Articles by admin

eucatastrophe II

TIL crying from relief is just as exhausting as crying from anything else. I’m gonna take the happiest nap.

No, things are not perfect now. But I’m looking forward to the good work we have to do to suck out this poison entirely. And hell yeah, we’ll do it. Hope is audacity, hope is rebellion, hope always wins.

I don’t know if I’ll pick up the white rose again. The next few months will be…fraught, to say the least. But I believe things will get better. If we work, we can heal.

Get on your boots!

Better times collide with now,
And better times are coming still.

lost child stumbles in the dark

yes, indeed, new address, same blog, so on so forth. why? reasons. good reasons? heaven knows. what’s good and bad anymore, in 2020?

I really wish I could write a lifestyle blog that was…I don’t know, picture perfect and I had a face that leant itself to photography and I had endless amounts of energy to live an Instagram life, but I don’t. I am tired. I’m exhausted, constantly, which no, probably is not medically safe, but welcome to life with mental illness: any and every physical illness you have is blamed on that. I wish I was kidding.

“oh, you’re excessively tired? it’s because of the schizophrenia.”

no. I am excessively it-hurts-to-even-sit-up tired and I have schizophrenia. why is that so hard to grasp? if I fall down the stairs and break my ankle, will you say that was because of the schizophrenia, too? so I might as well just wait for it to heal without any help?

but, as the song goes…
so you’re a doctor, and I am just a crazy little girl (who will you believe?)

I want to write strong and poetic and inspiration-porn-esque things about being brainsick, but I can barely keep my mind in a straight line long enough to say anything. and then, really, there’s nothing to say. nothing worth saying, really. “I woke up and within an hour I crept back into bed, because it was physically painful to sit at my desk. repeat.”

I could lie on all fronts, I suppose, but…what’s even the point, if none of it’s true? why not just write a novel instead?

to create is my only outlet, anymore. I don’t have a life outside this, since the disease took almost everything I loved from me. my life. I have to rebuild totally.

so I will sweep myself up in fandom, in sewing, in coding, in Middle-earth, in dolls, in magic, in poetry, and in my own vanity and lunacy. I will lose myself in a crystal ball of a closed world, tiny and worth nothing to anyone else except me. fault me if you will; but really, what else would you have me do? wait aware of the rot? if I must rot, then I will do it with my mind in a million other elsewheres, and I maintain this is escape, and thus sanity. and then, perchance…I might not rot at all.

“I will make everything around me beautiful. That will be my life.”
and it will be beautiful by my standards. my life will be art on my own terms.

all your answers as to ‘why’

Nothing like hearing a parent refer to your family as “[their] boys” when…you’re not a boy…nor have you never identified as a boy…and have been quite obviously ostracised by your brothers…

I mean, I’ve kinda known this since I was about sixteen, I don’t belong anywhere with anyone and I never have, black sheep etc etc, and the sooner I just get over that, the sooner this sort of thing just won’t mean anything or have any power to hurt anymore. It’s really all on me, when I think about it.

I promise I’ll start working on it tomorrow. Not today. I’m tired today. I’m tired every day, all the time.

“You’ve got nobody else but yourself, sister.”

and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts

 

“Andreth adaneth, the life and love of the Eldar dwells much in memory; and we (if not ye) would rather have a memory that is fair but unfinished than one that goes on to a grevious end. Now will he ever remember thee in the sun of morning, and that last evening by the water of Aeluin in which he saw thy face mirrored with a star caught in thy hair – ever, until the North-wind brings the night of his flame. Yea, and after that, sitting in the House of Mandos in the halls of Awaiting until the end of Arda.”

“And what shall I remember?” said she. “And when I go to what halls shall I come? To a darkness in which even the memory of the sharp flame shall be quenched? Even the memory of rejection. That at least.”