March 26, 2016 § Leave a comment
I’m in a very ballsy aggressive mood currently. In the present minute, in the best possible way. I always change through the seasons. I can recount the differences in my character, my outlook, my abilities and even my appearance as vastly different when comparing Winter Maghan to Summer Maghan. I always look forward to my Summer self. Obviously, I’m a narcissistic bitch so I’ll confirm that, of course I know how mood etc. etc. is affected by season (Finland’s high suicide rate in Winter without any sunlight, but look it fucking up yourselves, there’s Google kids).
My insomnia’s starting to get a wee bit worse, increasingly so. I’m starting to feel things stronger, instead of the sluggish whiny boring thoughts that tend to invade my winter brain. I’m not even in a good mood right now per se, but I’d much rather be angry if I’m in a pejorative state of mind rather than sad and self-pitying.
I have a few things I know I need to write about. I have them written down in some notebooks, and yes, yes, I will. I will incorporate some of them into this post, but will write according to each in detail when I have more time.
Currently, however, let’s discuss a few issues I’m having with the penises of the population as well as the scummy men who possess them who claim they are just incapable of controlling their urges and attractions. (I’ll clarify that I’m generalizing and including the entire male population, just a select few at the moment, but let me vent okay)? Before I start going into more detail about the specific injustices I’ve just recently been faced with regarding all of this, I would like to say to all of the men who use this bullshit as an excuse, as well as outside parties who reinforce that men can’t control themselves, basically placing the blame on us women (or men, but right now I’m talking selfishly about my own gender) for wearing certain clothing, acting or looking a certain way, and to be honest, just being ourselves and being a member of the female community, that if that’s your go-to, you are all pathetic and weak. Not being able to control yourselves, not being able to use your brain (or just saying you can’t to get your way) to make logical choices over your biological urge to stick it in any of us, is sad. So fuck you. Unfortunately of course, this idea is condoned far too often, so it’s not seen in this way by general consensus. And usually, the fault and the punishment is laid on the women, no fault of their own.
The Jian Ghomeshi trial verdict was issued this past Thursday. I expected the verdict unfortunately, despite having very mixed and emotional feelings in regards to it as well (maybe more so) toward the opinions and musings of many a friend and stranger that I’ve either heard in person or via social media. I will write more about this specifically in a few posts later. Because really, I want to vent about something specific to myself. Incidentally, the bullshit that happened to me occurred the day after this fucking verdict came out.
I mentioned briefly, the opportunity that came up for me about a month ago, out of the blue that was a huge deal for me and the future of my artistic career. I didn’t go into too much detail because it was still so new and surreal and I wanted to wait till I really got my feet wet with the whole thing to discuss it. Well…it’s all gone to shit. Because the artist who, I guess ‘discovered’ me in all the cliche sense of the word, apparently can’t spend too much time with me in the way we’d arranged and agreed upon because he can’t control his dick. Sorry, if he keeps “working with me, he will continue to develop stronger and stronger ‘feelings’ for me”. The beginning of this entire partnership, I established that it was professional and I thought at the time that he was on the same page as me. I mentioned (and continued to do so, as I am always wary of men in any situation) that I was involved with other people, therefore not available. He is also around 40 or so, and though I’m not ageist I’m also not attracted to him in any sense. Even if I was, I can control myself. Especially new to this kind of professional relationship, I want to be taken seriously. I want to work and know that I am working because of my talents and potential. But of course, nope, I’m just a woman, only good for one thing.
I tried explaining this. How much it hurts to be reduced to my vagina, my position as an object, a potential relationship or lay. That’s no longer an option, so I’m discarded completely, reducing all of me to the importance of all of that, my other abilities not anywhere as important, easily forgotten and replaced when the possibility of fucking me is no longer in the picture. I actually got the excuse that, “you don’t know what it’s like for us men sometimes” and “don’t you understand how I can’t as a straight man, be around you.” Yeah, sure, feels great man.
I already have such trust issues, honestly, mostly to do with myself and my confidence as a person. I have trouble thinking of myself as more than my sex on my own. And experiences like these keep digging their heels into me, into my self esteem and my ability to think of myself as anything besides someone to be used and then thrown away. I’m seriously working on it. I’m also, as I said, loving my new found energy. I think in other circumstances or at other times, I’d be upset and weepy and sad, but really, I’m just pissed as all hell. Which I enjoy. Anger, at least in this way, feels good to me. And deserved. It’s not irrational, I don’t think, it’s completely appropriate. I’m not feeling like editing too much, so fuck it. These are my words, these are my thoughts, stream of consciousness, out of my brain. Just all me, mistakes and typos be damned. I’m going to leave you, now, with this very fitting quote from the incredible Anaïs Nin:
For too many centuries women have been being muses to artists. I wanted to be the muse, I wanted to be the wife of the artist, but I was really trying to avoid the final issue—that I had to do the job myself.
March 2, 2016 § 2 Comments
I have been writing a decent amount lately. Somewhat proud of myself, however, it is because I’ve been feeling like shit. I usually write when I feel terrible. I’ve mostly been catching up, reading up too much on the news on topics that are important and I feel it is imperative for myself and everyone to read, despite really fucking kicking the shit out of me emotionally. The Jian trial really affected me of course, but then the Kesha trial, now I’m just rewatching Lady Gaga’s Oscar performance and bawling my eyes out.
Obviously this is my stage of nice crying. I’m not going to sugarcoat that. I’m not at any state to actually show my disgusting bleeding eyeball snot dripping drooling cry face as of yet, sorry. I also rarely post pictures of myself, or anything actually, on here. I am trying to start getting more active via social media though since apparently there are going to be murals of me around the city…and world (although the first one is just going to be the back of me), I have to start thickening my skin to deal with people who will be talking about how hideous and worthless I am so might as well start as soon as possible.
That is all somewhat related to the original topic. I know I veer around and ramble, part of my charm HA just kidding. So rape in general is fucking horrific, but I still think it’s a much bigger issue (which also leads into violent rapes that make it into the news) of people thinking if they just keep trying, that it will happen. Or that whoops, it just slipped in. And I, myself, have become desensitized far too much to this. I only recently learned that certain events throughout my life were wrong. I’ve outlined them somewhat in previous posts, but there are so many more that I’ve experienced, and that I know many others have experienced where it’s made into an “accident”, “You were just so hot”, “I was so attracted to you”, etc. And then you decide ehh, I’ll just let it happen because it kind of already has. I have a list written of my partners and I started redoing it with markings of the people who have basically done it without my consent. Who kept trying, who I really liked but still made boundaries about certain things, but was too insecure to be forceful, thinking that if I said no they’d stop talking to me completely, hurt me, etc. All of that usually happened anyway, but it’s a weird cycle and it starts to web itself into the corners of your brain.
I just got a call from the place I was supposed to be starting work. I thought the guy I interviewed with really liked me. I mean, he did I suppose, but I was starting to get worried because I was supposed to hear about when I’d have my first trial shift this week on Saturday night and hadn’t heard until just a few minutes ago. I had texted yesterday morning about it and was losing hope completely to be honest, and usually in this line of business, people just ghost you. YEAH like asshole dates. But, he did get back to me just now. I was really excited about this place, it seemed like such a good fit for me, I seemed to like everyone I met and talked to, I’d started memorizing (was almost done) the menu, but then when the manager did get back to me…he told me since the other girls were so strong, one or both would probably work out. And besides that, he liked me a lot but I’d told him about the sexual harassment and whatnot at my last job (obv not just that, because I hate myself so much in various ways and for various reasons), but that he got a vibe that I seemed very fragile and going through some personal things that he hoped I could get under control and wanted me to try back in a couple months if I got that under control. HA.I just…I think about things I’ve said before about how pain and sadness just comes out of you. You can try to hide it, cover it up, but people can just feel it, they just know. And I want to feel better about myself but…how do I do that? I hate therapists and the entire mental health system, talking about things. And I’m too socially conscious to actually be honest anyway. I honestly wonder at times like these if I should be in the hospital. I actually go tomorrow for something unrelated. Who knows, maybe I have some insane disease anyway that would keep me from working anyway. Dude I’ve been fucking and close to living with the past couple months (not in a romantic way, just a friendly ‘I understand your roommates disgusting’ kind of way) had strep anyway, so I was worried I’d get it right when I started work. But, despite that…should I see if they can help me with my depression and related shit? I hate getting help as well…I just want to do it myself.
My parents are calling hopefully tonight. I told them there were some urgent things to discuss…but…I don’t even know what to say now. I have to email some people and I have an interview Friday too…and the place down the street wants me to come in again. The girl they just hired might not work out…But then I think, do they just see me as a depressed, weak and sad little girl as well? Is this all a self fulfilling prophecy potentially…?
This is why I hate my mind so much. It thinks too much. And the majority is negative. I can’t decide, can’t focus, can’t logically hone in on one opinion. I’m just a worthless piece of shit that is supposed to exist to be used by everyone else. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who I want to be. That’s the consensus of all the threads in my mind.
I am the little mermaid that couldn’t kill the person she loved, I’ll turn it into her not being able to decide to live and exert herself, and instead became seafoam on the water. I am no one. I am the foam over the water, evaporating into the air, you will breathe me in and the traces of who I was will still linger in your lungs.
I’m sorry that this got so much darker than I meant. Circumstances I guess changed my outlook…or exacerbated it I suppose…I apologize.
March 1, 2016 § Leave a comment
My eyes don’t focus. I am a shell. My head collapses into my body, the dark and rotting flesh inside of me. It’s a slow and painful process, this process of dying. I see it inside my body, working its way outward. One day it will show on my face and I will envelop myself in snow until I freeze. Will it work?
I am cellophane. Fake and manufactured and easily manipulated. Mrs. Cellophane. I remember in school when I was maybe 11, I was obsessed with Chicago. I went to see the play when it was showing in Toronto after seeing the film having come out and my parents, avid musical lovers, had bought the soundtrack, which I played daily for…I have no idea.
I want to have a defined role. I want to be something. I can’t say I’m the bitch or the outcast or the villain, but I know I veer too close on numerous occasions.
On the floor, listening to Dire Straits. I want to crawl under my bed, but I’m supposed to be a human, awake and conscious and productive. All I want, all in my mind that I could want is lying down on the hard marble floor, dark and hidden from everything. I want to cry onto the floor, without the clean up, pill and drink myself to oblivion until I’m gone.
What happened? I had a change of mind a few days ago where I wanted to start becoming a living person. Fully present, listening, not suicidal when my brain starts to go into overdrive as it is wont to do when I’m sober and clean, telling me all of the horrible parts of myself.
I am a creature. An X. I am not a human. I don’t know if I want to be. Any of the improvements I should see in my life, last for far too short a time to make an impact in my brain. My brain is broken. I am broken. What is the solution?
I am in a coat, with the biggest bottle of Canadian Club. I am already wasted and no one is or will be at the house. I can’t feel my skin. I am numb in skin and mind and I am falling into the browning, dead garden. Remove my coat, continue to drink until my brain shuts down. Did I write a note? I would like to think that I am small and beautiful when I’d go, but why would I go unless I’m a disgusting wreck? I imagine though, that it will all work, that I won’t be revived with terrible consequences to live with. Just gone. Frozen in the snow, holding my licquor across my chest like a rose in a coffin.