It’s a rough month for me. I know I say this every year, but truly. It has every reason to be.
Some of the most harrowing events of my personal life occurred during this month. I try not to ruminate (weak emphasis on try) but I just end up stressing myself out by remembering. I also like to think that things just happen around this time, and I finally have a theory for it: SAD. It’s getting colder, and it’s becoming easier to just go home, curl up in bed, and shut off. Things hit harder. Everyone’s groove is off as we slide into the colder parts of the year.
And every four years, there’s the additional stressor of whether democracy (oligarchy) will continue limping along or this will be The One to finally… something. I don’t know. Something bad, most likely. And this year the dread is at a fever pitch.
I can admit that I am scared. I have to, to be realistic. But no amount of therapy is going to make the reality any easier. I can cope all day but what’d be the point if my rights are stripped away, if I am not safe? I’m grappling with the possibility that I won’t be safe any more. Or, I was just lucky all this time, and that luck is finally bleeding out.
I won’t talk about the during-move blues, other than note that it was one of the most stressful times I have had in a long time. I blew past my breaking point and burned out twice over. I wanted to cry, a lot, and I wanted to not deal with that shit anymore.
And then, it was done.
How am I doing now?
First off, I am relieved. I am also grateful for all the help we managed to get. I’m not even happy that the hard part is over.
I am sad. Still in mourning for the house-that-was in my apartment-that-is. My favorite ideal future of a giant house with our individual spaces, of all of our hobbies intertwining, and metas and friends visiting often will never happen. Relationships have transitioned and bonds sustained damage. There is, as I noted above, a distance I can never cross.
I did enjoy organizing and decorating with my remaining nesting partner. We made the place ours, and the vacuum left behind gradually filled. And it has been satisfactory as we settled into our slightly modified routines (the shortened commute certainly helped). Coming home feels, well, like coming home.
I am not happy, yet. There’s recovering from the physical, mental, and monetary stress. I may need another month.
I have a pretty solid finish to last month’s Bloganuary, and then I… disappeared. This time, it isn’t because I ran out of steam! But it was redirected elsewhere.
There’s the health issues I’ve referenced in the last few months, and that does cause some anxiety. I’ve been trying to eat better and work out (at least walk!) more, so I’m hoping that’ll help. And drink water!
But also.
Due to Reasons, I’ll need to move later this year. That’s always stressful, yes, but there’s also the added wrinkle of some relationship transitions (or alternatively, break ups) that also entail the shake-up of living situations. I’ve had some time to come to terms with it and prepare, but it doesn’t make it easier.
So that’s been stressful.
I’ve been relieving my stress with fanfiction. Writing silly things, for fun, and indulging in one of my favorite What-Ifs. And it has helped, but I think I’m ready to work on some blog drafts and my other projects more.
I’ve noticed that I tend to only update this blog when I have something big to say. An informal essay of something about three pages. I should relax and not be afraid of smaller, more concise entries.
Like this one.
So, yeah, another transition. New beginning and all of that. Nothing terribly profound.
I am not looking forward to uprooting and packing some memories away.
On the shores of roped-off swimming spots I remember you from all the pens I never collected the contrast from the blue houses Complimenting the white trim I write in red tint Now more honorable, more informed
I could have been On those still nights Beautiful with you
I never healed from that October Always cold, not quite frozen Melting from your pink hair
I ran ahead Into the shadow unknowing Loneliness becoming Written sensual unseen by you
I found out who I was But you’ll never know you left the lost roads Stapling images to trees From backpacks full Addresses broken Someone else has your name I left mine alone She kept driving We left our bathing suits at home
Morning still, this Filling in blanks No closure, unresolved, this.
In addition to my favorite news feeds and the growing list of webcomics, I keep up with a lot of blogs. Remember when RSS was a lot more prominent? I still use that technology! And I’m still mad that Google killed GReader.
As I caught up with my subscriptions on Feedly, one of my favorite blogs had, what she called, a “vulnerable post.” It is American Girl Outsider and how she has been doing the past while.
Depression is a fucking liar of a mental illness. It tells you that no one loves you, no one wants you, that you don’t and aren’t wanted anymore, and that the world would be better if you weren’t here mucking it all up. It gives you ahedonia and lack of appetites and you might sleep too much or not enough. It steals your ability to write, read, draw, sew, craft, create, or anything.
…
And all I could think, as I sat there having missed something I cared so hard about, was that by the time I got to it, who would care what I had to say? Who cared about anything I had to say?
I also have depression. It has been around for longer, but actively managed for almost years now– and you guessed right: the start of the pandemic was what tipped me past my breaking point and made me get help. Some days are still harder than others. I have more tools at my disposal along with some chemical help, but sometimes…
There were times I’ve thought of quitting. And I have, twice (the-one-i-can’t-remember and verbose/terse). Three if you include Dreamwidth— neglected or conscious decision? It’s the same in the end; I’ve stopped updating publicly there. But, whether I have an audience or not, the writing has been good for me. And despite my low-key schedule, I do enjoy Vtubing even with 0 viewers. I try to make time for the things I enjoy, regardless.
Scheduling is hard. And, like Nethilia, I beat myself up for missing the releases of things I was psyched about. It’s halfway through October; is anyone still interested in me Vtubing with ValiDATE? It released in September without my notice through a depression fog. And generally, October is and has been a rough month for me– and National Coming Out Day has been forgotten. Again.
I have drafts, but lately it has been a struggle to get them out. I have prompts I can’t expand through the fog.
I’ll schedule this; it’s all I got. My calendar is intimidating and So Much right now.
Note: Please be aware that I am doing a lot better now! This was just so… raw… that I felt compelled to post it here.
So I realized an uncomfortable truth over the weekend, while we were off doing our own things– and I did mine, and it was great; I saw and old friend and we caught up in years. But the problem surfaced itself when I went home alone to an empty house.
I played a video game, then went to bed. I talked to no one.
When weekends were talked about I kept interjecting “that sounds fun” and maybe hinting at wanting to be invited in the future. In one case, I received an “It’s not your thing.” To which I countered that the event we were going to was also not my thing, but was proven wrong with the frequency of which I went. He conceded that point.
But then I got to thinking of two things: Why was I trying so hard? And what do I even enjoy any more? What is my thing, anyway?
For the latter, that was what put me in a funk all week. I know I’ve been in a loop of trying new things, an endless search of finding more of what I like, or what I used to like. I know what I like (sushi! sci-fi! chiptunes! writing!). I know what I do (like, my job, and sleeping in, and drinking way too much tea). I also know what I like to do and what I would like to do. And yet I feel so driftless. Because… if any of that is me, or just things I like to do? Is there a difference? Should there be? Those few years I was becalmed really messed me up. Because the things I like now– are they genuine, or just stopgaps to keep the sadness at bay? And like the damaging habits I created to protect myself, do I need to discard them?
The real answer, as always, is a bit more complex than that. The things that kept me sane whilst becalmed are valid; I just need to apply them in a healthy and fun context. I realized I stopped writing poetry because I was tired of being in pain. But there are other things to write stanzas about, like this beautiful dream I have that’s worth living. I need to do these things not in the context of escapism, but the creativity it’s supposed to be and catharsis when necessary.
But.
Why was I trying so hard?
The non-eloquent answer is, frankly, that I’m lonely. I wish I was invited to things, too. I wish I had more to do that aren’t solitary pursuits. And I wish I wasn’t so petrified of reaching out to people and I was more of a conversationalist and was interesting and not so scared.
When all was said and done that Saturday night, it was just me, Xenosaga III, and Pokemon GO. Not a message received (but I didn’t reach out, either). No one dropped by (but I haven’t invited anyone yet, either). My nearest and dearests were out of town, and the majority of my friends have moved away from this city or were otherwise busy (or so I assumed).
I grew too used to being alone. But now that I’ve felt that it didn’t have to be that way, the slide from solitude to loneliness is acute.
I need to do what they’re doing– reaching out, making plans, being a little brave. But it all seems so hard.
Episode 35. She’s sitting on the swing, not rocking much, and staring out into space. She had little idea what she was doing, and had been walking, wandering, for awhile. When her name is called she runs off.
Today, because I’m frankly Internet Millennial Scum, I thought of one in the style of those over-elaborate and weirdly-specific “Current Mood” meme:
Lynn Minmay running off the stage, for she no longer enjoyed singing.
And that is a nod to Episode 34: After declaring she did not want to sing, she runs off the stage and away from a disappointed audience.
It took me this long to realize I was in that same predicament.
I was (am?) Lynn Minmay.
—
Between the long work hours and exhaustion and expectations and stresses of being a brokeass Black queer that was unable to follow the same Picket Fence Blueprint as most folx (not to mention the growing pains of learning), I lost myself.
My hobbies began collecting dust. I withdrew. I never talked much, but at that point I could’ve been an good mime. My writing slowed drastically. I stopped dreaming. I stopped day dreaming.
I didn’t quite enjoy things anymore. That is, if I ever did anything. Auxiliary power seemed to go toward anything I could shut my mind off yet still enjoy it. Or escape. Temporarily. Because the knowledge of what awaited me was always there: grind and disappointment. And when I did have time, there was always one question: What the hell do I do with myself?
Depression, punctuated by anxiety and the occasional crying jag, was all I was. There were still good times and my self that could be gleaned through the cracks, but they were becoming fewer and fewer. True happiness seemed temporary; sometimes it was better not to even try.
In a non-poetic way: I lost my mojo.
I’ve lost touch.
“What am I even singing for?”
And thus I limped through for a year or three.
Fast forward to a year later, this month. Change happened. And I am just able to put it all into words now.
“What am I even singing for?” That was a question that haunted the back of my mind, but now I must answer.
Because I thought I just “changed.” Or worse, grew up! Who’s got time for hobbies? You should be happy with a 30 minute walk around the block! You’re supposed to be an adult now! And like, you’re too tired for all that fun stuff anyway. Better save up your strength for some adult thing or whatever.
Bleak, yeah?
Have I changed that much? Am I a boring ol’ so-n-so that doesn’t have enough time anymore?
I honestly don’t think so.
There have been genuine changes– no one can be static forever, I think of them as enhancements– but there is still the hint the things that are simply just buried.
I’m finding me again.
I’m finding my songs. My old ones.
And for the first time in too long I can see the finale: yes, walking toward the sunset in a ruined city and the SDF-1 totaled… but I’ve made peace with Misa and Hikaru and there’s a new song on my lips.
And before you knew it, two seven months have passed by. I had no drafts or throwbacks to throw into the queue, so the silence lingered.
A bit has happened since then: we’ve moved to a bigger and better house, I received my vaccination (edit: and booster!), I saw folks I haven’t seen in the past year, saw my LDR girlfriend for the first time in about five years (long story, so that’ll be a separate post), I also reconnected with someone special (again, perhaps, a separate post), caught up with a dear old friend at a tiny birthday party… and the job has been the same, despite the promotion and raise that came with it.
I’ve been finally catching up on IDW’s Sonic the Hedgehog, and I can say– as someone that lived and breathed Archie Sonic (and SatAM, and Jaleel White’s VA career, and the games for someone who never owned a SEGA system) I’ve missed Sonic comics.
Also, come on. I love hedgehogs.
Ah, yes, and this wasn’t just any move: I wasn’t moving out of my parent’s house thrice (so I had practice), nor was I moving alone and only had me to worry about.
It was a lot of frustrating moving parts. Packing all the fragile things. Figuring out which perishables to take. Attempting to organize, only for it to fall into chaos in the garage. Misplaced boxes. Packing the mugs. Wrestling the cats. Losing power cords. Dropping a heavy box of board games on your foot.
But, again, we did it. And we hired movers for the big stuff this time.
My initial response is to say that said move was the most exciting thing to happen to me so far this year.
And here is where I re-calibrate my definition of “excitement,” because, sure, moving and painting are always exciting, but it takes a backseat to how I feel about some important people in my life. Moving and painting just made me tired. What got my heart beating was how we had all interacted– sharing podcasts, listening to Daft Punk, accidentally coming across A Wonk and getting bopped upside the head for it (figuratively).
Granted, this was Stuff I Already Knew after living with them for two years prior. But in the context of expanding into a new space it was exciting nonetheless.
I am happy at home.
But I am also tired.
As I brushed upon earlier, work has been… the same. But also, the strain of working in a pandemic for almost two years has been felt for quite some time now. The workload has been punishing, the pay is ridiculous, and many have been moving on to other pastures.
And I hope to be one of them, soon.
Because despite my aforementioned promotion, things have been largely the same and I have stagnated. Which could possibly be overlooked if I liked my job more… and if the pay was better… and if that one coworker would stop pissing all of us off… if the environment wasn’t so toxic… if there was actual upward mobility…
And the fatigue of being in this pandemic, as well. The misinformation, the tempers, the Trumpers, the just existing, the covid scares, all of it. I’m too tired to even elaborate on this but IYKYK. And all I know is there’s a therapist appointment in my immediate future.
Because of that, mostly, I haven’t been writing. Or doing much else. There’s been quite a bit of Youtube and Blanket Nesting.
At least Animal Crossing: New Horizons finally has some new content. I’ll go chew on that.
Usually I’m all about the bare minimum of setting things on fire (or fireworks), getting drunk, and throwing some beef bullshit on a grill. I was never one for all that gross patriotism with the flags and USA is Gr8 stuff, anyway. But I can’t bring myself to do it this year.
The 4th of July was always like Thanksgiving for me– it’s not a holiday for me or my people, not really. It was just another day to celebrate surviving this fucking farce of a country with the people you love, in spite of it doing its very best to kill you. Another passive day, just slightly different. Probably more food.
I just can’t see the little good in our country today.
And I just cannot muster the strength to even acknowledge my strength that got me here today. Because I am so, so fucking tired. The feeling of “it does not get better” is beginning to seep into my bones. It may very well be there already.
So, yeah. My cynicism and depression are too high today, and the constant background-process grieving is too much to be distracted by sparklers. I’m sure y’all understand.
Now go and read Frederick Douglass’ speech about the 4th of July. This is all I got.
This was a draft for 2020-01-01 that I never posted.
I stayed in this year. After work, I was so tired. I stayed home with my nesting partners, played video games, and watched more Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure. I drank a mimosa with a lover once the clock struck twelve, and kissed everyone I could.
I’m rolling out the accolades, still. “Happy New Year!” with a shitton of emojis. We did it. Another year. Let’s make this year even better.
And yet, I am sad.
I open up Discord and there’s names that have been grey to me for months. I’m still not over my friend’s passing. I’m dreading work drudgery tomorrow. I’m worried about a childhood friend. Deadlines are looming. Were we even missed? More adulting this weekend. Plans being made.
I keep backspacing.
I’m stumped. I don’t know if I should say any more.
I’ve until midnight to dole out my “Happy New Year”s.
