If I can’t break out now, the time just won’t come

 

insight

 

 

everything is too hard right now. i have no ambition, no joy, no desire to get up and move around and engage with life.

i’m tired of fighting, of struggling, of pushing against the idea that doing what my heart directs me to do will keep me forevermore poor and needy. i’m tired of every year being an onerous stretch of disappointment and struggle. this is the Modern World, and i’ve lost all my spirit.

 

 

so this is what it’s become

i am so fucking done

 

i can’t talk to pretty much anyone. everyone wants or needs that fake face, the look of “of course i have everything together and nothing’s wrong” because having issues means that you’re making it more difficult for the rest of the world, who is also struggling. i get it, i do. i know that no one wants more on their plate to worry about. and i don’t want it on my plate that i’ve worried them. stalemate. i’ll keep quiet. and no, no one’s said that i should shut up. but i’m not a kid, i know how the world works. no one wants to hear my whining, everyone else has it hard, too.

 

and then there’s that worry that i’m making it “all about me.” 

because humans are intrinsically selfish

because i’m an only child with no kids so of course i make it all about myself

because i’m a fucking crybaby 

because my only options seem to be bleed for everyone else or be an egomaniac

because my brainweasels lie and i have no sense of proportion anymore

 

i am broken, broken, broken. something must break, and that something is me.

 

broken

I write, as openly as possible, about my experience with depression and abuse, and my ongoing recovery. I share opinions. I promote compassion and change. I talk about music. I also write poetry and short stories. I like to share them here.

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Just ten thousand reflections of my own sweet self, self, self

xiane

 

Let’s just talk about you.

And when it’s time for me to talk, let’s just pretend that I have nothing to say about myself. Because when I try to tell you about me, you don’t hear me. You hear your answers, already constructed in your head, for the things you expected me to say.

So fucking focused on ourselves all the time, to the exclusion of seeing that the people we profess to care about are hurting, are needing, are unheard and unseen. We talk past each other.

You do it. I do it. And we wonder why we feel so alone at the end of the day.

We make ourselves be alone because we make ourselves the star of every moment, the whole time feeling like we’re not worthy of that spotlight… but selfishly clinging to it, all the same.

 

door

 

I write, as openly as possible, about my experience with depression and abuse, and my ongoing recovery. I share opinions. I promote compassion and change. I talk about music. I also write poetry and short stories. I like to share them here.

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And my feelings fail me/Pretend to be lovely

insight

 

Simultaneously riding high and skimming the surface.

Feeling invincible… and untouchable.

How can I be irresistible, so enticing, so desired one second – than the next, feel so low?

I know why. I do. It’s that letdown after a high, the crash after the cresting wave of an awesome moment.

But in that nadir, I have to try and remember: I was sparkling. I was lovely. I was beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

Make me beautiful again
And feel like I am special still
And remind me how to smile
And feel like diamonds
Make me beautiful again
Cry my tears and vanish them
Whisper in my ear as I run away and hide
Pretend to be lovely

I write, as openly as possible, about my experience with depression and abuse, and my ongoing recovery. I share opinions. I promote compassion and change. I talk about music. I also write poetry and short stories. I like to share them here.

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Look back in anger, feel it in my voice

insight

 

I am not an angry woman.

I hate conflict. I am not avoidant, exactly, but I will work hard to make sure that things don’t escalate to a point where drama ensues. I have anxiety issues, I know this – I have a strong urge to please people and make things smooth running and pleasant. As soon as people-related stress starts to escalate, I can feel the anxiety build.

I rarely get so frustrated that I actually achieve anger.  And anger for me is swift and hot and then over, like a spectacular flame that burns out in one big burst. Usually afterwards, I feel like crying for hours. Yay for that. I can’t even manage a good, righteous angry without having guilt after the fact.

It’s funny – one of the reasons that I knew that I had to get off my depression meds was because I was having bouts of irrational anger. I know myself well enough to have caught that side effect pretty rapidly, and I was hating how I felt every time it happened, because it’s so foreign to me.

The weird thing is that I felt like that again this week. I think it’s the first time I’ve felt flashes of anger for  more than a moment in a long, long time. I hate the feeling… the hot surge, the adrenaline, the tightening all over my body as the feeling rushes through me.

…at least I’m feeling something, I suppose. For a good while, I didn’t feel anything.

Now, I think, I feel everything. Maybe too much, sometimes.

 

I write, as openly as possible, about my experience with depression and abuse, and my ongoing recovery. I share opinions. I promote compassion and change. I talk about music. I also write poetry and short stories. I like to share them here.

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poetry

of middle stature and no great beauty

 

You told me
that I am beautiful.
I could see it in your eyes –
you meant every word.

I smiled and thanked you,
and my gratitude was sincere

but my belief is lacking.

I believe that you seem to think I am,
but what I see in myself is a different thing
a milder term…
smaller. Not so bold
so grand
so eye-catching and spectacular
and unbelievably complimentary.

I’m merely the girl who couldn’t grow up
the one with the boyish hair
the awkward stance
the personality that is TOO MUCH,
the body that is overly curvaceous
and the voice that is alternatively too bold
and too meek.

I wish I saw what you saw in that moment.
I only have you as my mirror.

 

not beautiful pic

I write, as openly as possible, about my experience with depression and abuse, and my ongoing recovery. I share opinions. I promote compassion and change. I talk about music. I also write poetry and short stories. I like to share them here.

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And it rolls – And it goes – I see lovers – I see losers

poetry

changing
the growth, the spread of branches
of sights, of wings

you always know
you always know when
you always know when to
reach out

dreaming
a wish, the seed of changing
of starts, of transition

I always knew
I always knew that
I always knew that it
would end

 

[blog post title comes from Ooh la la la, TC Matic]

dream tree

I write, as openly as possible, about my experience with depression and abuse, and my ongoing recovery. I share opinions. I promote compassion and change. I talk about music. I also write poetry and short stories. I like to share them here.

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insight

So just pull on your hair, just pull on your pout And let’s move to the beat like we know that it’s over

All dyed up and nowhere to go.

progression-small

It’s a new year, such as that goes. I fully acknowledge that it’s all a mental mind-fuck designed to make us feel the inspiration of a “clean slate” and “new beginnings” and a shiny new calendar on the wall, but you know what? I’ll take it. Quite plainly, 2014 sucked ass. I’ve not been so glad to the see the back of a year in a very long time. I live in hope, and my hope right now is that things get turned around. I am putting a lot of effort into making that happen, too, because of course that’s the only way things change.

One of the concrete symbols/actions that often pops up in my life when I’m making change is dyeing my hair. Here’s the whole, long process in photographic form. You can see my mood improve dramatically as I go through the ritual. I cut it, and shave the underneath with clippers after I apply the bleach. Then after it’s finished bleaching, I wash it and apply the PINK and then it’s just a matter of waiting around, with the sexiest plastic cap on. I covered the cap this round with a handspun/handknit by me tam, for the stylish puffy-head look.

After a few hours, I wash off the dye, and I’m transformed into my sassy and fun persona.

I wish everything in life was that easy… sometimes. I mean, things you work for usually mean more, I know. But when it’s all being tough, you look for the freebies.

 

So I don’t do New Year’s Resolutions. I just like to make a plan of attack, or a list of stuff I’d like to work on. I know, that’s all a matter of semantics, but dammit, WORDS MATTER.  😀

 

My plan of attack? Have more fun. That’s number one. See friends, make more friends. Have more love, more laughter, more adventure.

Number two, to balance – work smarter TO work harder. I need some reconfiguring of how I run my biz/focus on things in my biz, and I’m working on that now. This is always an important sort of assessment to do, especially on a social marker like the start of a calendar year. Cut what’s not working, add more that is. Find things that help me stay focused, and find ways to build in support for myself when I’m in one of the depressive cycles, so my business and finances don’t suffer, too.

Number three – take better care of myself. I’m okay but there’s room for improvement, and I’m worth the investment.

Number four – get rid of what doesn’t support me. That applies to habits, people, routines, whatever.

Oh. And the bonus directive: DANCE MORE.

 

I write, as openly as possible, about my experience with depression and abuse, and my ongoing recovery. I share opinions. I promote compassion and change. I talk about music. I also write poetry and short stories. I like to share them here.

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xiane

Winter Writing Workshop #1: It All Began When…

This is the first exercise in the Winter Writing Workshop, hosted by Do What You Love. You can join in by clicking on the image in the sidebar, or here.

It all began when…

 

she found the cheaply printed, black and white magazine at the record store. The record shop was already a place of magic for her – a place to find the obscure, moody tunes that were often completely unknown to her before she bought the tapes or CDs, cases chosen purely on the strength of their cover’s imagery. Was it dark, was it creepy, was it ethereal, was it spooky? Off to the listening booth it went, if possible. Often she would just take them home anyway, because her ability to guess if she would love it just from the cover was acute.

 

The magazine was filled with articles and pictures about the bands she loved or didn’t know she loved yet, and the followers of those bands. And there was poetry and short stories, all eldritch and horrific or somber and brooding.

 

Of course she paid the money for the magazine. It went into a crisp paper bag with several CDs and a thin package of incense – nag champa – and all of that went into the candlelit recesses of her bedroom to be poured over in private, in great detail. The CDs were all exactly what she’d wanted – one was atmospheric tones and scratches, reminiscent of mice trying to break into a haunted house. One was the latest droning masterpiece from SWANS. And one was deep male voices, droning acoustic guitar, pounding kettle drums, and swagger. She loved them all.

 

The magazine… she devoured every page. Every band she’d never heard of was written down in her journal for future investigation. Every model’s outfit was inspected closely, notes taken about what she might incorporate into her own style. And then she found it, in the back pages.

The penpal section.

 

You see, she lived in a small town. She used to live in a big city, and she’d had lots of friends who shared her taste in music and lifestyle, but escaping the bad parts of that city had left her in a safer and quite lovely place – but one where she had no soulmates, no true friends to whom she could really relate. Here was a list of people who all were, quite probably, in her very same situation – and they even had lists of the things they liked! The Cure, The Smiths, Sisters of Mercy, Percy Shelley, black lace, drinking tea at midnight – a list of esoteric pursuits that spoke to her soul in the most essential of ways.

 

She scribbled out a dozen letters to people, on plain paper that she decorated with her own drawings and doodles. She mailed them off, and days, weeks, months later, she found responses in her mailbox that thrilled her to her core.

Letters traded, and mixtapes, photos cut from magazines and copied from books. Little pamphlets with the names of other potential pen friends. Lace scraps and beads and sticks of incense and antique buttons and dried leaves. All the frustration and dreams and poetry scraps and secret wishes, all scribbled out on paper with colored inks and glitter and hope. So much hope.

 

Twenty plus years later, and she still has some of these friends in her circle. The methods of communication changed over time – from letters to email to Livejournal and MySpace to, now, Facebook – yet they didn’t lose each other. And they all grew up and some grew into other lives, but that connection of shared dreams and hopes never broke. It is still strong and I suspect that it always will be that way.

 

I write, as openly as possible, about my experience with depression and abuse, and my ongoing recovery. I share opinions. I promote compassion and change. I talk about music. I also write poetry and short stories. I like to share them here.

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insight

From the one you left behind

Almost the end of the year. And by Xiane reckoning, it’s the beginning of my new year – my birthday. Every year marks the start of the New Girl birthing from the Old Girl of the year before – the one I am leaving behind. It’s my way of giving myself permission every year to start over the things I’ve screwed up, and keep the parts that I think I’m okay with.

I’m currently looking over my mistakes with a mind to do better. I’m thinking about what I want to learn or investigate as something to add to my life. I’m realizing how lonely I am and trying to find ways to change that. And I’m working towards becoming a better me, because I’m not happy with a lot of 2014 me.

My birthday gift for Xiane is giving myself permission to take care of myself and get myself what I need.

 

inner writer

 

One of the things that I need is to focus more on my writing. I am pretty sure I know where my “inner writer” is [hello] but a little workshop with prompts, and a directed focus on writing for a week, is not a terrible thing to get involved with. So I’m trying this Winter Writing Workshop that’s being hosted by Do What You Love, and I’ll try and post what I write here, if I feel like sharing. You can join if you want, too – the link is here: http://dowhatyouloveforlife.com/www/

 

 

hearts xi

 

At some point I want to talk about a bunch of things: how taking selfies is a form of therapy for me… what it’s like to be a self-driven creative type who lives without much of a safety net and how that’s both terrifying and incredibly freeing… trying to navigate the confusing waters of being a 48 year old woman who isn’t good at following rules about what I’m supposed to wear, like, and be… and other topics that have been kicking around in my head.

There are some things that at some point I’ll have to address here, like how it feels to be left behind by people you loved, and how vulnerability sometimes will make you want to turn into a raging asshole who never lets anyone close to you again… but let’s be realistic – you know me. That’s never going to happen, I’ll never shut people out. I’d shrivel up and die. I need people. I need that closeness, that sort of love – which is why, precisely, that I’m so lonely lately. I don’t have many in that inner circle right now, and the ones that are in are very far away. That needs to change. I need my cabal. I need those who can treasure me as I treasure them. That’s what powers my soul.

 

So yes. Happy Birthday to me. To the one you left behind.

I write, as openly as possible, about my experience with depression and abuse, and my ongoing recovery. I share opinions. I promote compassion and change. I talk about music. I also write poetry and short stories. I like to share them here.

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poetry

Es geht kein Weg zurück

Pay attention to the people who are around you
pay attention in the here and now
to those who are listening and loving you
and trying to reach you and holding you up
and feeling so sad
feeling like they never mattered
because you don’t see them anymore

It’s right in front of you
but you can’t seem to see it
focused on what was lost instead
of what you kept at hand
it is over
it is never ever finished
still you don’t see them anymore

you can’t see me anymore

 

 

something more

 

 

What we let slip through our fingers. What we ignore, absorbed in our own little dramas. What we neglect in favor of what’s comfortable and easy. What we forget, in favor of a beautiful lie. What we will regret, once we let the moment fade in our eagerness to grasp something that has already passed.

 

Ach, und könnte ich doch
Nur ein einziges Mal
Die Uhren rückwärts drehen.
Denn wie viel von dem,
Was ich heute weiß,
Hätte ich lieber nie gesehen.*

 

Look up. Look out. Look beyond.

See what should be seen.

 

  • Lyrics from Kein Zurück, Wolfsheim.

 

I write, as openly as possible, about my experience with depression and abuse, and my ongoing recovery. I share opinions. I promote compassion and change. I talk about music. I also write poetry and short stories. I like to share them here.

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