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Infiltration.

It's infiltrating my life again.

I don't know when it started. Maybe it's been going on for ages; for some reason I'm just becoming really sensitive to it again. It never went away. It's always been there.

Ugh.Collapse )
"These decisions have consequences."

I say this to a man who knows, perhaps better than I do, that the pit we are digging ourselves into may not ever strike gold. Or oil. Or whatever pits strike when you're digging deeper and hoping to find something that will make getting out of the hole easier.

Why the fuck do you keep digging? (Because climbing out is not an option. Digging upwards will cause a cave-in.) Oh shit, extended metaphor alert! Nothing to see here. Move along now. Move along.

Moving along.Collapse )

Am I still here? 0.0 Wow.

Oh, goodness. I'm back here again. A part of me did not expect that to happen. I still recall trying to be humorous and arrogant in the silly bio section and then feeling like that's kind of a false lead. Those aren't exactly traits I'm actually known for. But then again, I like to write what I feel is true in a specific moment, and that's what was true when I wrote it. It occasionally pops up in my personality anyway.

I want to be speaking to you. I don't want to think about you listening while I speak. That's why the written word is nice. That's why I've found myself in this lonely corner of the internet, trying not to give you credence as you tell me I'm lonely and attention-starved. Trying to drown you out when you call me pathetic or a self-absorbed whiner. Of course those descriptions are accurate, and of course it doesn't matter that you notice them about me.

You also ought to notice I'm articulate (yet strangely vague about it). And can write well (by a copy-editor's standards, anyway). And insecure (but totally aware of how awesome I am). And trying to battle the negative aspects of my own mind by speaking to them in second person and pinning them on a faceless observer (also, parenthesis are my favorite). C.S. Lewis talks about this faceless, nameless observer in Mere Christianity and calls it God. Insecure girls like me, spattered across the privileged world like specks of paint in a Pollock, call it the internet. (How sad is it that I had to Google 'artist known for splashing paint' to remember that name?)

It being Saint Patrick's Day, and Saint Patrick's Day falling quite inconveniently on a Sunday this year, of course I went to a party last night. I don't go to many parties, and usually I don't enjoy the ones I do attend. People can be vapid, shallow things, and I can be judge-y and prone to seeing only that side of them when I feel vulnerable or exposed. College parties aren't my best friend.

So why go?

I go because, one time in six (or twenty-six, or sixty, or some number with six in it that's probably higher than six), I end up having a really good time. I told myself (and my husband, and my roommate) before the party that I would talk to at least two people I don't know at this party, and then I promptly forgot to worry about it once I arrived. This was a party thrown by an ex-roommate, whose parties are usually either way better or way worse than run-of-the-mill college parties. He's a good kid. He knows some good kids. He also knows some shifty folks you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley.

I talked to people. I worried about making social faux-pas. I said a couple of offensive things without thinking. I made a really bitchy comment to an ex of one of my friends because she deserves way better than him and he was trying to hit on her. I met a transgendered lady who shone with a kind of beautiful vibrancy I now cannot get out of my head. We talked about tarot cards and being yourself and she told me I have a beautiful soul.

A part of me thought, Damn right I have a beautiful soul! And a part of me thought, Oh my god, you really think so? I hope you're right but are you sure? Because last I checked I'm a total self-obsessed ninny. And a part of me thought, What's your angle here, madam? Are you mad at me for that comment I made earlier and trying to passive-aggressively laugh at me for thinking you're giving me a genuine compliment? And a part of me thought, You're full of shit. People can't feel souls. (I said, Thanks, and probably should have added, That's very kind of you! Because really, it was the nicest thing a stranger has ever said to me.)

This coming from a lady who twenty minutes earlier told her roommate, Dude, I can totally feel your judge-y vibes!

And I admitted to being 'transfixed by transgendered people,' which is totally the funniest sentence in the English language when you're drunk and surrounded by people fucked up on Molly. (Also, people fucked up on Molly, please note: This lady DOES NOT LIKE TO BE TOUCHED BY STRANGERS. Take your sensory masturbation elsewhere, kthxbai.) Then, I'm not sure what people being fucked up on Molly has to do with my own perception of a sentence as being funny as hell, but I wanted to mention it, because I've never been to a party with drugs that weren't a) weed, b) LSD, or c) mushrooms.

This post just earned itself an adult-content warning, didn't it? BECAUSE YO, if you're fifteen and reading this journal, you need to get off your sorry ass and go write something awesome. Also, don't do drugs kids. Actually, no. Do drugs. But do them after intense research, in a safe environment, with people you trust, and VERY RARELY. And don't do Coke, Crack, or Heroine. Just don't. D.A.R.E. told you stupid shit about weed that's not true, but it was SPOT ON when it talked to you about a) cigarettes, and b) those three Big Bads I mentioned above.

Like I said. Do your research, damn it. Don't be dumb. If you're doing a drug, be able to explain to yourself and someone who cares WHY you want to do it and what you think you'll get out of it and how you're going to protect yourself from and/or deal with any negative consequences. That sentence should have had more commas in it.

Anyway, I've written. YAY! WORDS!

Do you hear the people sing?

"Singing the songs of angry men? It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!"

I struggle against an urge to self-censor that's so strong, sometimes I don't think it's a surmountable choice so much as a disordered thought pattern that is nearly impossible to overcome. The truth is, I'm a person who's always fighting a losing battle against falling apart, and those moments when I break down, I'm not entirely sure I'll have it in me to get back on my feet and try again.

I certainly know I'll never live my life not wondering when the next breakdown is coming. It'll come. My best chance is to rally the forces of strength and... survive to fight another day.

This isn't the same voice I used to write my bio. I'm already starting to think this was a bad idea. I just want to write but I can't and something about LiveJournal is less intimidating than Wordpress or Blogger. It feels less public for some reason, and yet... has the perpetual allure of maybe somebody knows what this feels like that a Word document can never quite attain.

I want to write... this thing. I'm gonna call it a blog series... a blog series in which I explore and explain my own mind. I know that sounds self-absorbed. It is self-absorbed. But I want to write about the various parts of the Asperger's Syndrome discriptions that fit spot-on, and those that make me question how much I can really relate. And I want to write about what it's been like, to struggle with some nameless self-saboteur presiding tyrannically in my mind for so long and through so much shit.

What I want from my therapist is an effective, productive relationship in which we focus more on recovery and productive changing tactics than in navel-gazing and complaining and worrying about all of the things in the past that make me hate myself enough to give the self-saboteur any power at all, ever. But I need the sense of being listened to while I do the work of mucking through all that shit on my own. Constructing a personal narrative is hard. It's intimidating work. And sharing it is ten different kinds of dumb. But it blocks the pathway between my desire to help and my actual behavior.

It's a clog that needs to come out before the water can flow.

Sometimes I'm irreverent and spazzy. Sometimes I giggle like a school child at the way a sentence sounds. Other times, I just bitch and moan about feeling lost. I need a cigarette. I need to be able to say 'I need a cigarette.' I need to not worry about your criticism. I need to not fear your rejection. I need to not care about your opinion.

I need to not stop myself from speaking fluently just because there's a pretty good chance you're reading this with scorn in your heart and derision in your thoughts. Then again - the scorn and derision I feel coming from some nameless you is actually generating itself in my own head as I write. It belongs to me, and it's time for me to push her down. It's time for her to learn her place in my psyche. It's time to write what I want, when I want, how I want, where I want.

It's time to start the process of freeing myself from the self-saboteur.

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ladychai
Lady Chai

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