8/1/2015 – Acceptance

Nearly a year since I started this space of screaming into the void, ostensibly as a daily exercise, but then my capacity to write anything I would ever feel comfortable with the thought of others seeing evaporated. Tears in a desert. I am not okay and I am not well, but I told someone important that I would keep writing, so here it is. Me, writing. Raging internally because the truth is a weapon that will slit my throat as surely as any act of self-destruction. If I must die, then I want to, at the very least, exercise control over the way in which I leave the world.

So maybe this is less a potential resource of writing things, or coping with neurodivergence, and maybe more shitposting akin to Tumblr, though I have to say, that particular medium scares the shit out of me. I won’t stress about writing “engaging material” or something that will make what I blather about more of interest to a usual audience. I don’t think I ever displayed myself as any sort-of authority on writing, or anything else, but I loathe the thought of it anyway. If I ever taught writing classes, it would be in a forum like the alleged philosophical trades of ancient Athens. Every writer has a fresh perspective on the medium. Yes, you too. If I insist that is true of all writers, then I must insist it is true for me, as well as for you, imagined reader. There are no teachers, no students, among writers seeking to learn. There is only experience and observation to be traded.

Well, beyond the groundwork of grammar and the mechanics of writing. To best break the rules, one must know what the rules are, and what is communicated in breaking those rules.

Anyway, this is more of a “I’m alive and will be trying to post daily, though those daily posts might be kind-of soft and silly” but hey. Maybe this is a living will. Maybe is just a way to immortalize my observations and insight so another may benefit from them, that other being someone like me, or a casual observer watching the flaming car crash with polite interest.

Today I will rest, read things I enjoy, and maybe start the process of making Baldur’s Gate playable on my machine. For, as ill as I’ve been lately, I have done things that are fun. And I thought about sharing my silly ruleset for the Sims 3, as well as my tips for people struggling with Nightmare mode for Inquisition. Maybe I’ll put those together and…Who knows.

So I’ll end this with something this important person tells me all the time, even though I can never make it true. But maybe you’ll have more luck?

Be kind to yourself.

Writing 101: No Equivalent Exchange


(Part three of a series exploring existence with anxiety and depression, previous parts found here.  Content warning for potentially upsetting material, as I’ll be reflecting on a particularly troubling day, which includes references to suicide and suicidal idealization.)

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Writing 101: The Worth of an Atypical Mind


(As a companion to my previous post concerning life with anxiety and depression, this post comes with a similar content warning concerning my own thoughts on these conditions.  Though this post should be a bit more positive…I’d rather not risk someone in an uneven state-of-mind blindly encountering writing that may be potentially damaging.)

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Writing 101: The Casualties of Anxious Living


Content warning for this post, since I’ll be discussing my own experiences with anxiety and depression.  Per the instructions, this is the first in a series concerning this topic; rest assured, I will also include a warning for those.

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9/8/2014 – Her Distaste of Labels

Just for some common ground before I start furiously flailing away at my keyboard, I’m going to quickly share what my definition of a label is.  This is done with zero research and more piecemeal from my personal observations and education background.  If this concept wears another name, or the common definition of a label is vastly different than my own, well…

Here is the literary equivalent of a shrug.  I am pursing my lips, rolling my eyes upwards while tilting my head slightly to the left, and lifting both shoulders at the same time.

I define a label as a word that informs another of an aspect of the assigned’s personality, beliefs, hobbies, and/or virtues and vices.  A label consists of both an intrinsic meaning and meanings associated with the label due to a person’s experiences and preconceptions of the label.  For example, someone might bear the label of a bookworm.  Its intrinsic meaning is “someone who really loves books.”  Other aspects attributed to being a bookworm depend upon the person being informed.  They may follow the cultural stigma that bookworms are socially awkward, shun interactions with others to read to the point of fanaticism, are bully magnets and perpetual victims in a society that values physical prowess over education, and so on.  These secondary aspects are not always negative; a bookworm may be associated with wisdom, intelligence, and worldliness due to the materials they may be observed reading.

This is a very simplistic framework for labels and I understand the flaws in my own definition (sometimes untangling the cultural aspects from the base definition is a near-impossibility due to the differing perspectives that approach this task), but, for my purposes, it will do.

(This entry…Went places.  Small content warning for abstractly discussing depression and sexual identities.  And mentions of beating small, pixelated rabbit people.)

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