Monthly Archives: May 2014

“When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am.”

I can’t believe she’s gone. For inspiration or if you didn’t know of her, read

The Daily Post

Maya Angelou by Spanglej, CC BY-SA 2.0.Maya Angelou by Spanglej, CC BY-SA 2.0.

Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with deeper meaning.

Find a beautiful piece of art. If you fall in love with Van Gogh or Matisse or John Oliver Killens, or if you fall love with the music of Coltrane, the music of Aretha Franklin, or the music of Chopin — find some beautiful art and admire it, and realize that it was created by human beings just like you, no more human, no less.

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

The idea is to write it so that people hear it and it slides through the brain and goes straight to the heart.

When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am, who we are, what we’re capable of, how…

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Mutants and Hybrids

If you were one part human, two parts something else — another animal, a plant, an inanimate object — what would the other two parts be?

I would be part phoenix, part nymph.  [As usual, a conundrum of sorts.]


The phoenix to me represents the metaphorical fire I have lived through, the scars I’ve incurred, both mentally and physically, and the ability to be reborn from the ashes of my death.  I’ve always loved Jean Grey.  At one of the glorious heights of my depressed-mania, I went as Phoenix for a Halloween party.  It was a terrible costume, just some things I picked up from a thrift shop and mainly made to look like Jean Grey’s character in the movie between phases -meets- dark phoenix.




From Wikipedia:

nymph (Greekνύμφηnymphē) in Greek mythology and in Latin mythology is a minor female nature deity typically associated with a particular location or landform. Different from goddesses, nymphs are generally regarded as divine spirits who animate nature, and are usually depicted as beautiful, young nubile maidens who love to dance and sing; their amorous freedom sets them apart from the restricted and chaste wives and daughters of the Greek polis. They are believed to dwell in mountains and groves, by springs and rivers, and also in trees and in valleys and cool grottoes.


(from  )


I also love many of the combined ideas of Elven lore.  Maybe my human part is half elf.


Earth air fire water…  I tried being Wiccan, once.  I think my Spirit is too bent now.


In summation, I’m not very human at all.

Fuzz.  Brain fuzz.

Of the stories that I remember from my childhood, there are two that relate: my great-uncle on my father’s side had multiple sclerosis, dying from related complications, and my paternal aunt was also diagnosed with MS at some point.

I know things like diet and exercise affect the brain in a very real way, but I can’t help feeling that I’m dated, too.

My aunt seems okay, if my hateful father’s words can be trusted.  He seems to care deeply for his mother, but his female siblings seem to contribute to his misogynistic worldview.  (It’s okay, he’s Catholic – that’s just to be expected, right?)  On Catholicism: I was raised to be Catholic, as well.  I had CCD classes during the week, at which time I asked questions, both aloud and internally, that further alienated me from the ‘good’ children.  I went to church almost every week.  My Catholic church wasn’t like the majority of churches in OK – they were more anti- than social.  My father was always a hateful man, and his family is deeply religious, so those two things must be related, right?

Anyway, I can’t think straight.

Sometimes I wonder why I bother trying to keep track of it all.  Does any of it matter?  Do I even matter?

I always thought I’d be something fantastic.  Apparently, when my mom tried to teach me to cook as a young child I told her I didn’t need to know because I’d have people to do that for me someday.  I thought I’d be rich and famous.  Instead I am, while generally not squeezed so tight as to be completely uncomfortable, living paycheck to paycheck through my loving husband’s generous salary.

Bills.  Medical bills.  The big squeeze.  I have years and years of them which we can’t even touch yet.  I’m still sick, aren’t I?

What the fuck is for-profit healthcare and why does it exist?  Why even have a Hippocratic Oath?

Ramble, mutter, nothing matters.

I miss true mania.  I miss not being afraid of misstepping in every conversation, too many directions.  I’m terrified of what people think of me.  Terrified that they’re right.  “She needs help.”  “What’s wrong with her?”  “Did you see all those pill bottles? She must have a terrible illness.”  And now I cry.  

I want to write – a book, a poem, a love letter to myself.  Instead I type in circles, fighting my way out of this boxed mind.

I wish I had a smoke to smoke, even if it were just vapor.  I want my bad habits to help me out of this funk.  How much sense does that make?  I haven’t had a real cigarette in five years.  I – relatively recently – purchased a rechargeable menthol-ish Swiffer package.  I liked it.  My husband did not.  He worries about my heart, my blood pressure [raise the roof], not to mention the unknown chemicals packed into those mysterious sticks and how they might affect our pets when inhaled secondhand.  A vaping place opened locally.  I want to visit.  Even if it’s nicotine-free, perhaps it will help open my mind, the doors that have been shuttered to me for so long.  They say they are made from food-safe ingredients.  I say “sure”.  I’m skeptical of everything, except for some things.  If I want to believe in something, it becomes true enough.

Today I have work to do, un-fun work.

Do people change?  I did.  Did K?  Does he ever think about me, maliciously or with an open mind?  Does it matter?  


I’ll probably be dead in a few years, months, weeks; whatever.  Time is a runny egg.  Gross and just a yolk.  Ha.

I am both empty and full.

Modestly Vain

I’m so fucked up.

If you met me in person you wouldn’t know me.  If you knew me in real life you wouldn’t like me.

Who could?

For some reason he sticks around, but really, why?

Everything is all about me, no matter what.

I’m vain in a “well I used to look like this” sort of way.  I’m continually disheveled yet …

Modesty.  I’m all about modesty now.  I have this fear of being “found out” – ugly, fat, queer, liberal.  So I shift my blouse back on my shoulders, covering up any potential cleavage.  “There, now I’m straight.”  You can’t see my skin and tear it apart.  It’s sensitive, much like the sinew and bloody mess it’s attached to.

I was constantly berated and degraded in school, and now those ghostly demons live on in my mind.
“She’s so…”

Back then I was too skinny.  I had bruises on my back from my spine rubbing against my skin.  I was still healthy, though.  I ate whatever I wanted.  I was able to lose myself in books and nature, in a way that I can’t anymore.  It all changed somewhere around year twelve or thirteen.  That’s when my innocence was lost, and that’s when I was first clinically diagnosed.

The sassier side arises later, around sixteen, when I am hospitalized for being a rebellious youth.

I envy myself.  That girl.  She was perfect.  [“Look what you’ve done, you fucking bitch.”]  I ‘could have had it all’…  ::song plays briefly in head::

I’ve had so many opportunities to reach my own personal nirvana.  Perhaps that’s why I’ve tried to kill myself so many times, an attempt to end it at the highest points.  I wonder now if I’ll ever become famous, ever be able to write again, to be myself again, or even, just to laugh again.

There’s so much in here, if I could just string it out, lace it into letters, felt it into words.

I make stuff, ya know.  No lace, or felt, not yet anyway, but I’m not far away from learning how to tat.  Macrame is both soothing and frustrating.  I even sell stuff sometimes.  It makes me feel a little bit better about myself.

I guess that’s it for now.  Cats happened.


Thicker than Blood

I’ve been playing around on  I’ve never really been close to any of my family, and I like to think it’s because almost everyone was a bigoted asshole, but sometimes I wonder what I’ve missed out on.  I traced parts of my family to Germany, Lithuania/Russia, Ireland, Barbados, and through the Civil War.  I found out I’m related to a man who owned slaves, somehow simultaneously thumping bibles and engaging in acts of war.  His name was Reverend Henry Barrington Pratt D.D.  There is a marble tablet in Roswell, Georgia inscribed with his name, stating that he was a missionary to Colombia and a writer whose works include the accepted Spanish translation of the bible.  Beneath this is written “Charles Pratt and John Hall, negro slaves, members of this church, educated and freed, to go to Africa as missionaries.”  Why was Charles’ last name also Pratt?  Did the Reverend adopt him and give him his name, or was he his father or related in some other way?  Is that too romanticized an expectation for me to have of someone in that time period?

I’ve been watching a lot of True Blood lately.  It was hard to begin the series because the characters’ accents are so atrocious.  I’ve always patted myself on the head for being from the North rather than the South, so it’s quite a mindfuck to think that I hold that in my core.  Just within my maternal grandfather’s family there seems to have been family members on both side of the divide during the Civil War.  I like to think that contributed to his cranky, bigoted exterior.  I never really knew him, but then, I don’t really know any of my family.

My paternal grandmother has virtually disowned me for being different.  I’m not sure if it’s because I’m queer, liberal, or an antitheist, or simply because I inherited the crazy from her side of the family.  Regardless the reason, she never even bothered to tell me she stopped caring about me.  She had won the lottery during the 80s, and promised a college education for each of her grandchildren.  I saw money at Christmas during my formative years, but after I turned eighteen she seemed to conveniently forget all about me.  While on, I found contributions made by my paternal aunt – the one who doesn’t have MS or some other relatively mysterious health problem.  She wrote (poorly) a tale told to her by her mother about my great grandfather; that he rode away from Hitler’s madness on horseback, escaping Germany to come to America, and that, a great man, he died from a stroke in his forties.  The historical documents age him 20 years older than that story does, but he did live during the correct time frame.  

There was such poor record-keeping during those times, it’s extraordinary to find pictures of relatives, but I did see some from my maternal side.  It’s been very difficult to keep track of names, because many of my family members wanted to hide their ethnicities, and melt into our great ‘pot’.  I’ve found many name discrepancies just within one generation, particularly on my paternal side.  Some of them were from Lithuania, which is also listed as Russia in some documents.  Being Russian seems to have always had poor reception here in the States, so I don’t know where the lines cross and where they blur.

I feel blurred and blurry-eyed.  I’ve been cleaning this weekend.  The dust of the past is too real.

Have Mercy

The actress who plays Mercy Lewis on the TV show Salem looks an awful lot like my former pre-T lover.

Mercy Lewis:


K now:

kalib new crop

This makes me hunger and thirst at the same time.

I don’t miss him, except for the times that I do.

He was abusive, sometimes downright horrid, but he was also so amazing.

I’ve described my love for him before as such:

“You see a beautiful, exotic creature and yearn to get close to it.  Every moment spent with it, that it does not bite you, is precious and amazing in itself.  The pain becomes worth it.”

Those eyes, I say, those eyes.  He was so gorgeous (and I mean that in the most non-gender-specific way possible).

Listening to The Glitch Mob and feeling strangely nostalgic.  I was so beautiful and I didn’t even know it.  So strong, yet so weak.


Why am I only happy when it rains?

A chill wind caresses my cheek as the first few droplets of rain fall.  I breathe deeply, cleansing my lungs of the everyday sun-fried stinks.  

So, why?

Most of the time the sun bothers me tremendously.  I wear glasses and I currently cannot afford prescription sunglasses, so I have to wear these giant over-glass things that make me look like a freak (and not in the good way).  I’m extremely sensitive to sunlight, unless it’s cloudy.  White and gray skies = a smile.  I’m also not a fan of heat.  I’ve had heat-induced seizures before and even though I’ve been seizure-free for almost seven years, I still get an aura when I just can’t take it.  My husband lovingly tells me to “toughen up” when I just wasn’t made for this shit.  I’m Nordic/Germanic/Celtic.  I belong in a climate where the foliage is green (until autumn) and the skies tumultuous.  I even feel like I’m going to ‘faint’ when I take a hot shower, even if it’s not even that hot to other people.  

Living in Oklahoma is pretty hard for a girl like me.

But I know it’s harder still for many.

I had a conversation yesterday with someone who is now my friend.  She and I discussed gender issues, something that doesn’t come up often in day-to-day conversations, especially not with my husband.  Like many Oklahomans, he was convinced sexuality and gender orientation were both one-and-the-same and personal choices, until I came around.  I have since instilled in him a surety that this is not the case, based on my own experiences, along with several easy-to-grasp concepts, such as the question, “when did you choose to be straight”?  We don’t choose who we love or what we look like on the inside or out.  We can improve on things, like our social skills and heighten our compassion for others, but we can’t gut the system without leaving most of ourselves behind.  I dated a pre-transition FTM for about three years.  For many reasons it was the most difficult relationship of my life.  Due to his previous experiences and his underlying issues, he was very difficult to get along with.  He pushed, I pulled.  I was his prey.  I loved him.  He was a mess, but then, so was I.  I wouldn’t be where I am now if not for him, and while I might complain an awful lot about my life, it’s really not so bad.  He was abused verbally, physically, and sexually, from toddler-hood to adulthood, by everyone from his family to his friends.  He’s not alone.  Transgendered persons are even more frequently bullied than the other members of the LGBT community.  They are beaten, raped, and killed, simply because some dumbass intolerant fuck can’t seem to grasp the concept of ‘live and let live’.  They are misunderstood and mistreated, by almost the entire world.  So when I meet someone who knows someone in the LGBT community, especially someone who is trans, I jump with joy at the thought of having common ground.  I understand!  I may not be trans myself, but I went through a lot with him, and witnessed everything he had to go through, too.  I consider myself pansexual, because bi just doesn’t cut it.  I’m not gender-blind, but I am attracted to people who may not fit into a binary system, and who may not look a certain way.  This doesn’t negate my love for my hetero cis male husband, it just means I am more than the box in which I choose to be confined.  It’s nice in here.  It’s safe.  It makes me feel guilty for “passing” so well.  I get off easy, being able to play the part of a femme, while watching and empathizing hardcore with those who don’t.  I’m not so femme-y, but I’m not butch, either.  I’m just me.  I can’t give up this part of who I am, my past, without giving up a part of my self that I can’t bear to lose.  

My bipolar is my greatest enemy and my oldest friend, but what exactly is it?

While browsing through my stuffed inbox, I found an email from Psych Central, which eventually, after much link-clicking, led me to this page:


I’ve discussed with my psychiatrist how crazy and alone I feel before, and I can’t remember what she told me I have.  According to this page, I have something somewhere between ‘Bipolar 1 Group 5’ and Bipolar Depression.

How exactly do I feel?

Well, it may start with a giggle but turn into a choked sob.  I may laugh hysterically, blowing something that may not even be funny to other people far out of proportion.  (It’s difficult to not laugh and cry simultaneously constantly while living in Oklahoma.)

I find other people depressingly hilarious.  They’re so sad, but they’re so sure.  (Political rant withheld.)

I prefer the inappropriate and vulgar to the pristine.

Right now I am: troubled, excited, anxious, depressed, feeling like I’m worthless but also destined to be famous, feeling useless, pent-up energy coated in exhaustion.  I could fall asleep at any moment, but I’m in pain, so never mind, I can’t.

I’m generally quite paranoid about other people, especially those with whom I must share this state.  I’m terrified of every kind of person, except the kind that is just like me – presumably the scariest of all!  I occasionally entertain thoughts of killing.  I do not enjoy this thoughts, per se, but they cross my mind nonetheless.  I’m terrified of death.  I was convinced that my golden birthday, the 16th, would be my last.  When I woke up after several handfuls of pills were consumed the night before, I realized something had either gone terribly wrong or wonderfully right, or maybe it’s the other way around.  That was not the last time I tried.  I imagine falling – from grace, from a cliff, or into an empty pool.  Since then, I’ve become convinced that the next birthday will be my last, and I’m amazed that I’ve made it so far.

I often toy with the idea of my own mortality.  I occasionally become convinced that I have multiple sclerosis.  My aunt has it, my great uncle died from it, and I’ve experienced almost every recorded symptom of it.  But hey, maybe I’m just crazy.

I was given medication for ADHD, but I had to be prescribed an anti-anxiety medication in addition to it, to level me off.  Now I’m still stuck with Klonnie, while the amphetamines are gone.

I can’t hold a thought, form a sentence, without cringing, grinding my teeth…

My dark thoughts race.

My eyes feel both gluey and unglued.  I have a ton of ‘floaters’ and ‘sparkles’ that remain unexplained.

I’m unbalanced, both when I stand and when I think.

I want to create.  I want to embrace the elusive mania, [a red dragon], but can’t summon a signal.

I don’t even have the patience or attention span to play my favorite video games anymore.

I imagine my hair fanned out, in flames.  I imagine myself at 23, ‘woe is me’, but I’m just not combustible any more.

In person I am quiet, shy, withdrawn, fearful, timid, tearful, when I really just want to scream “FUCK” and run around stealing shit and kicking people.  Oh, those were the days.

Oh, I still get upset in public.  I still fill up on rage, I just seem stuck, filled, unable to release it, unable to summon the dragon, breathe flames and “burninate the countryside”.

I remember things that seem to have far too much significance to me, while forgetting to complete simple, yet important, tasks.

I’ve applied for disability, but unless The Cell’s technology comes to fruition, no one else will ever know what it’s like in here.

I feel so fucking stupid.

Thanks for reading, if you do.

Meeting New People

I find meeting new people to be exceptionally challenging.
I consider myself psychologically disabled, and there are many stigmas associated with mental illness.
I’m afraid of most people.
When I find someone I may have something in common with, I become fearful that I will fuck it up prior to anything actually happening. This holds me back in many ways. It’s only amplified when I find someone I know I have nothing in common with (re: most people in this state).

I found a girl/lady on Facebook through a Nerdy Girls group, with whom I may have something in common.  Her husband may or may not be transgendered.  (How dare you WordPress for telling me that is spelled incorrectly!  [But then again, it also considers its own name to be misspelled.])

I lived a wild life, chasing a trans heart breaker, for about three years.  We met online while I was in college at a progressive girls-only school.  It was fated from the start.  He made fun of me and I fell in love.  He was LJ friends with my fat slob of a roommate, a girl I still resent, as she stole several things from me and had nasty messy sex on my bed.  Anyway, I fell for him, and I guess I’ll never really know how he felt about me, because I’m forbidden to talk to him, for a good reason.

I always knew I was different in some way pertaining to my sexuality – I just didn’t have a label at the time: pansexual, or queer, until I went to that college and joined a ‘queer’ group, Out There.

Despite my being in a monogamous and heterosexual relationship right now, I still feel this is an important part of who I am.   My attraction to ‘other’ is unavoidable, and it’s not even sexual, it’s just an “ahh, someone else who understands what this is like”.  I know that I will never personally feel the amount of persecution that many other people feel, but I am an ally, through and through, and want to wear that proudly but am afraid to do so.  Having been in a long-term relationship with someone who struggled intensely with gender issues and societal constructs, I feel a definite sense of kinship with those who are part of a larger community with which I cannot retain membership at this time.  I feel like an outcast in both worlds: I’m not gay and I’m not straight.  I’m in a hetero relationship with a man who, while very loving and understanding, whose opinion I have influenced greatly regarding equality, will never understand how I feel on this, and will generally feel a bit of shame, because he thinks he can never be what I look for in a person.  Just because he is biologically one thing doesn’t mean that what he is as a whole isn’t good enough for me: it certainly is.

And here I have lost my original train of thought, as usual.

Well, I WANT to meet people like me, I’m just too frightened to put myself out there.  Frightened on several different levels.  I don’t want to make my husband feel alienated.  I don’t want to seem as though I am flirting with anyone.  I just want friends who understand me.

I love my friends, but most of them don’t understand me very much at all.

With one of my female friends I have a very distant relationship, despite us living geographically near each other, because we have very different lives and histories, and I’m always afraid of showing my hand.

And so, here I am, alone, at home, alone… in general I am quite tortured.  I do most of the torturing, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

Intro to a Girl on Fire

I am a bipolar bitch.  I am creative.  I am many things, but most of all this: tentative.

I am sometimes so bipolar that I do not actually have any idea who or what I am.

I used to be a writer… then somehow my brain got scrambled even more than it already was.

Now I’m a loser.

How can one be both full and sucked out?

I feel full of ideas… sometimes… full of potential… maybe

but then

I also feel like I have nothing left, like I gave of myself to too many things, and now I lie still, somewhere between the stages of recuperation and expiration.


I am fucked up, yes.  But I am also – unable to follow a single train of thought through to completion.

I don’t know what to do with myself.  Therapy might be therapeutic had I the funds and the energy to commit.

I make things.  I like doing this.  I like pretty things, shiny things, things that glitter, things that shimmer  Most things pretend, but that’s usually socially acceptable.  Crystals, crystal ball, watch me fall.


I will attempt to keep things spelled and arranged properly, but my brain just fucking quits when I need it to function, so no promises there.  I used to be a ‘spelling maven,’ [no, Nazi is not an appropriate term under any fucking circumstance] but now most things elude me.  I can’t tell which fractured part of my brain is the most confuddled, but it seems to be the parts that I need, constantly.  I lost my grasp on grammar.  Things like time and life run through my fingers like water, and most of the time I don’t even give a shit.

So sorry, not sorry, I’m vulgar, get the fuck over it.

In person I am meek.  Troubled, having trouble trying to decide which words to draw upon, how to act just so – right.  I live in an area of the country where guns are prevalent, education much less so.  To be tolerable, I must create a porous shell; most bits and pieces of me cannot escape, whilst the world around me seeps in, permeating my being,  I attempt to pay attention, but I usually cannot see that which is supposed to be most evident.  Things like a god evade me.  Stuff that’s supposed to be important disgusts me.  I hate children, I hate the ever-worshiped-and-worshiping family, and church is an abomination.  My family’s not even that fucked up.  I just can’t stand those little bundles of ooze and shit.  Sometimes they’re cute, but they usually only make that face when they’re dropping a massive deuce.  And the older the get, the farther from desirable they become, with grubby hands you can never clean frequently enough, whiny noises, demands, constant ‘no’s, NEEDS and WANT WANT WANTs.

I prefer my fur-babies.  They desire love and affection, never have unreasonable demands, and will always be perfectly beautiful and adorable.  No awkward phases here.  Two cats, one dog, maybe more to come.

I want a horse but am too poor and too physically fucked up to own one right now.

Did I mention I’m fat?  Absolutely hideous.  I feel like I’m bloated, full of bitterness perhaps.  I disdain all I see around me, but mostly it’s because my vision is faulty.


Did you expect substance?  I’ll leave you be now.  I can’t compete with real people.