection I had with Sparrow with him.
He was a sweetheart in his way, but he also had very little control over the roughness with which he'd use his teeth and claws. I don't really understand how he was like that- I'd had him since he was a kitten and I never used my hand as a toy with him, which is usually how you wind up with a cat who plays too rough.

Sparrow never once hurt me, even when it looked like she was playing rough. Even when she put her mouth on my hand and bunny kicked my arm, she somehow never caused me any pain. I was experiencing a feeling of safety and relaxation I'd never known, because I had simply accepted that sometimes having a cat means having a few scratches.

It's not the cats fault. They're essentially miniature tigers that domesticated us and let us think it was the other way around. Their spicy side is part of why we see so much beauty in them- there is very real beauty in that seed of wildness that they held onto. If you wanted blind, docile subservience, you got a dog instead. All cats, regardless of their relationship to their wild side, are perfect little deities in furry, fleshy form.

But as my mental health worsened, it got harder for me to endure the rough moments. Slowly coming to the realization that I wasn't able to fully relax around my own cat anymore. Loving him so deeply and yet wanting just to walk away. Crying because I knew financial circumstances and mental health were forcing me to look into rehoming him regardless of everything else anyway. As much as I wanted to just relax again, there was nothing worse than facing the reality of rehoming him.

In the end, my roommate chose to foster him after I moved out. He set up a stream for me to watch him, but I tried to watch him once and I had to stop because it hurt too damn much.

But the truth is, Sparrow is the one I miss. I love my cat. And I feel like I failed him. I worry about him all the time. I cry thinking about the beautiful years we no longer have. But I still left that house wishing I could have taken Sparrow, and only Sparrow with me.

I don't think I'll ever have another cat of my own again. Between my financial situation and my mental health... I just can't do it unless there's some very substantial change in my life. But I simply can't shake how soul-drainingly lonely life is without my familiar, endlessly serenading me in loving purrs.

I've been working on my art for what feels like most of the last two days.

Sometimes I don't write for a while, and then when I do, the floodgates open and I write multiple poems in one night. I broke my record last night. I've also been painting almost non stop today. Painting and sealing my rocks on repeat. I can't seem to stop.
I'm afraid of what happens when I stop.

I have nothing left when I stop.

But at least if I keep doing this, I have some hope of improving and making art I can be more proud of. I've been writing for years, but my inexperience in painting still shows.

Maybe soon I can start planning my first book. Gods know I won't make any money off poetry, but at least it will be out there.

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Dakotah
18:40 Feb 07 2022

I would love to see some of your paintings. I do acrylic landscapes. So, I understand. I painted straight all weekend.

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