If Eyes are Windows…

I am going to start this off by telling you I have a rather petite frame.  Though I wear medium shirts in men’s sizes, my bone structure is on the smaller size.  I have been known to find my jeans in the adolescent section of department stores by mistake, not knowing I was not in the adult section.  Which has caused others to feel embarrassed, but it always amuses me.  I wear medium shirts in men’s sizes (and usually large in women’s) because my shoulders, for my frame, are rather broad.  I have great difficulty finding dresses that fit due to this, or long-sleeve shirts.  Do not even get me started on jackets, as I also have incredibly long arms.  Yes; I realize I am starting to sound like a lanky circus freak; I am not.  Well, I mean, I AM, but not proportionately speaking.  It is hard not to be considered somewhat freaky to many people when you have this many tattoos, stretched earlobes and unnaturally-coloured hair.  And watches.  I cannot buy a watch that fits unless it has a leather band and I cut extra holes in it.  My wrists are so petite but attached to them are incredibly large hands, for a woman.  I always have to buy large or extra large gloves.  And extra large hats, too.  My daughter has also informed me I have Vulcan ears.  Aren’t kids sweet?

I swear, this has a purpose.

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Self Realization is Self Preservation

I have had a lot of time for introspection lately.  Too much time, really.  Between the wakefulness thanks to nightmares and my own general introspection any way, coupled with this year’s crippling events, I have had more than enough time to delve deeply in to all the things that make me who and what I am.  This is rarely a good thing.  I cannot say, yet, whether this has been a good thing recently, either.  Though I have come to some conclusions.

I recently did something that has, to date, been one of the three hardest things I have ever done.  I sat down and wrote all the things I could, at the time, think that I love about someone.  It is much harder than it sounds.  I have often thought about it before, and when I did, I often found myself snapping back to the present with my mouth agape, eyes unfocused and staring in to memories past, lost in the swirling swarming events I hold close to my heart.  I can no more put in to words the emotions these memories evoke than I can adequately explain the emotions of giving birth, swinging from flesh hooks, adopting a child out, being beat by your spouse, escaping death.  They are all things that have no words, in any language, to really explain.  Though some of those I can explain better than others.  Love, fear, loss..these emotions will never be adequately explained, and they are the three that make us do the most fucked up things.  They make us stand when we should flee, they make us flee when we should stand.  They make us give when we should take, they make us take when we should give.  Or in my case, I don’t really feel fear so much, as I have written before.  I have found my fear response tends to go in to pure on “fuck you, I survive” mode where I go incredibly cold and calculating or I skip right over fear in to straight up terror.  Either way, I don’t run.  Ever, so far.  I face it.  Then I face it again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And I keep facing it.

I am the type of person who, if I don’t want to do something, if I “fear” it, I have to do it.  Period.  Regardless the consequences, I have to do it.  Yes, I know the consequences.  I know the chances of me being hurt in some cases are pretty fucking ridiculously high, but I have to do it.  Sometimes, as I told a friend last night:

I don’t care about much, but I’ve lost nearly all I DO care about this year. Sometimes you gotta throw it all out see what comes back.

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Suicide IS Painless..Only to the Dead

I have read so much over the past few days about depression and suicide. It has long disgusted me how we, as a people, will band together over a situation short-term, yet go back to our petty ridiculous squabbles so quickly. I most certainly have my own very strong thoughts about both depression and suicide, as I have survived depression so long, and have known so fucking many people who have killed themselves.

I cannot tell you when I was diagnosed as bipolar, which used to be known as manic depression, which used to be known as blah blah what the fuck ever. A lot of people have it. So what? Every person on this planet goes through periods of depression. It is a part of life to have high and low points. Some of us are lucky/blessed/whatever to have more highs than lows, some of us are unlucky/cursed/whatever enough to have more lows than highs. Some of us are intelligent enough to realize our perspective changes the situation for our own good, regardless what happens. I cannot tell you when I was diagnosed because, as with most things in my life, I simply do not remember. Head wounds, what wonderful things.

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