*** TRIGGER WARNING: self-harm, ed, substances ***
if i missed any, LMK
ok, so here’s take two on introducing myself. clearly i don’t know how to do this *blogging thing* without the angst and the self-pity. trust me, i’m trying. the last time i did this was on tumblr (circa 2011-2014) under the names featherlightobsession and porcelain-dollfaces where my life revolved around wanting to lose weight and punishing myself for binging and being a “fat, ugly failure” by marking my wrists and legs with thin, red tiger stripes.
later on, i primarily wrote at the airport high off edibles when thoughts were too loud to ignore, urgency resulting in chicken scratch, sloppily scribbled in sharpie on the glossy magazine pages. i had lamented over lack of love, both for myself and others for me. it was like tumblr but only private.
my tumblr wasn’t all negative though. before featherlightobsession was shut down, i actually prided myself in creating that safe space i had always desired. i put my suffering on display, confessions and all, and the community responded.
i gave people advice (i probably wasn’t remotely qualified at 16/17, but who’s judging?) and let people rant anonymously about their deepest, darkest secrets. i talked people i followed out of suicide. thinking back, that might have been the only time in my life i’ve ever felt like i had a purpose.
a lot has changed since then — i’ve since clawed my way out of college with my glittering new degree, started dating my best friend/roommate, maintained a solid group of friends, and stopped hating myself for my shortcomings (kind of).
i’ve tripped off pulque in mexico city while getting served free tequila shots, courtesy of the stranger stuck in a k-hole at the club. i’ve dressed up in pink bob wigs with a friend after guiltlessly catfishing a guy on tinder to observe him getting stood up by “morgy” at yogurtland — “morgy” was there, he just didn’t realize. i’ve befriended my erratic, drug-dealing neighbor, essentially taking the role as his sidekick (no, i didn’t deal but i was just always there for some reason or another) until i decided i don’t wanna do this anymore.
i have stories now (and none of them revolve around dieting or self-harm, although a few do contain some negative energies and unfavorable characters). maybe i’m just looking for some validation, that i have a little more to offer than what i’ve given myself credit for. maybe i’m just scared of forgetting the past, one that i’ve been both proud of and ashamed of, and penning the memories down might be the only way to ensure that the stories are worthy of being remembered (even if i’m the only person who ever looks at this page).
it’d be an overstatement to say that i’m happy. but i’d say that comparatively, i’m ok these days — just ok, but that’s the best i could ask for.
in a society ridden with injustice and unrest and death at the moment, i’m just trying to work with what i have and not drown in the anxiety of it all.
Who’s even truly happy these days?