GingerbreadGirl II
DefconOne.
I keep telling people I'm on a self destructive stage. I don't know why I do that. Perhaps I'm expecting someone to step in and help me out of this mire without making me sound like the one who needs psychiatric help. Maybe I say it because I know that I'm in some sort of mental predicament and I want to let people know where I am. Basically a 'here I am falling catch me willya', or at least see where I fell and pick me up.
I exude craziness on a daily level. I still act the child, eat badly and come off as being impossible most of the time. Truth is, I can't help it. Try as I might, I can't help it. I have the adamance of a kid and a tantrum to go along with it. I have always had this. I don't know any other way of expressing needs. I don't know how this came about but it must have been the way I was made since I don't remember being any other way.
Readers of this photoblog know that this is essentially a very depressive account of a life. This account and of the 5 other accounts I have had over the decade or so I have kept gigabyte record. I try though to remain upbeat in some of my postings and this is becoming increasingly hard to do. I hope the pictures at least make that pictorial account colourful and interesting. Some of you who have been following this over the last decade or so have been some of the only people who know what's been happening to me over the years. I have made new friends, lost a few and kept a whole new bank of feelings and impressions garnered from the thousands of pictures posted by my very limited friends list.
Truth be told, this is just about the only way I express myself. And to be honest, I write stuff in here with the assumption that I'm the only one who reads it. It's my diary. It's private. But if something should happen to me, then someone would know. 'What happened to her? What is she doing now? Oh yes, I read it in her online diary ... What? It's in her tags you see ... '
You know what dear moonbeams? I'm alone. And I'm scared. My 40th is looming close. I promised myself I'd end it all if my life didn't meet some hairbrained expectation set so long ago by myself and my folks. I'm not rich. I don't really have a career, I still sleep on someone's floor, I still have that damned teddy ...
Call it conditioning. I can't shake it. That's what 24 years under the cane does to you. I look to potential suitors for help. They don't. They tell me no. They tell me they won't play this game by my rules. This is how it should be done. This is how couples do things. This is how normal people live. Then they hook up with others and play my games.
Fuck you. I gave you a precious small slice of my time. I invested. I hoped. You didn't pull through. At least you could have made an effort. You should have not made me feel as if I was the weird one. You should have not made me feel that a piece of me has been torn out.
I then turn to familarities, Kal, Bruce, Diana, Hal, J'Onn, Carter, Arthur, Oliver, Barry. And yes, Thomas Magnum. Fictional characters who are much more believable that the ones I meet in real life. They replace holes in my chest. Pieces of lost reality being replaced with unreal heroes. Well done. I'm even more delusional than before. Makes it harder for the next timewaster.
And in the meantime, old demons call in to visit. Don't eat this or that. You're fat. You're ugly. Throw up before the body places that biscuit squarely on your thigh. Take these pills, they make you go quicker. What did she say? I'm lazy. That's why I'm fat. Yep. A size 8. Fat. What's that? A lump on my breast? Don't bother. It isn't worth it. Keep it quiet lest they think you're seeking attention. Call mom. Hoping she will make it better. After all, it's MOM! No. You're a failure. Come home.
In the meantime, still rejection e-mails pour in. What? Intersexed? Whats that? No. Not my thing. You'd be surprised how many think I'm a bloke. Well I am. On a genetic level. Try explaining that, the operations, the complications and waiting for the inevitable 'no'. But if you have a workable vagina then I'd fuckya. Heck, he or she would play my games, collar me and tell me what to eat if only I had a nice vagina. And oh, while I'm at it, a different chromosome.
Yes, this is all depressive. It may be. To me it's not. It's what I'm feeling. And yes, I'm scared. I'm alone. The sum of my experience sits in my head unshared. The deadline is closer. Thinking of ways ...
But hey, tomorrow is another day. A promise is made by another that it will be a better day.
Fuck that. It's the sleep tonight I'm looking forward to. A long sleep. A long rest. The mind will be quiet. I may dream. Maybe I'm married in this one. Maybe I have a loving home. Wouldn't it be amazing if I could take picture of what's in my dreams! It would just be like your normal ones ...
DefconOne.
I keep telling people I'm on a self destructive stage. I don't know why I do that. Perhaps I'm expecting someone to step in and help me out of this mire without making me sound like the one who needs psychiatric help. Maybe I say it because I know that I'm in some sort of mental predicament and I want to let people know where I am. Basically a 'here I am falling catch me willya', or at least see where I fell and pick me up.
I exude craziness on a daily level. I still act the child, eat badly and come off as being impossible most of the time. Truth is, I can't help it. Try as I might, I can't help it. I have the adamance of a kid and a tantrum to go along with it. I have always had this. I don't know any other way of expressing needs. I don't know how this came about but it must have been the way I was made since I don't remember being any other way.
Readers of this photoblog know that this is essentially a very depressive account of a life. This account and of the 5 other accounts I have had over the decade or so I have kept gigabyte record. I try though to remain upbeat in some of my postings and this is becoming increasingly hard to do. I hope the pictures at least make that pictorial account colourful and interesting. Some of you who have been following this over the last decade or so have been some of the only people who know what's been happening to me over the years. I have made new friends, lost a few and kept a whole new bank of feelings and impressions garnered from the thousands of pictures posted by my very limited friends list.
Truth be told, this is just about the only way I express myself. And to be honest, I write stuff in here with the assumption that I'm the only one who reads it. It's my diary. It's private. But if something should happen to me, then someone would know. 'What happened to her? What is she doing now? Oh yes, I read it in her online diary ... What? It's in her tags you see ... '
You know what dear moonbeams? I'm alone. And I'm scared. My 40th is looming close. I promised myself I'd end it all if my life didn't meet some hairbrained expectation set so long ago by myself and my folks. I'm not rich. I don't really have a career, I still sleep on someone's floor, I still have that damned teddy ...
Call it conditioning. I can't shake it. That's what 24 years under the cane does to you. I look to potential suitors for help. They don't. They tell me no. They tell me they won't play this game by my rules. This is how it should be done. This is how couples do things. This is how normal people live. Then they hook up with others and play my games.
Fuck you. I gave you a precious small slice of my time. I invested. I hoped. You didn't pull through. At least you could have made an effort. You should have not made me feel as if I was the weird one. You should have not made me feel that a piece of me has been torn out.
I then turn to familarities, Kal, Bruce, Diana, Hal, J'Onn, Carter, Arthur, Oliver, Barry. And yes, Thomas Magnum. Fictional characters who are much more believable that the ones I meet in real life. They replace holes in my chest. Pieces of lost reality being replaced with unreal heroes. Well done. I'm even more delusional than before. Makes it harder for the next timewaster.
And in the meantime, old demons call in to visit. Don't eat this or that. You're fat. You're ugly. Throw up before the body places that biscuit squarely on your thigh. Take these pills, they make you go quicker. What did she say? I'm lazy. That's why I'm fat. Yep. A size 8. Fat. What's that? A lump on my breast? Don't bother. It isn't worth it. Keep it quiet lest they think you're seeking attention. Call mom. Hoping she will make it better. After all, it's MOM! No. You're a failure. Come home.
In the meantime, still rejection e-mails pour in. What? Intersexed? Whats that? No. Not my thing. You'd be surprised how many think I'm a bloke. Well I am. On a genetic level. Try explaining that, the operations, the complications and waiting for the inevitable 'no'. But if you have a workable vagina then I'd fuckya. Heck, he or she would play my games, collar me and tell me what to eat if only I had a nice vagina. And oh, while I'm at it, a different chromosome.
Yes, this is all depressive. It may be. To me it's not. It's what I'm feeling. And yes, I'm scared. I'm alone. The sum of my experience sits in my head unshared. The deadline is closer. Thinking of ways ...
But hey, tomorrow is another day. A promise is made by another that it will be a better day.
Fuck that. It's the sleep tonight I'm looking forward to. A long sleep. A long rest. The mind will be quiet. I may dream. Maybe I'm married in this one. Maybe I have a loving home. Wouldn't it be amazing if I could take picture of what's in my dreams! It would just be like your normal ones ...