Pleasantly Detached

This is my public writing blog. My only hope for it is that people might relate to what I have to say.

Darling

It’s so easy, you think, as you take another drag out of the…well, you’ve lost count, but it’s not your first cigarette for that day. It’s so easy. You’ve got hair where you shouldn’t, like your legs and arms and nether regions. You’ve got flab…everywhere, like your thighs and arms and stomach. You were almost pretty. Sometimes pretty. That was about it. It was so easy too.

It all started with a couple of beers with some friends. But you didn’t like how it tasted, especially when you were nursing the bottle for too long and it started getting warm. Except you liked how it made you feel, how it made you forget things. So, you thought, it might be convenient to have some around the house, just for when you need to push those anxieties to the furthest recesses of your mind. But not beer, you didn’t like how it tasted. You decided to try some vodka schnapps, espresso flavored. That shouldn’t be so bad.

It tasted so bad, you had to induce vomiting. Something you hadn’t done in two years. Not since college started and your anxiety was so bad your stomach was in permanent knots, and the only way to alleviate the discomfort was to heave your guts out. Anyway, you figured since the schnapps was espresso flavored, you might as well try to mix it with coffee to mask the taste. After all, you didn’t want to waste the money you’d spent on the bottle. And then you liked it. It was delicious. And you found that it tasted even better when you mixed a little more, and you could actually feel that delightful burn down your throat. It made your head spin, and your cheeks flush prettily.

The smoking was step two. You bought half a pack, and only because your anxiety was bad that day. Just one stick, just to try it out, because anxiety meds were expensive, and you didn’t really know how to get some. Therapy was scheduled too late. You’d have gone through the whole attack, and then some, before you’d get to speak to a professional. Again, it was good. You’d always enjoyed the smell of smoke, but this was different. It was bitter, and sharp, and the menthol burned cold, an oddly mixed sensation. So, you sprayed the place with air freshener, showered, brushed your teeth, gargled some mouth wash, chewed some gum, so your roommate wouldn’t know. You’d known each other since you were five. The schnapps, she knew was in the fridge, but she was away too often to see you pouring it into your coffee. And you drank coffee a lot. The smoking would be too easy to discover, even when you had a designated spot, like that store room neither of you ever stayed in, with the window open and the door shut.

How did you even cope before? Well, obviously you didn’t, if this was where you were. You called one of your parents once, when you were younger, and the anxiety was enough to drive you to tears and hyperventilation. Allergy medicine that made you drowsy, muscle relaxant. That was what they’d prescribed. But it made you unproductive, and you didn’t have time for disorienting naps. You didn’t have time for much. You were running out of time. Before long (in two years, really), you’d be stuck in some office, some nine-to-five job, that’s if someone would even want to hire you. You’ll have to grow up. You’ll be a full-fledged adult, except your parents would never acknowledge that, unless they want you to do something. Then, they’d tell you to grow up, or throw your transition into adulthood in your face, like you hadn’t noticed. They meant well.

So, how was this going to happen? How were you going to keep up that perfect daughter façade? How were you going to keep up that pure and virginal reputation? Well, maybe you’d never even liked that image in the first place, maybe it was something someone else had placed upon you. Maybe it’s time you realize you are who you are, and you’ll just have to figure out how to cope with that.

It’s Late and I’m and INFP

I feel weird again, like I don’t quite fit into my skin. I feel flushed, and queasy, and I could just be sick, or it could be hyper-acidity from the coffee, except I know it’s not. I’ve felt this way before. I feel weird, and uncomfortable, and miserable, except in some masochistic way, I love it. This unsettling aura makes me feel like there’s more going on that what I can see. There’s more to what’s happening to me right now. My life is too bland, banal. I can’t deal with it. And every now and then, I get this way. It’s like my body is blowing off steam from the pressure of being normal, when all I want for the world is for it to let me be. Let me be weird. What’s so bad about wanting everyone to feel good about themselves? Why is it so weird to want to compliment everyone? It’s true isn’t it? You are a great person. You are a lovely individual. And people need to know these things about themselves. There are two things people need to know to lead happy lives. First is that they are capable of loving. That’s not so hard to realize, usually. Second is that other people are capable of loving them. This isn’t as easy to believe. 

I feel knots in my stomach, and it’s just stopped raining. I feel great. I feel like I want to cry, but not because I’m sad. I feel like if I cry, my tears will be scalding hot, and when that’s done, I’ll feel cool and refreshed on the inside, like my soul’s just taken a nice shower, or gone for a swim on a hot day. I’m sitting in front of the computer in my pajamas, but my mind is travelling the world. I feel like each and every neuron in my brain is an individual person, and some of them are sad. Sometimes, I think about how sad some people are, and it makes me want to cry. Sometimes, I think about how some people are working so hard so there won’t be as many sad people. This still makes me want to cry. And a lot of people will make fun of me for this. I don’t really care anymore. Like I said, sometimes crying is the equivalent of a luxurious shower for the soul. And this “not caring if people think I’m weird” thing is relatively new…for me, at least. And it’s created this strange paradox in me. I never knew it could be possible for me to see myself as a terrible excuse for a human being, but also think I am a lovely individual too. Maybe I’m starting to realize that other people are capable of loving me. I don’t know a lot of things definitively. The best I can do is make an intelligent guess.

9 WAYS TO CREATING A PERFECTLY HORRIBLE BOOK

(Source: zeppelin-cruiser, via heroinetraining)

lovequotesrus:

EVERYTHING LOVE

Re: The Costume Party

Something I wrote a while back

lovequotesrus:

EVERYTHING LOVE

thevintagethimble:

1920’s Hairstyles
A collection of 1920’s photographs, depicting some of the hairstyles of the time, like the kiss curl, the orchid bob, the charleston cut, coconut bob, earphones hairstyle, cottage loaf (bun) and popular styles you’ll probably never see in a period drama like extreme windblown style, the frizzy hairstyle and the Poodle cut.

Victorian Hairstyles Here [x] | Edwardian Hairstyles Here [x]

(via bellecs)

“I’m alright
I’m alright
I’m alright
But words are little comfort when you’re home alone at night”

—   "Warm Words for a Cold Evening in April", peppermintsighs
Ben Whishaw - La belle dame sans merci

gondolingirl:

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats read by Ben Whishaw.

(via ky-leidoscope)