I wouldn’t say that, no. What makes me selfish in that respect is something else, but I wouldn’t call it anxiety exactly, although it could be construed as such I guess. It’s the sentiment that I do not want to be committed to memory or commit someone to memory when things will go wrong or grow violent or become broken or simply nauseated between either party. See, every person you come in contact with — cashier, classmate, family member, people on the street — their dreams will be made up of components of your face. Your perfume or cologne will register when they smell it again. We are all in each other’s consciousness, and because of that I scrub myself raw and bloody just to get the people out.

Once they’re in, they’re in for good, and that to me is the scariest concept in the world. Maybe it is anxiety. I don’t know. But it’s an intense terror that does echo panic attacks, so yeah.

Online, people are much easier to talk to — you can block them. You don’t usually have a face or a name, and until you get to know them, you have nothing but a username to tie into your memory. I’m still trying to cut back on how many people I talk to though. I don’t know if it’s self destruction or a cry for help or what, but I go to people. I go to them. I go back to them. And it destroys me every day.

I don’t feel I know enough about his physical body — I’ve never kissed him, I’ve never touched him — to tell you out of everything what I like most, especially because I focus so much on what I feel.

I want his lips on me and his hands and his skin, I want him, the whole of him, but I think I love his eyes most, right off the bat. He has very dark and very sad and very tired eyes, but they’re bright and beautiful and I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen that particular paradox in someone, and I think it’s an accurate portrayal of who he is: complicated, unsolvable, and multifaceted. 

Good question, sorry to disappoint with an incomplete answer!

I actually assumed you didn’t! So good on me, I guess. Those two questions (death and suffering) were more spaced apart and were very dark and very specific, which didn’t describe the whole of the long questionnaire from you that I’m still filling out. Thank you again for it, I appreciated it very much!

I find comfort in the smell of sliced cucumbers and freshly sharpened pencils and trees and the soil fresh after a rainfall. And the smell of late October and early January. And old, old books with thin, waning pages, some laundry detergents, and certain colognes and perfumes I smell when I pass strangers by on the street.

this answer is very pro death i would not read this answer if you are suicidal please 

I trust death more than I trust life. I believe death is nothing but a safe end. We forget who we were and where we’ve been. Nothing matters, nothing hurts, nothing saves us or damns us. It’s the process of becoming a more integral part of the earth, being just as holy and intelligent as dirt. I used to think there were such things as souls when I was little, because I learned from one of those free educational CD roms that used to come in the mail that energy never goes away; it only converts into another kind of energy. I used to think, well where does all the energy from our brain go? Our personality? Our memories? Our love? and I realized humans are not that important, and I should stop thinking we are bigger than we are. Death is natural and beautiful, and is waiting for us all and that should be OK, because it’s the most natural and most nurturing thing we’ll ever face. I’ve welcomed death for as long as I can remember, but I guess that school of thought is extremely self defeating, and I’m aware it puts a lot of stock in a kind of twisted faith too.

Absolutely not, and it saddens me that you asked this. But I understand why you did. I’m self pitying and pessimistic and self-obsessed. I complain often about how people in college or people who have jobs are so much stronger than I am, but that means they’re stronger, not less sick or less hurt.

I remember at the first ward I was in, there was a girl who tried to kill herself because she lost her grandfather. I’d never realized up until then how serious grief can be. How serious anything can be. I believe our own pain is unique and cannot be gauged by anyone else but ourselves. We are the only ones individually experiencing it. We are the only ones individually who know what we’re feeling and how bad it is and only then in terms of relation to ourselves and our life. Some people want to make it a contest to feel more valid, but no one can measure what someone else’s pain is “worth,” and that’s why I’ve talked about the taste bud principle and how alone we all really are.

My illnesses are very serious and very debilitating, but I recognize I am undisciplined and stubborn. My external circumstances aren’t as “hard” as “most” people’s on this earth, but I still don’t feel thankful because I still feel as though I’m rotting in hell. But you might be too, and I wouldn’t know what your hell is like.

Point is, I can’t tell you what you’re thinking or what you’re feeling. Not because I don’t know you, but because I’m not you. I can tell you that you’re strong because you might be and that is how I might perceive you, but I cannot tell you if you are hurting or if you aren’t or how much or how little, because that I can’t perceive. I cannot judge it.

You are valid. Your pain is valid. And mine is, too.
 

I would never have that chance, I’m a drop out ;(
but OK OK
If I knew more about photography, I’d definitely go for that. I was actually going to start up a super basic program at the local domestic violence shelter until I got admitted to the hospital, and they felt (accurately) that I wasn’t stable enough to do it. In a college course, I’d approach the theme with an emphasis on creativity and pushing one’s limits, going outside comfort zones. I love to see people reaching their potential. Maybe because I think I have no potential or never will reach it? I don’t know. But I think that kind of course could teach me a lot too.

Oh that would be awful, I’d fuck history up so badly. And not intentionally, either. It’s just that our parents shape us, whether we like it or not. I have my impatience and self pity from my father, my self-denial and my avoidance from my mother, and the hypersensitivity of both. It’s not like I’ve resigned myself to it. I actively work every day on reducing those traits. People aren’t always like their parent(s), but there are always those small, little things that if you’re paying enough attention you’ll see it, slam your head against your desk, and curse really loudly.

The “inheritance” I’d will my children would be much worse than what I got, and I know you’re speaking absolutely hypothetically, but I can’t be a mother to anyone.