Friday, October 10, 2014

My Name is Ann

For the longest time, this page was intentionally left blank. I'm not sure if this is because I was afraid to set pen to paper or if I simply didn't have anything to say. I admit, I've spent the better part of my life confined within the safety of silence but I contend that the choice wasn't always mine. Most people don't want to hear what some of us have to say. I don't think the majority of people are intentionally cruel, either. In fact, it's somewhat paradoxical need to care that keeps most people in the dark. In order to care about something, one generally has a drive to understand how that thing works. People tend to get paralyzed when presented with a problem they don't understand. If they don't understand the problem, how can they be expected to solve it?

I never really sought after solutions, however. Part of the problem with problems is that they are incredibly hard to solve if there isn't really a problem to begin with. Imaginary problems are the worst kind because the definition of the problem and consequently the solution to said problem can only be found within the confines of those defining the problem. It's hard to appreciate help for a manufactured ailment, no matter how sincere the help seems, but I digress.

I suppose it is important to describe my circumstances in order to provide context, even though I'm at the point where context doesn't matter much anymore. I have known all my life that I exist in a place that is out of phase with everyone and everything else in the universe, at least it seems that way from my limited internal perspective. I say this not only based on my own observation, but also from the observations of others, who are kind enough to tell me these observations at every available opportunity. I've been told that these people are trained in observing behavior and context and that in order to integrate into normal society, it would be ideal that I listen to what they have to say and then model my behavior based on this input. There are ample opportunities for integration but for some reason I have been elevated to the highest and most intense program. It seems illogical to me that in order to become part of society, I have been isolated from it in a profound way, but since I'm the one in treatment, my opinion has become moot.

I am comfortable here in my own little bubble of reality. This comfort comes from the fact that I largely ignore my surroundings and exist within my own mind for the most part. To the outside observer, this may seem like I am content to sit around and stare at the walls. This is largely true. Of course this seems incredibly boring to most as they don't seem to see the same things within the walls that I do. The fact that I see subtle nuances, patterns and sometimes even words written on every surface makes me some sort of an abnormality. I spent a great deal of my childhood ignoring my reality and substituting it for the fantasy that is commonly accepted by the mass consciousness. Later in life, I found that I could no longer ignore what I was seeing or feeling. For a while, I found a mechanism of excuse that allowed me to experience my own reality while giving the outside world some sort of a plausible explanation. However, as all finely constructed lies do, it fell apart.

I wish I could say the lie came tumbling down like a massive fireball, destroying everything in its wake while at the same time manifesting a strange type of beauty. Realistically, it all ended with a bit of a non-committal whimper. I think things would have gone differently if I had noticed long ago that cracks were starting to form. When one is protected by a magic box, it is easy to ignore it failing and hard to accept the reality of it fading away. I guess that's why I'm still here, being told one thing but believing another. Both sides are on the same well-meaning coin but when you don't give a shit about the coin to begin with, it's hard to appreciate the subtle differences between the two sides.

Don't get me wrong. In a way, I am happy. Everything I need to exist as a carbon-based life form is provided for me. I don't need to worry about where my next meal is coming from or even about having to decide what to wear. Granted, everything is mind-numbingly non-stimulating, because people are under the misguided assumption that stimulation is part of the root system of my problem. Everything about my day to day existence is plotted and planned down to the last nanometer. I think I've even begun to blink on some sort of a predetermined schedule. I don't mind, really. It is very taxing on the body and mind to be self-sufficient. On the other hand, it is difficult waking up every day to a routine that fundamentally is bothersome. I am given the illusion of choice, of course. I can have either eggs or French toast for breakfast and I sometimes I'm allowed to watch whatever channel on T.V. I want, assuming it isn't too this or that. I have recently been trusted with a notepad and a pen, but only on day shift, when someone is available to make sure I'm not doing something nefarious. Presumably, this is so I can communicate with the outside world, but I'm convinced that no one here would really be interested in the thoughts churning around my head. Is there someone “out there” that possibly might be interested in studying one woman's decent into madness?

If you are that person, my name is Ann.

Thursday, August 8, 2013

The Most Loving A-hole

Some days (more often than I'd like to admit) I think I am a total asshole. I am not an asshole by intent, in fact I work incredibly hard at not being an asshole. I try to act and speak only out of love but sometimes I fail. My goal is to be the most loving person I possibly can be but at the end of the day, I find myself being a jerk sometimes. Society and my interactions with it in the past have programmed in deep responses to certain stimuli and as a result, I can say and do things that I later regret. I don't believe that people say things they don't mean. When things are said, especially in the heat of the moment, I certainly do mean what I say. Upon the opportunity for deeper reflection, I usually find that what I said wasn't entirely justifiable. Something triggered a response and without thinking, I acted on it. Of course this means I am constantly apologizing for myself. Is a knee-jerk emotional response something I have control over? Sometimes I think yes, absolutely. Other times, I'm not so sure. The dichotomy of jerk VS victim is a hard pill to understand, much less swallow. I have a deep desire to own everything that is involved with my consciousness but at the end of the day, there are some things I just don't have mastery over.

Friday, June 7, 2013

Dear, Me.

     I've been staring at this screen off and on for hours now.  I've been avoiding writing this for the last week.  It isn't that the subject matter bothers me or that I can't think of anything to say.  Realistically, I'm having a problem figuring out the order of my jumbled thoughts.  I'm supposed to be reflecting on the past couple of years and evaluating where I'm at now.  The problem is, is that I really don't know where I am now.  In a lot of ways, I am better off.  I have a much deeper understanding of who I am and why I function the way I do.  I've become proficient in mapping out my tendencies and have even developed a few healthier tendencies in the process. On the other side of the coin, I feel like I am back at square one.

     I am at a phase in my life where I don't know where I'm going.  I'm in by no means stuck, quite the opposite.  I feel like I am on rocket skates hurling towards this...this thing but I have no idea what the thing is or why I absolutely have to get there yesterday.  It's a deep, burning, passionate drive that I feel within but one without purpose. I used to think that the passion was reserved solely for creating and promoting art.  I put all of my time, effort and a considerable part of my spirit into what I thought was the only reason I existed.

    As I chased the rabbits deeper, I began to realize that art was therapeutic.  At first I didn't really notice a shift in the paradigm. One day, though, I woke up and the thought of creating art for the purpose of selling it to someone (for either money or a grade) made my stomach ache. I'm not sure if it was because I loathed the idea of having to change my creative focus based on the whims of other people or if I was afraid of people finding fault in what ultimately would be an expression of my thoughts and feelings at a moment in time.  In retrospect, I had already come to the conclusion long ago that I didn't want to write professionally, at least not in any type of creative capacity.  I'm not terribly shocked that my feelings on the subject would bleed into other artistic mediums.

     I create art because it is the only way I can express the churning mass of feelings and thoughts that pound through my skull like the thrum of an old, clunky machine. I have come to accept that I was born with an incredible lack of verbal communication skills and an inherent mistrust of telling people exactly how I feel. Most of the time, I don't know exactly how I feel.  Art helps me process through the confusion so I can get to the point where I can explain it, or at least get to the point where I can begin figuring out how to start explaining it.  People who buy commercial art in any capacity rarely care about the emotional intent behind the design, especially when it comes to advertising or any other mass media work.  They know what they like and if they don't like it, the artist is usually out of a job.  I have absolutely no way of controlling what I feel or what chooses to be expressed at any given moment and thus I can't make any guarantees that I will be able to create something that is commercially viable every time I put proverbial pen to paper.

    This dream, this passion, this drive that had fueled my inner desires and brought me through several episodes of profound depression, was shattered by the simple realization that I would never make a career of out of being an artist.  For the longest time, my only desire was to find something I was good at so I could support myself.  Being dependent on others is something that rubs me the wrong way, mostly because I am constantly reminded that I can't play the game nearly as well as other people.  When I finally figured out enough about myself to realize that I had a tiny shred of talent artistically, I took it and ran.  The joy I felt at being truly good at something without having to fight tooth and nail was staggering.  I felt that I had finally started to turn life around and that I was somehow cured at least partially of the self-imposed blight I had painted all over my future.  Now, the blight is bigger than it ever has been.

     This isn't to say that I find life hopeless.  If anything, I feel an odd sense of renewed hope.  It is layered underneath a strong blanket of pessimism and fear, but it is there.  I feel as if now is the time for a huge shift when it comes to my mind and spirit. I have realistically been feeling waves of change over the past couple of years. Waves whose existence I owe largely to being able to talk my feelings out with someone who, by training, careful observation, and the benefit of time,  knows more about me than anyone else.  She, for lack of a better word, gets me because for some reason I am not afraid to express myself to her directly.  It's a level of trust that I have never had towards any person, especially towards anyone operating within a professional therapeutic setting.  It helps that she maintains an admirable level of non-judgement even when I am feeling judgmental about myself.  None of my feelings, as illogical as some of them seem, were dismissed.  I've noticed that intimate relationships involve at least some format of judgement.  Intentional or not, judgement is painful, especially when it comes from a friend or a lover.  Unfortunately, the people we judge the most are those closest to us because we feel comfortable in doing so, even though most people would never admit it.  I judge those closest to me all the time.  It isn't because I want to be an asshole, it's because my closeness makes me think I know what's best.  The statement "The road to hell is paved with good intentions" has been proven to me more times than I care to count.  My confidant has no intentions towards me other than helping me become the me that I so desperately have been trying to be my entire life.

     Our relationship is a complicated one that goes beyond the traditional patient/therapist construct.  I think this is largely due to the fact that I have been talking to this person on an almost weekly basis for over two years.  I knew in the back of my mind that our relationship wouldn't last forever.  People in these sort of situations have a habit of moving on for one reason or another.  Now I am at that expected and inevitable turning point while at the same time figuring out what I want to do with my life. On both fronts I feel like I am in a place where I can smoothly transition and continue to heal from old wounds while being OK with dealing with new wounds.  I also am not losing total contact with the person who has helped me figure out so much and I will hopefully develop a relationship with another person that will prove to be just as strong.

     I've lost a lot of sleep.  I'm still losing sleep over this.  Will I ever reach a place of equilibrium or am I riding on another wave of false hope?  Part of me knows that there is no cure for me.  I will always be my own mind and my own body with it's flaws and its merits.  I'll keep climbing the staircase until I reach a door and open it.  Part of me knows that the only thing waiting for me on the other side is another hopelessly long, dark and tiring set of stairs but I also know that the climb is the only thing certain in the shadowy conflagration that is my existence.  If I stop, I cease to be.

     There are days I feel like my skin is on fire with impotent rage.  There are days I feel like I don't deserve the gift of precious life.  These feelings are real and they are OK.  I really don't know what I'm doing but as long as I am kind and compassionate with myself, I can keep climbing.

     It all will make sense eventually.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Stagnant Pools

I'm staring at the ceiling. I'm staring at the wall. I'm watching the watchers through a cloud of perfume-laden smoke. I am the gargoyle, staring in blank observation while my brain slowly spirals down the merry path of paranoia. Strange, this situation I find myself in. I can hear the echos of whispers in the dark coiling through the canals and sinking it's icy claws into every neural fiber. Walk away, run away, hide, peek through the tiny hole in the box. Instinctual tendencies combined with muscular memory forge a path through the abyss, that from an outside perspective seems pretty well adjusted and convincing. I have absorbed enough knowledge to get by. A lot of what I know about the real world tends to appear as if it is consumed by syrupy haze that splatters to the edges of my consciousness.

I'm walking down a garden path. I'm asking questions of the universe that no one or no thing really wants to answer. I know somewhere within that it isn't anything personal. Some questions simply have no answers. Confusion loves company. Mass confusion attracts those with good intentions and while the road to hell is being paved, I can only stand idle and wish I wasn't just as bat shit confused. There are slight moments in time where I can understand the whole of everything and appreciate the state of confusion that invades my daily space. It's the only reason why I don't wake up screaming.

I am sitting on the edge of a giant petri dish. I'm on the outside looking in while at the same time staring at myself through a high powered telescope. Sometimes I converge and switch places while exchanging small but significant bits of information. Part of me wants to hop on to a different train. This train seems to be chasing the wrong rabbit.

Wake up, wake up, it's time to quit the world of slumber. Real life tends to take on the surreal quality of dreams while dreams tend to absorb the movements of the waking world. Conversations filter through conversions and end up lost in translation. The ends of my brain become numb as the lines blur and fade into patterns within patterns. I could spend a significant amount of time explaining this to people who permanently exist within commonly accepted consciousness but I often find that I can't make much sense of it myself.

A single pill here, a harmless injection there. Bad food, bad water with a side of manipulation. I'm addicted to the poison because it makes me feel alive while at the same time is contributing to my drop by drop suicide. I don't subscribe to many common poisons which I'm told makes me dangerous. In reality, it simply means I've researched the situation before diving into the pool. The problem with any kind of feel good brain manipulation is that the feeling of sublime contentment and acceptance of the universe is incredibly and profoundly addictive. Temptation points a tendril in my direction and beckons me to check out on a permanent basis. Most of the time, temptation is easy to ignore because the world I am trying to escape constrains my methods.

There is joy in flying through pleasure while diving through pain. The roller coaster is a constant reminder that time and space won't stop to let anyone breathe. There are times when I want to completely give in to the overwhelming urge to activate a permanent flight response. There are times where the whole experience seems worthwhile. The problem starts when the two sides refuse to talk to each other. The resulting mania on two magnetic emotional opposites is taxing, but I wouldn't want my universe to operate any other way.

Saturday, September 8, 2012


I put up with it
All the shit I want to quit
Because maybe I'm a masochist
I want to help you
become more than just your program
your paradigm, your childhood
wrapped up in some sort of pie in the sky lie
I don't know what I'm talking about
this life has taught me nothing you don't know
Convinced, convicted, in chains
I suppose I can't save everyone
You wonder why I have no respect
why I'm cold, why I distance myself
I suppose I can't save everyone

Friday, August 3, 2012

When All I Can Do is This...

I don't hate you for having more than me. I dislike the way you make lording all you have over me a spectator sport. According to you, I am trash. I am worthless. I need to work harder. Why can't I work harder? Why can't I tow the line, be a "man," be SOMETHING other than a drain on my fellows? I was born into the absolute perfect circumstances. Out of the test tube, right into the flames of existence. Oh wait, I'm not "normal." You don't really need to know that though but it is hard to keep it a secret. The elephant in my brain makes itself obvious every time I try to pound myself into one of those conveniently located round holes. I don't hate you. Some days I thank the creator for not molding me into your image. Some days, I wish I didn't know the difference.

I wake up in the morning, and suddenly the sun is kissing the horizon on the other side. I seem to be going slower than everyone. I seem to be speeding by faster than light. I never seem to be in phase with the crowd. I am aware of everything that surrounds me as I sidestep people who can't even see me. If not for the rhythm of the bass in my ears, my mind would be lost in some sort of auditory conflagration. The colors of the day ring like a bell inside my head. Sometimes it all becomes too much.

I am well aware of how things are "supposed" to be. I am also aware of all the variations supposed tends turn into. Denying my nature was suicide but somewhere I was convinced that fitting in meant that I would succeed. It didn't take me long to figure out the truth behind the mask. I want to be angry. I want to stand up and make it rain. I want to flood the earth and start the process over. I'm not angry at the situation, though. The struggle is what I was called here to participate in. Real life spirals through the sky and breaks up in the atmosphere, blasting me with searing rock at every opportunity. I can shield against it most of the time. There are those days, those moments, where I am to the very core of my soul, tired. I want to silence the voices, block out the vibrations and just sleep.

I sleep in the traditional human sense of the word although not as much as I probably should, given the fragility of the human body. There is a state of rest that transcends the human frame, however, that I long to embrace again. It never comes often enough, although more than once a in a lifetime is a blessing of great magnitude. I know that accelerating the process will have less than desirable results. I may fail and do more damage to an already damaged body or worse yet I may succeed and face the consequences of a moment of weakness. Sometimes, the concequences be damned. It is the times where I just am too exhausted to care, the times where I actually may make a decision that could damage the universe.

Am I there yet?

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

I See Them...

Crawling through the debris
Floating somewhere in the peripheral ether
Silence, half a millisecond's worth
It was never real
I'm lying to myself again
Physical sensations morph from memory
or maybe it wasn't just an illusion
Pause, again the same question
Crawling through the debris
Familiar sounds are replaced with aural fuzz
I haven't reconstructed yet
Will I ever be un-fractured?
The magic 8 ball says ~No~

Friday, July 27, 2012


October 2004

I'll stare at the black lotus knowing my time
has come to a point of which I have no control
My soul cries for something I cannot explain
yearning for comfort I'll take to the grave
Moonlight betraying what I am inside
I can't explain why I am
I pray to the darkness for some sign of light
Fighting the memories I keep locked away
I can't seem to escape the past stains on my heart
Tears always flowing for the love I might have lost

A thousand deaths I still remember
Maybe I'm only dreaming
cloistered in childlike innocence and naivety I wither away
Wanting something I never thought I had
I remember
I remember
Maybe I don't want to anymore

I'll stare at fate and distant premonitions
have come to pass in predictable patterns
My soul lingers behind for some unknown reason
and I find myself burdened by unknown regrets
I know love like no one has known love before
and I am bound to it always
I pray to the light for and end to my darkness
Living in a live I could never forsake
Once upon a time I thought I had forgotten
Tears always flowing for the love I might use

A thousand deaths I still remember
Maybe I'm only dreaming
cloistered in childlike innocence and naivety I wither away
Wanting something I never thought I had
I remember
I remember
Maybe I don't want to anymore

Simple Times

I still feel this way. Circa 2006.

Simple times...
An easy paradigm to fall back upon
Things were better back then
Back when?
In an age of girls getting married at twelve?
People cannot understand how their daughters live
getting pregnant when they are only children
But something different was expected
In simple times
Society didn't support anyone
It didn't even support itself
The rich men fell and the poor lost hope
In simple times
Stealing for your life
And not for your lifestyle
Paying for the mistakes
Instead of getting paid for them
I wonder if anyone I know would make it
In simple times

Old Roleplaying Forum Fodder

An old bit of role playing back story (2006-ish) I should develop this character more...


Windwalker fell to the floor, holding back her tears with incredible will. "You need only ask for information. I have no reason to hide anything" She said between gasps as she folded her wings over herself in an unconscious protective gesture. "Where I came from is a mountain forest very far away from here. I was a member of a monastery. The monks there found me, a transformed child, half hawk half human and almost dead. The villagers in the valley had a habit of dispensing their unwanted at the monastery door. Any child who was born "different" was left to be raised by the monks. Sometimes the child was alive, but most of the time the parents didn't flee fast enough and the child was gone by the time they made the long journey. The monks would always do what they could to save the children though. When they found me, they weren't sure of my origins. There was nothing with me, I wasn't even covered with a blanket or clothing. In the rain, I guess I huddled myself in my wings to await salvation. The monks treated me as their family always and taught me martial arts and a keen mastery of staff weapons. They also taught me to use my "deformity" as a useful weapon. With time I learned how to fly and how to attack from the air using both a staff and my talons. I became a formidable hunter and earned my keep that way. At the age of 25, I stopped aging. Years beyond years went by and as the monks who found me passed on and new monks came to the order as the monastery became my life. Through meditation I learned how to control my form, I could change into a full hawk or a full human once per day. I used my powers to help the monks negotiate with towns and for scouting new hunting territories or keeping watch. Then one day..." her eyes seemed to get darker and her tears began to flow unchecked to the floor "I was deceived. Over the years the order was more and more being attacked by varying religious sects and reformers. The end was ever present but through will and strength we managed to keep it at bay. I remember the sunrise like it was yesterday" she choked on her tears and buried her head in her wing for several seconds, sobbing. Suddenly feeling eyes pierce through her, she started to absentmindedly play with a lock of her long feather brown hair and continued through tears "I saw a band of merchants move with haste up to our gate. 'Help us, help us!' they screamed as they ran 'bandits behind us, all around us! They are in the trees and on the roads...' I changed into my hawk form to scout in the direction they came from as the monks worked their magicks to try and calm the merchants down. I flew as far as my strength would allow but found nothing. It was close to sunset when I disaster. The entire place was burned to the ground. Not a soul of my order save myself was alive. Everything of value was gone, even my meager belongings. I mourned for weeks...months maybe. I lived in a stupor of loss. Everything I had ever known for centuries had been shattered in a matter of insignificant hours." She stared into the eyes of the man who came to her aid "and then one day I felt a calling deep within myself that I was unable to ignore, even though at first I tried. I started to travel, with only my staff, the clothing on my back and my traveling harness. I traveled for several moons, never stopping for more than a few hours at a time. As I traveled my strength seemed to fail me. When it seemed my strength was no more and I was begging the Goddess to take me into her loving embrace, I spotted this house and I knew..." She slumped back down to the floor, trembling. She mumbled to no one in particular "I am not sure what ails me now, all I know is that I want the misery over..."