that shooting happened in my dad’s hometown
he’s a wreck he’s coming home early
all ican fucking do is make brownies for him i feel like a failure of a kid oh my fucking god
Oh shit. I knew he grew up around here but I didn’t realize it was that town. I’m like thirty minutes from it.
Brownies, brownies are good.
I’m on my phone so I can’t do a read more, so please just skip this if you need to avoid it.
I was trying to describe my depression to my dad the other day and I came up with something pretty good.
It’s like there’s a line.
If I’m above the line, making an effort helps. I can use positive self-talk, I can set my timer and do twenty minutes of cleaning, I can slog through my routine even if it takes me three or more times as long as I want it to, I can make a phone call after psyching myself up for it, I can hear someone’s words of encouragement, I can recognize that people in my life love and care about me, I can internalize that I deserve that love without needing to prove anything, I can attempt various strategies to minimize my lateness and distractibility, I can plan for the future, I can make therapy appointments and keep them. I rarely have it All Together but reasonable efforts are effective and I can at least coax and bluster my way to a level that is passably functional.
If I’m below the line, ain’t nothing getting done that day. I’ll be lucky if I can drag myself out of bed and eat something out of a carton. Forget about getting dressed or showering. I know that I will always be a miserable failure and that I’m a horrible person whom nobody should care about while simultaneously desperately craving human contact. Dishes pile up in the kitchen and dog hair consumes the floor and my bed and I run out of clean clothes because despite knowing from experience that taking care of those things is not strenuous and takes less than twenty minutes I simply cannot make myself do the necessary steps, not through yelling nor cajoling nor bribing nor reverse psychology. I can’t tell anyone how bad I’m feeling because nobody cares and they wouldn’t be able to help anyway. I lie about everything and pretend I’m okay even though on balance the pretending takes more effort than just taking care of things in the first place. I feel numb and useless and broken and know that I always will. I make poor sexual decisions. I’m responsible for all the pain in the world and I can’t lessen even an ounce of it. I can just barely manage to take care of the dogs because there’s no one else to do it, but when I can’t get out of bed until mid-afternoon they only get one meal a day and no exercise. I’m late for everything if I can even manage to get out of the house for anything. Everything aches, I’m always hungry but rarely eat, I forget to drink water for days. I know I deserved my abusive relationship because I didn’t leave it. The future doesn’t feel real and I can barely conceptualize beyond tomorrow. I don’t trust anyone. I can’t use the phone and I never make it to therapy.
Rereading all of that…JFC. I’ve never laid it all out like that before. I’m stunned I’ve never had suicidal thoughts. To be really really real, if I didn’t have the Internet and TV shows I like and a dog, being below the line probably would include suicidal ideation and self-injury. That sounds so awful but it feels true. On bad days watching TV and scrolling Tumblr are about the only things I can do.
It’s also a big reason I never started drinking alcohol, because even if it’s something I could do in moderation when I’m above the line, I don’t even want to know what it would look like when I’m below the line; safer just to avoid the whole business.
As an illustration of how I’ve been hovering right around that line this week, I wrote this post while parked in front of Starbucks because I’m pretending to be at therapy right now because I couldn’t deal with spending an entire day with my mom at my house but I don’t actually have an appointment for today because I slept through both my appointments last week and I’m too embarrassed to call my therapist and reschedule even though I know she won’t yell at me and I’ve been up for three hours but I haven’t had breakfast yet which is why I went to Starbucks but I haven’t even made it inside yet because I was writing this post and it’s almost time for me to return from my fake appointment and deal with my mom again. On the other hand, I’ve worked on my writing every day even if I can only manage a few dozen words some days, I did a round of dishes on Wednesday, and I’ve been able to tell two friends I’m having an off week.
I just realized that the fucked-up relationship I was in during high school that is unexplainable to most people would make perfect sense to fannish folks.
Because for nearly three years I basically lived a 24/7 enactment of my not-girlfriend’s RPF fantasies about James Taylor, with a little Frodo/Sam thrown in for good measure, and towards the end a lot of angels and demons, and more RPF involving one of her teachers and one of our classmates.
Wow. I feel like that just unlocked something.
It was the isolation, manipulation, erasure of self, emotional blackmail and occasional violence that were the real zingers. I don’t think most of the role play would have been bad by itself. And at the beginning of the friendship-thing-whatever it fed a lot of the things I needed. But abusive relationships are often fine at the start and then go sour when you’re already invested in them. And having it all tangled up like that, and not being able to explain that part of it to anyone even after it was over and I started sharing about the abuse, has been hard to deal with.
But wow, it was pretty much exactly like reluctantly living out an angst-filled RPF story. Which is why I know far too much about the young adulthood of James Taylor and friends. She tended to stick to two or three characters who were all versions of her, and I had to be everyone else in the cast—at least fifteen regulars not counting the random angels and demons. And before long I couldn’t even be me at all anymore. I guess she didn’t like me, she just wanted a vessel for her fantasies and I was the best she could get.
Anyway. It gives me an interesting perspective on the matter. And it explains why some aspects of fandom make me skittish, because activities that ought to be value-neutral, and actually are for most other people, simply aren’t for me. And I can’t force them to be; my history is what it is. She tapped something I already had in me that I don’t believe is wrong, and twisted it into something that still hurts me. But I’m still here, and I still want to have fannish sexy times and have it be okay.
…which is a lot rarer for me than it seems to be for other people. It is so ridiculous though that I just don’t know what to think of it.
Screenshot under the cut because of possibly triggering death references.
world : you’re sick, it’s all in your head, you’re ugly, no one will love you, your body is wrong, your body is right don’t touch it, no you can’t have this heath care, but what do you have in your pants and can I see it, why don’t you just go the police, why don’t you just go to the doctor, why don’t you just die, why do I have to call myself a special word just because you’re a freak, you’re a freak, unman, unwoman, get out of my house, get out of my church, get out of this school, get out of that bathroom, get a job, just be normal god why can’t you just love yourself
trans people : 41% attempt to commit suicide
world : obviously that’s your own fault, it’s probably just out of regret
I just wanted some cute Johnlcck and then within two days of following it got rapey and now Sherlock fans are making excuses for that? JFC people.
Folks, the original instance is a problem. Y’all’s reaction to it? WORSE. Shut the fuck up with your rape apologist bullshit.