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2023/11/19

4:19pm

I actually feel awful.

So basically a friend and I planned to have a sleepover on Sunday. Today is Sunday. We've been planning this sleepover for weeks. My friend has been feeling really sad lately because they're an international student and they're missing their family, so I suggested that we should get together and have a sleepover.

Then I proceeded to move the sleepover around like crazy:

I moved the sleepover to Saturday because I realized I'd already made plans for Sunday. Our plan was to go to a dance/rave that I bought tickets for and then we'd sleepover.

I moved the sleepover back to Sunday because I needed Saturday night to do homework.

Then I cancelled the sleepover today once and for all because I need today to do homework too.

I feel really guilty because I've been quite unreliable lately. I've shown up 20min late to our last two film shoots (we're in film school together)

I did do some nice things, like I bought them dinner one night when I was driving them home, and I try my best to listen to them, but I'm scared I'm letting them down and making them feel worse about themselves.

I guess I'm also sad because I'm letting myself down as well.

I'm letting myself down by procrastinating and letting myself get very tired.

It's funny- because the film I'm working on is about Buddhism an finding inner peace, but I feel like I'm far off that mark right now.

I'm terrified of people hating me, loathing me. Saying mean things about me. Which I'm sure has happened.

The best thing I think I can do now is to get my homework done and do better next time.

-MLX

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2023/11/13

7:57pm

Dating is hard-

Plus it’s not really even what I want to be doing right now.

Sex is nice though. I guess you could say I’m in a “dry spell” and have been for about a year.

It doesn’t bother me- not really.

I can orgasm on my lonesome.

What I can’t do is kiss my own neck.

No amount of body weighted blankets can simulate the weight of someone on top of you.

But- to be fair. I’ve kissed lots of necks. But it was to the tune of an ice cream cone you didn’t really want to eat.

I’m doing this- not because I *want* to, but because I feel that I *should*- that it’s just a thing *to do*

And that sucks. I don’t like that.

And then going out and having first dates that you’ve met online is hard. Will you have chemistry in person? Will you commute for an hour for the whole thing to suck?

Of course- on the rare occasion I *click* with someone it’s awesome. But it’s rare. And I have to weigh the cost of a thousand failed ventures into my aspirations for a successful one.

I guess I sound a little mopey.

I wish I lived in a dense city where I could meet people easier and slip out of my apartment for a drink, and come back if I don’t like it.

I’m located in the middle of nowhere. Isolation.

It takes me around an hour to go where most people are.

I’m tired, and I still have lots of homework to do. The first thing though is to eat and sandwich.

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2023/11/13

2:54am

I'm typing in bed, which is bad practice. The computer should be away from the bed.

But when I write with a pen in my journal, my had squeezes so tightly that it hurts. Typing is a bit easier. Although I don't actually know how to touch type. Okay, I do know how but it's slower. I have a method right now that involves my middle and pointer finger on both hands and it works pretty well. I also use my pinky and ring finger on my left hand.

I should learn how to type.

I'm going to do that (for 5min) and then sleep.

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I Can't Do It Alone

2023/11/13

0:37 I'm writing again. I'm hungrier than usual. I'm hungry. Period. What should I eat? Ice cream? I already had some. Yogurt with fruit is the best bet. I'll go get some yogurt with fruit, and come back.

0:59

I got the yogurt, and a glass of orange juice because "fuck 'em" right?

I also put all the dishes away that were in the dishwasher.

What I was saying earlier is that me beginning to write again- recreationally- personally- is not a great indicator of my mental health. Pardon. It's a good indicator of my mental health- and it indicates that my mental health is not very good.

Really, it's been in decline since... well... it's been stable. But it's taken a couple L's. A couple arrows to the knee. Depending on your preferred Gen Z/millennial reference.

The first major blow was when I lost a big competition this summer. It was a huge opportunity afforded to me by a bonafide celebrity in the community. And I didn't knock it out of the park like I wanted to. The worst part was knowing that was due to my procrastination. It wasn't chance.

It was also sad because the celebrity in question was whispering promises of money and fame in my ear. Now I feel like I've lost his favor. That hurts.

The second major blow was probably the student election- which I lost. It wasn't the losing that time that was hard- it was how the election process interfered with my life at school. I was losing sleep, and sleeping in my parked car. The third blow is kind of a run off of the first- struggling to manage my course load and also my part-time work.

The thing is, I should be able to manage it. I get caught in this weird loop where I avoid the work- because I'm scared of it.

I'm scared of it for a couple reasons. The biggest reason in my mind, is that the work will be never ending, and that will be painful and intense.

These aren't unfounded fears.

The painful and intense part is a lived experience I've had time and time again. Usually it's due to me cramming last minute due to procrastination.

The part about the work never ending is also true. That is to say, I've experienced it before. It's hard to say where exactly. When I think about it- I think about my eating disorder.

That was hellish. I'm 25, and not to sound esoteric or grandiose- but I feel like I've lived multiple lifetimes.

I think most people have, in there own way.

My eating disorder was hellish. It was work and the work was never ending. It lasted for about three years. Each year becoming more and more intense, with more and more work.

Of course, this is different from say- sitting down and doing homework- but I'm still scared of the cold callousness that I treated myself with.

The whip that I strang myself with. Turning me into a dead-eyed machine- aching to meet an unattainable goal. That scares me. And beneath that- is a fear of being ignored. Unseen. Unfelt.

That is not unfounded either.

I don't want to point fingers. But, pointing fingers is different from bowing to acknowledge something.

I don't want to stand high on a cliff and chastize and wane and burn spittle and fangs in the direction of someone.

Because that hurts me too. It isolates me further, pushes me away.

But something happened. And it wasn't just one something. It was a hundred million somethings. Okay- probably like a hundred thousand. Or maybe less than- but they were tiny invisible scars. Death by a thousand cuts. I'm watching Blue Eyed Samurai right now. Can you tell?

Basically- what I'm saying is that my mum can still hurt me sometimes. Even if she's not aware of it.

It's me telling her something, and her cutting me off with a new thought. Like she wasn't listening. Or her nodding and uh-huhing while looking at her iPad.

My parents both have busy minds.

And that scares me. My mum has scared me especially.

I'm scared because- I'm scared of being reproached when I asking for what I need. Validation. An ear. A hug. Someone to tuck me in. You don't need food. The hunger makes you stronger. You don't need rest. The pain makes you resilient. You don't need love. You can do it on your own.

But you can't, and it doesn't and it never did.

I do need love. I do need love. I do need love. And it's so scary to say. And it's painful when the people you need to survive fall short of the mark.

But I don't want to hold anger towards my mum. I love her. She's my mum.

I don't have to do everything alone.

I shouldn't have to do everything alone.

But I do have to look out for myself.

#journal

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2023/10/27

I don't really like my agent. I don't know why. It's just a feeling I have. It feels like an insecurity. I know it's a business relationship, so it shouldn't really matter. But whenever I'm around her I feel like I'm grasping at straws. Even if she's saying nice things- or listening. I'm still scared. It feels like if she said "I'm not your rep anymore." It would be a relief. Great. Phew. I don't want that.

But on the other hand, we've known each other for over five years. She understands what's important to me, and we have a shared set of values: sustainability, decolonization, and creativity. She knows I'm strong comedically. She'll send me projects that she thinks I'd like.

I'm still scared, though.

Maybe it's an "Authority figure with keys to the castle takes interest in you." thing.

She has something I want. Or she's a gate I must go through to get that thing. So I really value her. I'm scared of her. Scared of falling out of favour. Scared of losing her.

I think that's it.

#fear #writing

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2023/9/17 9:26pm

I'm starting the writing process again. And it feels good. The main difference is discipline. I'm putting in discipline. That's all I want to say.

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2023/9/16

It sucks knowing that I fucked things up. That I had a big opportunity and I totally didn’t seize it. I want to build more discipline in myself. I want to work better and harder.

I went on a date yesterday with a girl named Marcy. She was gorgeous and really into me. I went back to her apartment. I kept feeling my body, and my mind. I realized that I wasn’t into it. I didn’t want to have sex with her. On paper it confused me- because she was beautiful and kind and we were having easy, natural conversations. But I didn’t want to make out with her. I didn’t want to peruse a relationship with her. I gave her a foot massage, she gave me a back massage. I felt a little uncomfortable with my breasts exposed. I thought about making a joke and then proceeded to make a joke: “Did you get a good look at my boobs?” She laughed immediately and tugged on my arm “No! You wish.” It would’ve been really easy to turn and kiss her. I did give her a small kiss when I left. Her lips were cold.

I think I know the love of my life- and it’s writing. That’s all I want to do. I care about it almost more than anything. I say “almost” because if I had to choose between solving climate change and giving up writing I would give up writing. It would mean more people get to experience health and happiness. But I can’t make a trade that easily. I think I can actually use my writing to persuade people and make change.

I go on dates but I lose interest. I’ve fallen in love three and a half times in my life.

The first love was Yuki- a girl I met in middle school. We were inseparable and spoke in our own kind of tounges: murmuring and giggling. Inside jokes slapped atop of everything like pepperoni on a pizza. But she didn’t feel the same way. We’re on friendly terms, but don’t really talk anymore. I wouldn’t classify her as a friend.

The second love was a girl named Hazel. I met her on an artists retreat. She was working at the resort the retreat was held at. A fish scientist. I wanted to be around her all the time. We laughed hard and went on walks in the wilderness. When I left she made me a card with a leaf pinned to the front of it. On the leaf she’d scratched in the words: “You are good.” I think I told her how I felt. Something innocuous over text: “It’s a date!” Or something more overt in one of the letters we wrote: “I love you.” I don’t think she felt the same way. Once she visited me at a ferry terminal, she wore a leather jacket and I could barely look at her- I thought she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I haven’t texted or spoken to her in years.

Third love was a girl named Annie-claude. I met her in a psych ward. I remembered her name because it sounded like a combination of the two. We were in a group and I caught her looking at me. When we had to clear out the cafeteria because someone was screaming and had to be forcefully sedated, we found each other instantly and said “Want to go for a walk?” You can’t go very far in a psych ward, but we found a quiet place at the end of the hallway. She told me she’d been in the hospital because of an overdose. I don’t know why- but my mind instantly went to hard drugs. A day or so later, I was discharged to an inpatient, live-in facility called Rose House. I was upset I’d never see her again. A day or so later, Annie-Claude followed in my footsteps. I was rehearsing for a poetry competition when I saw her with her suitcases moving downstairs. I grinned at her. She smiled back. I think she knew how happy she made me. When I came back, having won the championship, she was overjoyed for me. I’d never had someone match my excitement like that. We went for long walks. She told me she used to be a competitive snowboarder but suffered a brain injury. She got a PET scan to see what was up. I told her I sometimes wished for a scan too, to see if they could see the illness in my mind. “My greatest fear,” I said “Is that they’ll look and find nothing there?” She finished. Yes. Yes yes yes. On that walk she’d told me she’d try to overdose on anti-depressants. We went down to the pier and climbed up to the look out. She looked at me and asked: “Do you think you’re going to get past this.” “Yes.” I responded “I have to.” (I was right, but it took me over a year longer than expected- and there was an awful amount of pain, too much pain that existed in that time frame. We walked too long and her feet were sore the next day. I felt guilty for keeping her out so long. When I was sad, she bought me dark chocolate and kombucha. She told me only one of us was allowed to have bad day at a time. She moved to a room downstairs, a pride sticker was on the ceiling. I asked if that was hers, she said it was there when she moved in. I told her about the upsetting stuff nurses said to me: “Okay. Maybe your thoughts do have a point.” “They did not!” She’d admonish. It felt good to hear her validate my frustration. It made me feel unwell. I wanted to be unwell. The alternative- I was sane- meant unthinkable things. I once tried to hold her hand, she pulled away. She was successful and smart finically. She owned a house and was going to rent out the upper floor. I joked about moving in. She earnestly said I couldn’t afford it. She was an event planner as her job, and once held a party in the basement for everyone in the house. There was a bubble machine and music. We got bagels and coffee. I’d stare out into intersections- wanting to throw myself in the middle and die for climate change. She’d look at my face, asses my hollow stare, and say “Hey. Get out of there.” We spent long hours playing grand theft auto. I lamented that my life wasn’t that exciting. She laughed in a way that said I was being immature. Once, we were sitting on a playground and I asked her if she could go back in time and tell herself something what would it be? She said “Take more pills.” She had a dog named Atlas. I’d never been depressed like she was. I hated the psychiatrists that she loved. I felt I wasn’t sick enough. Maybe I wasn’t sick in the way she was. She’d had a brain injury. Her troubles could be traced back to some psychical trauma. Something clear and that aligned well with our understanding of the brain. I was healthy by almost every measure. My issues couldn’t be pinned down neatly. ADHD, OCD, CPTSD, Bipolar II, Bipolar I, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Borderline Personality Disorder.

(God! It makes me sick. I remember, lying in a hospital bed being haunted by thoughts- terrible thoughts. And a young psych intern suggested I had borderline. They let me stay in an emergency housing thing during the day. I told my dad, in a sterile white kitchen, that being there felt more real than real life. “It’s real alright.” I was so alone. It’s a good thing I have the capacity to forget.)

Anyways, it turns out I was sick. But not in the way modern psychiatric medicine could pin down.

I left Rose House sooner than I would’ve liked. Punted out. I stayed up late making a comic for her and hid it in the GTA5 game sleeve. I told her I’d hid it somewhere in the house. I asked her if she wanted a hint, but she found it about thirty seconds after I left. She shot me a message: “Remember, I’m smarter than you.” I liked that. The upside to me being discharged was that I could take her places (patients aren’t supposed to drive together) the day after I left we went for a hike. She said she would come visit me. I said I’d like that. Then nothing. One night I drunk texted her. Something needy, presumably. She didn’t respond.

I google her from time to time. Her name is still on the website she said she worked at. I hope she’s won her war.

I can’t tell if love is creepy or I’m just creepy. I think unrequited love has a common co-morbidity with creepiness.

That is to say. I love to write.

[venndiagramsindeepspace]

Good Traits Gone Bad

Exploring good traits gone bad in a novel can add depth and complexity to your characters. Here are a few examples of good traits that can take a negative turn:

1. Empathy turning into manipulation: A character with a strong sense of empathy may use it to manipulate others' emotions and gain an advantage.

2. Confidence becoming arrogance: Excessive confidence can lead to arrogance, where a character belittles others and dismisses their opinions.

3. Ambition turning into obsession: A character's ambition can transform into an unhealthy obsession, causing them to prioritize success at any cost, including sacrificing relationships and moral values.

4. Loyalty becoming blind devotion: Initially loyal, a character may become blindly devoted to a cause or person, disregarding their own well-being and critical thinking.

5. Courage turning into recklessness: A character's courage can morph into reckless behavior, endangering themselves and others due to an overestimation of their abilities.

6. Determination becoming stubbornness: Excessive determination can lead to stubbornness, where a character refuses to consider alternative perspectives or change their course of action, even when it's detrimental.

7. Optimism becoming naivety: Unwavering optimism can transform into naivety, causing a character to overlook dangers or be easily deceived.

8. Protectiveness turning into possessiveness: A character's protective nature can evolve into possessiveness, where they become overly controlling and jealous in relationships.

9. Altruism becoming self-neglect: A character's selflessness may lead to neglecting their own needs and well-being, to the point of self-sacrifice and burnout.

10. Honesty becoming brutal bluntness: A character's commitment to honesty can turn into brutal bluntness, hurting others with harsh and tactless remarks.

These examples demonstrate how even admirable traits can have negative consequences when taken to extremes or used improperly. By exploring the complexities of these traits, you can create compelling and multi-dimensional characters in your novel.

Happy writing!

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sounds like he's far too left to me.

“We don’t value craftsmanship anymore! All we value is ruthless efficiency, and I say we deny our own humanity that way!”

Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Watterson, 1995

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“We don’t value craftsmanship anymore! All we value is ruthless efficiency, and I say we deny our own humanity that way!”

Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Watterson, 1995

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In all my life I’ve noticed a considerable overlap between people with diagnosable mental illnesses and people with ideas on how to grow plants more efficiently.

#ocd #anxiety #depression

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Ian Stone, Doubting Thomas, oil on linen, 12x16 in, 2023

"If you know the painting by Caravaggio, Doubting Thomas, it was my direct inspiration for this piece.

A doubting Thomas is a skeptic who refuses to believe without direct personal experience. 50-60 years ago, it was not uncommon for people to think or believe that being gay was a phase or a mental illness or deviance in some shape or form. It's embarrassing that the same things are being said about trans people today."

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i said 'explain physics to me like youre in love with me' and after a while of quiet he went 'everything sings'. so i get it now

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More punks 🤎

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