scheming

psychologically speaking a schema is a deeply engrained pattern of thought. whispering direction and twisting incoming information mercilessly, schemas are tenacious survivors that imprint information that reinforce them – and discard challenges without a glance.

my schema has always been there, whispering to me that i’m worthless. initially as imperceptible as the inside of my skin, i have recently learned to inspect it. to observe the pain, tucked safely behind a teflon mind. sometimes i even laugh. sometimes.

other times its fingers are around my throat before i remember to remember that it’s there. sometimes it takes a day – others i’m pinned to the mat for a week.

my schema is the most intimidating fucking adversary i could ever imagine. i can’t wait until i win.

 

 

 

so

there has been grieving and diagnoses and denial and tears and acceptance and toil aimed at ordering  myself and my personality. there has been an assault, a few hospitalisations, a promotion, laughter, epiphanies, new friends, hesitant reunions, petals from my mother’s funeral afloat in the ocean. there has been support and abandonment. boundaries set and acknowledged. there has been ideation. there have been no attempts. no new self-inflicted scars. there has been weekly intervention and a life whose priorities shifted around me.

there has been no blogging. there has been an anonymous twitter account that helped me save my life. there have been friendships with those, via bandwith and bicycles, who share the same re-ordering mission. there has been understanding.

there has been apprehension about sharing what there has been, even in this semi-private, semi-anonymous sphere. even in carefully woven poetic shrouds. there has been acceptance. there has been time applied liberally to wounds. there is a rekindled desire to process what cannot be processed via 140 characters. i’m back to finish the rest. there is fair warning that you’ll learn confusing things about me. some things that may scare you, that may test the limits of your understanding. there is hope that you’ll ask questions instead of settling for confusion.

this is the rest of my my journey. there is hope that you’ll join me.

 

 

 

the end

when it ended it ended with a bang.

an empty body, skin encompassing pathology and a heart with no more fight. questions
channeled through ears whose lobes he used to kiss into a brain wrought with misfiring
synapses, steeped in memories of love long extinct.

a ticking timebomb of a brain, medicated and meditated and cursed and wasted while
the clock tick tocks toward treatment the brain understands will help in strictly a
peripheral sense.

a heart that cannot hear truth, that lives in the warm glow of love expired, of two
dorks kissing on the beach or tangled in bed while one calls the other a generator
and the other’s nerve endings explode. their story was everything to one and merely
something to the other. for one it ended long ago, for the other it ends today with
a street-burned cheek and a hearthole neither time nor modern medicine can repair.

 

 

 

as a former self-harmer myself, i really do relate to anyone
who is suffering so acutely from feelings of worthlessness
that they attack themselves. that’s born of a feeling of not
being heard. it’s such a gentle person usually who turns in
on themselves, like they’d rather hurt themselves than hurt
somebody else.

it’s a form of intelligence in a funny way; you’re reading
things that most people are blind or deaf to.

[source]

 

 

 

i’d like to be able to go to the beach without feeling as though i am on display, being judged, being sized up. i’d like to walk down the street in a dress without feeling like some 60-year-old dude is f*cking me with his eyes. it’s gross, not flattering. i don’t need the gaze of a 60-year-old man to validate my existence. all that gaze does is make me hate 60-year-old men.

i am not your right. no woman is. no matter how beautiful she is. you have no right to her.

[rabble]

 

 

 

?

 

 

 

kl

i’m not really ready for a social evening. that’s over — the people
i was going out with are dead or don’t exist anymore. sometimes i
go to la maison du caviar, but most of the time i have dinner in the
rue des saints-pères house and come home after that.

i hate the word routine. what i hate most is when you have to look
at your watch and get in a hurry to change for dinner, if you have
an important dinner. every dinner is important; you should never
be without a dinner, but this i’m a little tired of.

 

 

[hb]