January 26, 2017 § Leave a comment
I hate myself, in part, for writing this today. I haven’t written for quite some time and to return today, seems wrong for myself. Although not posting today if I wanted to is just as wrong as posting today when I didn’t want to, just because it’s “Bell, Let’s Talk” day.
I haven’t been on here much, partly, because I chose to go off of my medication cold turkey end of August last year. Not that I was healthy in any way, shape or form before that when I was on said meds, but after about three ish months, I did change. There was a come down. It was noticed moreso by others than myself. And only when I began to question the changes in myself did anyone tell me they’d noticed differences. I was sick on and off, tired and barely able to do anything besides go to work which I forced myself to do, even then, not always being able to stay. I stopped my medication, in part, because of side effects, but a lot of it had to do with curiosity. Who would I be now?
The brain is such a strange place. Lately I’ve had dreams, or I’ve woken up with fear that I’m dying. I’ve had certain related fears before, but now I care. I used to imagine my death, I used to live for myself where I honestly didn’t care if I died, sometimes I’d envision it, write out plans, enact some of them out. I’d make mistakes, take pills or drink myself to what should have been my end, gotten into cars with strangers, and I was satisfied with whatever might happen to me.
I had a story I wrote, thought of, many variations, how I’d wanted to die. Now I don’t want to. I remember in the past thinking about this, how I’d end up in the future, wanting to live long and healthily and have a home and a family but I’d only realize this shortly before discovering I had some disease and was dying. Where I would hate my past self so terribly, what was I doing, how stupid and naive I was. There was a separation for me, I think there still is, of a me “then”, “now”, and perhaps a future Maghan. I’ve always written myself like a character throughout my life, a fiction.
But it was always me. I run away from my problems, try to erase them, but they are always there. I still refuse to be certain things and I am not sure whether these traits and choices of mine are strengths or weaknesses. They’re both really. The labels don’t matter. It all exists. All of me exists. The way I was, the way I am. My brain then to now, my actions, my choices. It’s all me. I am all of it. And I can’t get away.
September 27, 2016 § Leave a comment
I always think I’ve broken, I always bounce back. Each time though, I lose parts of myself. Porcelain chipping away. There’s that quote from someone about alcoholism, “it happened slowly, then suddenly.” And one day I’ll be gone.
I used to be given dolls, they were usually different ethnicities. Stereotypes. I don’t know what my obsession in collecting them was. I remember going to the Cracker Barrell, which for some reason, sold porcelain dolls, and collecting my allowance money for trips so I could buy them.
I am collected. An item on a shelf. Easily forgotten afterward. I walk streets, rain drops sprinkle down. I want to lay down on the concrete. My eyes jolt about, noting the faces around me. My eyes water, I touch my cheek, feel the skin start to change shape, fall away.
I scrape at the pavement with my stubs of nails. I want to pick up my pieces, puzzle myself into a human. There’s always the dream, anticipation of what could become of me, but I put it off. Master procrastinator. One day I will be perfect, pure, beautiful, successful. I want to be the dream of me. I am so horribly limited. I wear a mask, don’t acknowledge how poorly I think of myself and my abilities.
I eat the dirt on the pavement below me. My body shifts, feeling the grating against my ribs. And I love it. I am soft, malleable. The sidewalk scratches my cheek. It’s for me. It’s what I wanted.
September 3, 2016 § Leave a comment
Wet your fingers, the bowl next to you. Chew the clay off the block, feel it begin to soften in your fingers. Press the peddle, run the wheel. I begin to take shape in your hands. The curves and edges of myself are your will. Create me, I am yours.
Something calming about control outside of yourself.
“Take off your clothes.”
I begin to. My pale, shaking fingers reach for the straps of my bra. I can feel eyes, but I keep my eyes focused downward. Soft belly, invisible skin, white enough to see purple lattices of vein like an old woman.
I prepared for this. Hours before the mirrors, seeing all of the parts of myself at every angle. Hairs, discolorations, those fucking veins, parts of flesh that shake. Hit myself and I’ll bruise further. He wouldn’t like that.
I was late a few weeks back, working until last call and not wanting to rush back so quickly. Offered drinks and grass with my coworkers, I knew how it would end afterward, but I wanted it. I didn’t explain, I just let him. I knew what would happen, the punishment, but I wanted it. I wanted the knuckles in my jaw.
“Text me when you’re pretty again.”
May 30, 2016 § Leave a comment
I miss bath tubs. It’s only an open shower, dirty grey tiles, water from the faucet splashing over only half. I am sitting and I have a glass of wine, feeling the burn from my mascara and eyeliner bleeding into me as the water washes it down. I have a strong distaste for emotion of any kind and I am at a loss for what to do at the moment. I know it will pass, this is a fleeting moment of sadness and loss in my life and I will appreciate it later. I am a melodramatic little piece though, I can’t help how I was made. I want to lay down on the dirty tiled floor, curl up or lay face up, all of my limbs hit with the drops, turn up the pressure so I feel it in the greatest capacity.
I stay in my seated position. I let myself think, such a dangerous hobby of mine. I can logically make sense of the situation and yet, I can’t help but think I am a lesser person, a lesser woman than this one. I know there are reasons, there are thoughts about me that haven’t been said, that I haven’t heard, either in the minds of others who have or exist solely in his own. Unsavory, salacious gossips about me. It hurts more because I know what might be said, know they’re true. If they were lies I could pass it off, bring his character down a few pegs. But no, it’s me. I am still a mess, I am still a child wanting to lie down in the shower and cry when she’s been upset by a man. How pathetic.
May 29, 2016 § 2 Comments
I’ve been wanting to write on here in a completely new way. I really do feel fundamentally different about myself and my life. I kind of want to vomit (sorry, bad usage of words for me but too bad) when I write or hear anything like that.
But I don’t think that’s bad. I am very different currently, but I am actually okay saying that I like how I am and have been. I have done so many things that have hurt people I care about, as well as myself, for which I am so deeply apologetic for. But I can’t change that. And I did what I did, I was who I was.
Despite it sounding contradictory, as I said, wishy-washy overly positive proclamations and bullshit really do irritate me. I don’t trust people like that or respect their intelligence too much, which is probably bad but hey, if I get to know them and that changes, awesome. But I like all of that about me. That’s the weird part. Right now, I really appreciate all of the terrible, dark parts of myself and my past. I want to experience everything and I feel I can relate better and have so much more intricate knowledge of pain and suffering that I never would have if I hadn’t gone through everything I had. And I think that’s something to appreciate, that makes me more intuitive in such a deeply ingrained way. And I want to be surrounded by people who have been through shit or are still going through shit. I don’t want to be around or hear about people that haven’t or have and refuse to acknowledge it. I want to be able to talk about feeling like shit, about feeling ugly and dirty and shameful if that’s what I’m feeling. I don’t want to feel as though talking about or feeling any of that means my mental health isn’t ideal or my self esteem isn’t perfect, etc.
I want to write about all the dark parts of my mind and myself on here. I want to go back and go through it all and relate to everyone. Most of it I still live through everyday, I don’t mean to sound like I’m all cured or some shit like that. Not that anyone is actually cured, but I have a very strange new outlook on things. I don’t completely know what happened. And I know offering advice to a lot of people going through terrible times isn’t (at least for me, and that’s what I know most) going to help and will just sound so far out of the range of ability for them. Or just irritating.
I don’t even like the term ‘healed’ or any derivative of it. I am myself. I refuse to negate or reduce myself to any kind of diagnosis. I want to take all the responsibility, good and bad, for myself and my actions. I am just strangely accepting of it all now. For whatever reason. Maybe it’s just for the day, maybe that’s just the cynic in me thinking this won’t last, but again, fuck it all right?
May 15, 2016 § 3 Comments
See how I’m adding pictures now? That’s how I get people to like me on social media and whatnot right?
Fuck all that bullshit. I’m in a weird mood. I feel obligated to write and this blog is not a representation of my creative skills and I wish it were…I get too emotional and just need to fucking vent to something. Last night I had a bit of a meltdown trying to think of who I had to talk to. I already knew there wasn’t really anyone. I don’t even trust therapists and there’s just something about it….it’s not the same as someone who really knows you, who’s not getting paid to listen to you. I feel compelled to be a good patient and lie or omit things to seem like I’m improving or that I’m not as much of a mess as I am.
Family members…I have an issue with as well…I actually don’t trust anyone. It’s very sad. I had a rough night last night because I really don’t want the life I have. My brother, I feel, has a strange condescending way towards me when I call and he tries to console me. I am actually very close to him but it’s different in these circumstances….I feel like a burden. I feel shitty saying anything against him because we’re very close, it’s just in these circumstances, it feels disingenuous. Last night though, I really couldn’t think of anyone else to call and he picked up even though he fucking HATES speaking on the phone….I know he cares greatly for me…but even myself, sometimes I can’t get myself to listen or properly give someone what they need when they’re in a bad place even if I’m capable of it…it’s just that you feel obligated.
Last night someone brought up my nature currently…and described me as a “beautiful mess.” They discussed how low my self esteem is…which I know, although I also think I can deny but have written about before how even though I try to act as though that is not the case, it just leeches out of me. I say things too often, not even realizing it, that make how I feel about myself evident. That makes it scarier for me I think, because it’s so ingrained in my opinion of myself. I’m actually scared a little bit…for myself. I want to change and yet, I’m also the same person and still have the same thoughts and opinions on myself where I’m despondent and very deeply think I deserve to suffer and don’t deserve healthy relationships or to treat myself well both body and mind. Why is that? And why do I have a problem with wanting that?
I also think I’m so deeply in this hole of shit that it would take so much time to dig my way out and what if that doesn’t even work? And I don’t actually believe I’m worth that. And, again, that’s scary right? Scarier even is that I’m not as scared about all of that and my opinion of myself as I should be…What do I do? My brother tells me to talk to someone and yes, I think at this juncture I will try that again because in the past it’s always been a kind of forced encounter. Family members making me talk to someone. I think I’ll have the same inclinations to sugarcoat my reality to whoever I end up with now but I’m hoping it will be slightly different…slightly better because I’m deciding to do it this time. But besides that, I still find it incredibly sad that I’m so very alone. I need people…and yet, I also don’t want them. I want to be independent in every sense of the word and I know that’s come close to killing me multiple times in the past, not wanting to have to eat, sleep, have emotions, etc.
I think I’m at a point where I really do want to change…I’m hoping that’s true. I guess if I don’t know it for sure, maybe I’m still undecided. Just like knowing if you’ve cum or not. You just know and if it’s unsure, you didn’t/don’t. I am fairly certain though…I’m going to try and keep going forward.
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.