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Wildin
5 years ago
General
I am in need of a space to release my emotions when they're raw and half-formed, and I think this may be it. While parts of my brain scream I should think of what other people would want to see if I'm going to be putting my art up here, I know I need a place where I rest that part of my mind and mostly don't curate my self-expression. I've noticed myself putting pressure on my irl friends when my mental health has been bad lately, because I've held so many depressive thoughts back that the dam is cracking open and they're leaking out whether I want it or not.
The thing is, this site is pretty explicit. Because there is so much hardcore stuff on here, I don't feel it's as strange in this place to express oneself in out-of-the-ordinary ways. I feel it's not so bad to be expressive without analyzing every little aspect. Maybe if I can release my stronger feelings here, they won't infect the folks in my close circle at home. I have exhausted myself of being socially careful. But it's that very carefulness that keeps my friendships healthy. So I think... if I can be more open here, I will be less exhausted elsewhere. That's my plan. To be more wild. To be more brazen.
I don't have the artistic community around me that I once had. In school, there were friends who also drew strange or explicit or emotional stuff, and they created a little insulated place where I could make art and feel seen. Well, they're no longer around. And for some years now, I also lost my art. Too much pain and fatigue to create. I've clawed my way out of the deepest pit of illness to a point where I can create a little. And who I am as a person has changed, markedly, even in just this last year. My emotions are wack. They're bubbling up uncontrolled.
I've got to express my feelings, and I don't want to run my mouth at my irl friends. They don't need to see that weird kinda manic way I act when I'm trying and failing to control my feelings of desperation and lost hope. They don't need to hear about my pain over and over. They have their own difficulties to face, and I don't want to be emotionally demanding; this is especially true since I don't think I could handle returning the favor for them, when their own emotions run high. No, I know I'd ghost them. My mind is fragile at this point in my life. I'll be stronger again some day, but denying the fact that I'm weak and shaky right now will do me no good.
And I have lost hope. For thirty years, even in the worst of times, I retained a kernel of optimism, nestled deep in my heart. Through the abuse, the depression, the loneliness, I held hope within myself and trusted that things would improve. That it was the nature of things to improve. That there was a natural progression to life, and it started out hard, but things would gradually get easier. That's not true. In this society, unless you are wealthy, everything you have can disappear immediately. The house will always win, and you are not the house. The evil in this country is not passive, bad situations are not a mistake. We are miserable because misery makes us easy to exploit. The doors to escape poverty have been systematically shut. It's not natural, living in cramped hovels, working all day, stressing every minute. This is not a human, or humane, way of living. The more I look at it, the more ridiculous I find it.
Hope has been replaced with a cold seed of anger. I could count on my optimism, in the past, to carry me through hard times. It has broken. I have found, people wax romantic about the importance of hope, but there are things precious in the losing of hope, too: the recognition that hope is no band-aid for the scraping lifestyle of the oppressed, and the stab of an iron desire to use one's power in the fight against the oppressors. Righteous fury. Regular humans, my people, should not have to live all over this country in a cycle of squalor and desperation. The hammer beats down ceaselessly.
All this has destabilized my emotions. Add a changing body chemistry and surgery and covid fears on top of that, and I am rapidly metamorphosing. I wonder where I'll have brought myself by this time next year. I want to use my power. I want to reclaim my voice, my body, and a space in the environment. I am horrified by this world.
The thing is, this site is pretty explicit. Because there is so much hardcore stuff on here, I don't feel it's as strange in this place to express oneself in out-of-the-ordinary ways. I feel it's not so bad to be expressive without analyzing every little aspect. Maybe if I can release my stronger feelings here, they won't infect the folks in my close circle at home. I have exhausted myself of being socially careful. But it's that very carefulness that keeps my friendships healthy. So I think... if I can be more open here, I will be less exhausted elsewhere. That's my plan. To be more wild. To be more brazen.
I don't have the artistic community around me that I once had. In school, there were friends who also drew strange or explicit or emotional stuff, and they created a little insulated place where I could make art and feel seen. Well, they're no longer around. And for some years now, I also lost my art. Too much pain and fatigue to create. I've clawed my way out of the deepest pit of illness to a point where I can create a little. And who I am as a person has changed, markedly, even in just this last year. My emotions are wack. They're bubbling up uncontrolled.
I've got to express my feelings, and I don't want to run my mouth at my irl friends. They don't need to see that weird kinda manic way I act when I'm trying and failing to control my feelings of desperation and lost hope. They don't need to hear about my pain over and over. They have their own difficulties to face, and I don't want to be emotionally demanding; this is especially true since I don't think I could handle returning the favor for them, when their own emotions run high. No, I know I'd ghost them. My mind is fragile at this point in my life. I'll be stronger again some day, but denying the fact that I'm weak and shaky right now will do me no good.
And I have lost hope. For thirty years, even in the worst of times, I retained a kernel of optimism, nestled deep in my heart. Through the abuse, the depression, the loneliness, I held hope within myself and trusted that things would improve. That it was the nature of things to improve. That there was a natural progression to life, and it started out hard, but things would gradually get easier. That's not true. In this society, unless you are wealthy, everything you have can disappear immediately. The house will always win, and you are not the house. The evil in this country is not passive, bad situations are not a mistake. We are miserable because misery makes us easy to exploit. The doors to escape poverty have been systematically shut. It's not natural, living in cramped hovels, working all day, stressing every minute. This is not a human, or humane, way of living. The more I look at it, the more ridiculous I find it.
Hope has been replaced with a cold seed of anger. I could count on my optimism, in the past, to carry me through hard times. It has broken. I have found, people wax romantic about the importance of hope, but there are things precious in the losing of hope, too: the recognition that hope is no band-aid for the scraping lifestyle of the oppressed, and the stab of an iron desire to use one's power in the fight against the oppressors. Righteous fury. Regular humans, my people, should not have to live all over this country in a cycle of squalor and desperation. The hammer beats down ceaselessly.
All this has destabilized my emotions. Add a changing body chemistry and surgery and covid fears on top of that, and I am rapidly metamorphosing. I wonder where I'll have brought myself by this time next year. I want to use my power. I want to reclaim my voice, my body, and a space in the environment. I am horrified by this world.
