hands

it’s been a long three months. or whatever.

and every day, i tell myself that i can’t take it anymore, and yet somehow i manage to. and it makes me want to cry, but i guess… there’s a certain kind of power in that too. that you didn’t break. even when you wanted to.

and i miss everything about seeing you. miss dancing around your kitchen like idiots, and finding dumb things to investigate on the internet. and finally understanding what the books meant, when they said i felt infinite. because you made me happy. even if only for a moment.

and i miss your hands. holding onto mine. even when i hated myself. even when i couldn’t stop crying. i miss doing the same for you.

miss not being afraid like this. because at this point, i can’t even remember what normal is. and i’m not totally sure that i want to.

but i do know… that you made me feel safe. in a way i don’t think facetime calls will ever truly replace. and i just… i really fucking miss you.


Ah yes, another lonely social distancing poem. I did not intend to write about this stuff as much as I am, but I guess it’s one of the only ways I honestly know to cope right now. I know I probably shouldn’t be letting myself think about this much, but I’ve been… thinking about the future of late, even if it’s bad for me. About if I’m ever going to go back to even some semblance of normal, or if the world is. I mean, I know, I’m probably just being melodramatic and stuff, but it’s still a scary thought. That this could be my life. And that what’s happening now isn’t going to define me, sure… but I also don’t think I’ll ever forget about it either. You know what I mean? Every time I think about things going back to normal, my brain instantly goes into anxiety mode.

I feel guilty for things that we’re allowed to be doing in  my area–like, even though right now we’re allowed to double the amount of people we’re in contact with, all I can think is that in other places, things are worse, and then I kinda start thinking about “maybe I shouldn’t leave the house at all” and then… yeah, it all goes downhill from there. Schools are reopening in June, and I guess… yeah, that’s a thing. I don’t know how I feel about that, or what I’m going to do. Honestly, I feel like school is going to be stressful as hell, and probably won’t stop reminding us about coronavirus literally ever–it’s just a hunch, but with my experiences with the school system, I would bet money that they’ll be making us write essays about this, and stuff like that–when all I want to do, all I need to do to survive this, is forget about it, until it’s far enough passed that I know how to deal with it.

My current plan is to sort of gradually expose myself to the environment and stuff–my therapist thinks that’s a good idea, anyway. Spend some time on campus, just reading on the field or something, and then maybe walk around before anyone gets there, and then try and catch up with one of my teachers for ten minutes, or something like that–since not maybe people will probably be there, and in that regard, I guess it is a pretty good opportunity to deal with my crippling social anxiety.

Anyhow, I guess what I’m trying to get at here is… things have been really lonely of late. And although I’m trying not to focus on it, sometimes those feelings just sort of peek out, and I guess this poem was my best attempt at processing that.

But I have to believe, for the sake of my sanity, that I will somehow manage to make it through. Just like I always do.

 

01/14/2020


In this episode, I talk the mundanity of routine, imposter syndrome, snow, feeling hopeless, and coping with social anxiety at school.

Need to talk to anyone? Find a crisis line in your area here: https://www.suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html

All sound effects made by yours truly! 🙂

The next episode will be dropping next Friday, 9a.m. PDT–make sure to subscribe/follow/add this podcast to your library/enable notifications on it to be notified when it comes out.
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Okay! Music credits, here we go!
“Mimos Menguados” from patrickdeartegea.com
“1st Sonata – Snowy Stars” from patrickdeartegea.com
“SOLO ACOUSTIC GUITAR” by Jason Shaw, which is found here (https://freemusicarchive.org/music/Jason_Shaw/Audionautix_Acoustic/SOLO_ACOUSTIC_GUITAR_3-11) and used according to this license (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/us/)
“Alone” Music: https://www.purple-planet.com

***ALL TRACKS HAVE BEEN EDITED BY ME***

Thanks to all these amazing artists for putting out their work royalty free, it really helps in creating independent shows like this one.

cloudcover

i’ve seen the masterpieces, okay? i’ve seen the simple beauty words smashed across a page can create. and i know this poem is nothing compared to it. know that these words won’t change anything. so why am i working so hard for this?

because i’m just screaming into the void, right? letting my skin start to wrinkle as i melt into the cloudcover. leave behind the corpses of my words for some random stranger to uncover, fifty years later.

and i’ve seen the lucky ones, okay. and i’m not going to win the lottery. not tomorrow, not today.

and i’ll say it before. and i’ll say it again. and i’ll throw my last ounce of hope right. down. the. drain.


So… oh boy, I don’t now if I’ve written about this before, but I have the biggest issues with imposter syndrome–honestly, one of the main reasons why I write under a pseudonym., although I’m thinking about, like, maybe maybe maybe letting go of that soon. I feel like maybe I’m ready to take that next step–soon. I don’t know how soon, but it’s something that’s been on my mind of late.

Anyhow, imposter syndrome. Basically, I am a hot mess of oh-my-gosh-I’m-not-good-enough. It’s not specific to writing, I literally have thought this about my formal anxiety diagnosis from a psychiatrist seconded by two different therapists. I get imposter syndrome about literally every aspect of my personality, is my point–if you can call anxiety an aspect of my personality, which is really a whole other topic. But with writing, it’s really bad. Because no matter how hard I try, no matter how many hours of sweat, blood, and tears I pour into what I do… I still feel like a fraud. I still feel like I don’t deserve it. It’s really exhausting, to be honest.

pastel happiness

instagram filters, and well-thought out outfits. and i lowkey hate all of this. hate that a part of me can’t help but believe my own pastel happiness. even if only for a moment.

so smile big and wide. take the risk. ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach. and come on, sweetheart. just do it. 

because you’ll be fine. i mean, probably. and healthy people do it all the time, and you’re basically all right, so pile the sky on your shoulders, and don’t sleep because surviving through tomorrow just isn’t the most important thing anymore.

bleed your heart out on the floor, and make art out of the stain it leaves, and then you can even post some of it on twitter. just for me.


Although I love what I do, it is kind of problematic at times. Like, you know–what if this blog got really big in a couple years, and then my mental health started to improve? Would people still be interested in hearing what I have to say? I don’t know. Although it helps… it is also kind of exploiting my issues a little bit, and I haven’t really figured how how to deal with that. I guess that’s what’s at the heart of this poem for me.