dear person who keeps going on at me about how i’m smart and therefore “you don’t have to worry life is easy your exams will be super easy no matter how hard the subject is”
fuck you
PSA: The creator of the fandom-mused-fandom-games project is planning on using the ableist and terrible Moonmoon meme in their art project as the ‘mascot’ for the fandom flag.
Proof is here.
Ugh. Welp.
Source: whimsicalcircles
Nobody ever looks at me and thinks instinctively that I must be genderqueer, or that my preferred pronouns are neutral. And they never will, no matter how much effort I put into androgenizing my body, my voice, my wardrobe, or my personality. It’s impossible for me to be read as the correct gender. When I’m making a first impression on anybody, I am male or I am female.
Pass/fail: Navigating a World that doesn’t Believe your Gender Exists (via ninjabikeslut)
(via thoughtstoberemembered)
Source: ninjabikeslut
fate has a horrible sense of humor
My wrist has good weeks and bad weeks, and it’s currently escalated to a fairly bad state (but by far not the worst I’ve had). I can’t open doors or containers, can barely put clothing on or shower, or even pick up books etc with my dominant hand, but I can still type and play the piano.
Looking back a few years, I remember arguing that I could deal with any loss of autonomy and limbs as long as I could still use the computer with ease, because it’s such a big part of how I communicate and thrive.
I guess I still stand by that, but wow did I not have a full appreciation of how big a difference even an injury that ACC deems too minor to deal with (and thus I only have a stock-standard brace which doesn’t even fit my goddamn hand) can make.
er, trigger warning for scars and brief mention of rather damaging coping mechanisms and mental illness/addictions and exams. oh man. there totally should be a trigger warning for exams.
—-
extremely noisy photo. my apologies.
just… one of those days, when I look at the scar on the back of my hand - a tiny tiny member of all too many across my arms alone, ignoring the rest of them - it always throws me a bit, and then I realize how bony my little (carpal tunnel-ed) wrist looks, how fragile I am, how breakable still, and my gaze can’t help but settle on the fading blotchy-map-of-Japan scar that my parents created and wonder why the hell the least traumatic of my memories are the ones that scar worst.
Moody, sorry. Tired and unable to feel emotion at all, which is almost more frustrating now I’ve actually gotten used to not suppressing them. And I have an exam tomorrow morning. At eight. While a friend plans an intervention for a mutual friend with a terrifying addiction, and another tries to work out what to do with an even more worrying young friend.
…honestly? One thing I’m glad for is that I’m no longer tempted to go overdose on antipsychotics or sedatives or find a suitably sharp object any more.
the paradox
One of the worst things about having a crippling past is everyone else.
It’s being angry at and jealous of those who exemplify the perfect clueless life, but it’s also an endless cycle of comparing yourself to them. Never good enough. Never stable enough. Never whole enough.
Sometimes it’s hard to remember that everyone has fears and losses and memories and pain. Different magnitudes and different stories, but we all do. Of course, the reminder brings instant guilt, an instant “who am I to judge them? I don’t know them as well as I think I do.”
But you can’t help but see everyone else appearing to get on with their lives, broken as they may also be, and resent them for appearing okay, much as you probably appear the same to them.
trapped in cages/ forged with our own hands, as I put it once in a poem from childhood I recently rediscovered. I guess it’s why the Internet feels like home. Because without the social protocol of the real world, everyone’s more real, more human.
Sorry. This is unlike me.
I’m… just having a hard time bouncing back. It’s been a rough few weeks, and I would say that I can’t wait for the end of the year except I realize that’s not true every time I remember where I’m going. This summer I have to face my demons, return home - fuck that, it’s not my home anymore - for what I hope to be the last time.
I don’t know if it’ll bring closure or just dredge up more forgotten memories. And judging by how many times I’ve found myself curled up on the floor this last week, I don’t need any more of those.
trigger warning for rape / child-on-child sexual assault. if you’re anything like me, you should stop reading now but are going to read it anyway.
I’m in a rather fragile mood right now, having had very little sleep in the last week due to an influx of work and an equally overpowering apathy. I’ll have to talk about what happened at some point or other, and maybe there’ll be some context then.this may not be the best way to share (a convoluted fragment of) my story, but here. have some poorly written, stilted prose.
all the emotion and tension and comment-drama around marriage equality being up to a vote is wearing me out.
it’s fantastic. it’s finally happening. but, really, it disheartens me when I find out that many people I respected are homophobic or transphobic, when to me this should be so bloody obvious no one should be opposing it. and it’s all it’s finally here, I can finally go out and campaign my heart out but it’s this ball of tension and emotion and people fighting tooth and nail because they feel their religion will be destroyed against people fighting tooth and nail because they just want to get married, you know and people I dearly love have come up to me and told me my stance is hurting them somehow and I want to do lots of things to help just get it over this first threshold but I have no idea if they’ll work and I’m swamped with assignments and poor health and it’s consuming all my spare time (and some time I really can’t spare) to keep track of it all and worry and fret and fume and weep.
