stressed out and full of love

It’s been one of those weekends. (Yeah, I know it’s Monday, but consider this a recap.) Person I’ve been talking to // have a major crush on continues to absolutely fail at texting, one of my close friends got his heart broken dramatically, it’s the five-year anniversary of a particular event I wish hadn’t happened the way it did, and hell, I’m stressed out. I have a con this coming weekend, I’m up to my ears in family drama, and I’m stressed out.

But as per usual, stress brings out the best in me. In this case, a few musings about how I show love and how the strangeness of my brain makes that better.

One of my main things is I worry about people. A lot. Like, if I care about someone, I probably obsessively worry about them on so many levels. I blame this on the fact that most of my people need to be worried about… and on my anxiety. Girl who gets worried about everything, meet cast of beautiful idiot friends who fail at finding other people to panic about them. I’ve tried to explain this to one of my darlings on several occasions – the main person who brings out this trait in me, and he knows damn well he’s special like that – and poor boy just does not get it. And funny thing is, this has actually gotten worse since I went back on meds. Like, I didn’t notice this trait was a thing and then antidepressant number two got added to my daily routine and all of a sudden…


Again, it kinda helps that most of my friends kinda need someone to panic about some of their questionable life choices. Sometimes I do point out that it’s their own fault. At least partially. But another equally significant part is all me.

In my brain, love means caring too much and getting clingy as hell and wanting to wrap my darlings up in blankets and bubble-wrap.

I’m protective and territorial sometimes. Back a few months ago, when I had a thing with a particular friend, I learned that the only situation in which I can flirt (or at least am aware that’s what I’m doing)… is when I’m trying to make sure another person doesn’t sink their claws into my person. Oooohboy. Didn’t know I did that either; still one of the funniest moments of the last year or so because the other person involved still has no clue what was going on. Nor does the innocent bystander who got to watch usually-quiet-and/or-extremely-bitchy me blossom into… someone I’m usually not. Freaking beautiful. I’m gonna write a story about that at some point, I think.

I make stuff for people. Literally my first thought after checking off some firsts with the ex-ish-creature I’m still friends with (I need to codename these people but the context of what I usually call them would be totally MIA here) was “I am going to make pretty fingerless gloves for this boy”. Yeah, you read that right – that is how my brain responded to discovering that I have a bit of a hand kink. Fast-forward six months to a similar situation with a different person and the main thought running through my head as I drove home afterwards was “if this blossoms, I’m knitting a sweater for this one”. I shower people in handmade squishies because if I can’t hug them as often as I’d like, I will give them the next best thing.

I need to find someone new to squish on asap. Guh. Hopefully I’ll be able to get a temporary fix at con this Saturday – I’m gonna get to see a super-badass girl I met at that particular event last year and hopefully tackle-hug her if she lets me and she’s not getting swarmed by other people admiring whatever costume she’s got on. And sometimes random people are affectionate if one says the right sweet things about their cosplay. So fingers crossed.

(I’ve basically ruled out cons as a dating pool – all I ever seem to crush on from that world are straight married girls, sigh – but let a girl dream here. Maybe someone of appropriate orientation will be super into what I’m running for this one. Maaaybe.)

Ah well. If nothing else, I’ve got a cat who likes to massage my thighs, nuzzle me for like a minute, and then do a flying leap off me in a way that makes me very thankful my reproductive organs are internal. That’s gotta count for something, right??


the walking wounded

I’m not sure exactly when I got disillusioned with organized religion. It’s one of those things that obviously happened at some point, but out of all the things that caused this particular cluster of jadedness, one catalyst stands out – in a culture that values martyrdom, wanting to die and wanting to feel pain for your own reasons doesn’t go over so well.

The church I grew up in (which my family has recently left, freaking finally) did not handle mental illness very well. Or at all. Ever. If anything, my community of origin tended to follow the approach of “if we don’t talk about it, it won’t happen to our kids”. This got applied to everything, and the results were predictably awful. Premarital sex? No way to confirm numbers on that one (yet), but I’d bet money that not all of my peers were as innocent as we thought. The entire concept of different sexual orientations? I still turned out bi. Mental illness? Ooooooh boy, that one got blown to hell and then some.

I’m not actually sure when I developed depression either beyond “some indefinite point in high school”. I had a nice little self-harm phase when I was 12, and I’ve got some tiny little scars on my thighs to prove it (life tip – safety razors are appropriately named, but I still did a little damage), but somehow that one hasn’t recurred. I’ve probably had anxiety since I was a little bug, but that only got confirmed and medicated a few months ago. I have recurrent suicidal thoughts, and every time I think those are gone, lol no. I’m not ashamed of any of this.

According to the culture that created me, however, I ought to be. Assuming it’s even real, and a lot of ’em don’t think it is.

I grew up thinking that the church was supposed to be a place of healing. For me, as a woman with multiple mental illnesses, it was anything but. Instead of hope, I found victim-blaming and denial, and I’m not that kind of a martyr. I can’t survive that thought process anymore.

Suffering is all well and good, they said – beautiful, even. I call bullshit. I am the walking wounded and I know better.