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Not timed. Copic, Prismacolor, and Artist’s Loft markers and...

Sun, 12 May 2013 16:20:38 -0700

Not timed. Copic, Prismacolor, and Artist’s Loft markers and Gelly Roll pen on cardstock, 8.5 x 11.

Referenced used: Kieran

Not timed. Copic, Prismacolor, and Artist’s Loft markers...

Sun, 12 May 2013 16:08:44 -0700

Not timed. Copic, Prismacolor, and Artist’s Loft markers and Gelly Roll pen on cardstock, 8.5 x 11.

Referenced used: Emily Browning

You.

Sat, 09 Feb 2013 23:24:33 -0800

A short wordvomit and commentary on my own internal perception.

You.

You pull your lips above your teeth as you eat, readjusting after the dryness takes hold.

It’s a disgusted grimace, displaying your unbridled contempt of something.

It’s of me. My very existance sickens your stomach.

You.

You’re talking in the hall, your words muffled just enough to frustrate me into listening.

I catch a few words here and there.

It’s about me. No matter what I do you’re going to talk, you’re going to tell everyone else how terrible I am.

You.

You brush my arm as you pass in the street, hurrying to meet your next self-imposed deadline.

I wasn’t even in the middle of the sidewalk.

You aimed for me. You didn’t hit as hard as you wanted to, and had to rush off before you could come back and shove me properly.

You.

You catch my eye for a bit too long as you walk the other side of the glass, myself on the inside, you, outside.

It was judgement. Sheer contempt for what I am and how I look and everything about me, perhaps even pity, concentrated in one burning glance.

You want me to die.

You.

You could be anyone.

You could be my mother. My lover. A friend. A neighbor. A stranger.

You could be me, my broken internal additions to every action I ever percieve to make them aimed at me.

You’re here to hurt me.

You’re me.

I’m the only thing standing between myself and me.

Wow Derealization is Weird

Mon, 14 Jan 2013 16:43:21 -0800

Sometimes it occurs to me just how derealized I am all the time. Like it only happens once a week or so where I’ll just suddenly realize…

Holy shit I’m real.

I am actually living and breathing and existing in this space and my life is real and everything that’s happening is real.

I’ll usually only have that feeling of being hyper-present in the universe for like… five minutes, until I get distracted or whatever and then I just go back into this daze. I don’t feel time passing, everything just seems so infinite. I don’t really pay attention to where I am or who I’m with or even what I’m doing or saying, even precise, focused things, or some sort of deep conversation.

So when the realization happens I realize that I wasn’t even aware of what I was doing up until that point. It’s not a blackout, I remember it, I just wasn’t… paying attention, I guess. To my whole life and everything in it.

I’m pretty sure derealization can be a part of depression but it’s usually only for brief periods, rather than… the norm. And yeah, I’m depressed, majorly, but it doesn’t feel like it’s that bad, you know? But I could be saying this because I literally haven’t been NOT depressed for more than one month at MOST at a time since I was about ten so feeling this absolutely empty and disconnected might not actually be normal. It’s also kind of a weird thought how much I’m not actually bothered by it. Like… yeah, I’m in a big pit right now for other reasons, but for the most part I don’t even realize I’m depressed. It’s just so /normal/ for me.

Sometimes I wish I had something internal to relate to, to know from memory what it’s like to not be depressed, to be “normal” and optimistic and… happy?

But then I shake it off. I’m fine how I am, I look bad next to most people but on my own I don’t actively think “wow I’m so depressed” all the time.

This probably looks really bad to most people. Like… my mind is /fucked/, in so many more ways than just the above. And here I am, seeing absolutely no reason to do anything about it. Not that I “don’t want to be happy”, I am happy with how I am. I’m not happy with my situation, but myself, the way /I/ am as an individual, I love. It just doesn’t seem particularly appealing to me to be any different than I am.

Is that true, spiritual happiness? Being so absolutely comfortable with how you are, no matter how shitty your body or your life or your mind is? Buddha would probably say so. Most people would probably see it as someone who doesn’t fit their definition of happy, so they must be in need of outside “help”.

I’m rambling a bit so I’ll cut this off here. But it’s interesting, isn’t it? Existentialism and psychoanalyzing yourself are both fun.

Decided to update this blog with some REAL ART YEAH Oh god my...

Tue, 01 Jan 2013 16:58:41 -0800

Decided to update this blog with some REAL ART YEAH

Oh god my everything hurts

It’s Kei’s 16th birthday today so I figured I’d draw her ~~for the first time in like a year~~

So yeah

Scanned in the original sketch, and I was originally just gonna color it but I decided to try out some digital painting and aside from being EXCRUCIATING on my back and my neck, it was really fun and I love how it turned out.

SPLAT SPLAT

Mon, 26 Nov 2012 18:28:00 -0800

— This is a dream I had this morning that scared the shit out of me. I’ve always had incredibly vivid, realistic, and detailed dreams, but never one that felt THIS real. It felt intentional, like there’s something about it that means more than it appears to. Eevee thinks it might be some sort of premonition dream. I’m not sure I disagree. —

I stumbled into the bathroom and locked the door. I was in some sort of office complex, or mall, I’m not sure where I was. There were pools of blood everywhere. It was sticky, and thick, congealed in places. I walked over to the sink and noticed a clipboard with a key on a keyring sitting on the counter. It only had two or three pages on it, but they were clean, and there was a big stamp on the top of the pages. I didn’t take the time to read what company they belonged to but I knew I’d need to read them when I had time. I tucked the whole thing into the back of my pants and looked at the cleaning supplies in the corner; there were a couple brooms leaning against the wall, with a bloody rag draped over them. I nudged the towel onto the floor and took one of the brooms and slid it into my back belt loop, and took another for in-hand. I spun it around and made stabbing motions with it to get used to the weight before I noticed a steady dripping sound. Looking around, I noticed a pile of blood-soaked papers on top of the janitorial garbage can. Something was shining on them and I looked closer. “SPLAT SPLAT” it read, blood so thick that it laid raised on the paper. I noticed some sort of slime dripping down and looked up. There was a man, with scruffy grey hair and thick glasses, stuck to the celing with the slime. It was still sticky at the edges, but across his face, torso and legs it had solidified like crème brule. He made a muffled noise and I screamed just as a stream of blood released from somewhere on him and fell into my mouth. I spat it out as I threw the door open and ran.

—

It was a big house. A massive, ridiculously rich person house. The bottom floor alone was almost the size of a small elementary school. In one room, with glass dinnerware in glass-fronted cabinets along the walls, there were two women sitting in high-backed chairs at a dining table that could seat maybe two dozen people. One was young, twenties or so, wearing a black business suit and shiny black flat shoes, and the other was older, somewhere in her mid fifties, with graying blonde hair and a slightly paunch physique. There was a little girl laying on her stomach a bit away from them, on the floor, crying. She was struggling, but seemed to be paralyzed. Business Suit had asked something, looking over the small metal tray on the table between them. It had one empty syringe, a few scalpels and some alcohol-soaked swabs. The older woman replied, “legal paralyzation based turning is the next step to scientific evolution.” Suit nodded unsurely, and they began talking quietly as the woman began preparing a second syringe.

The little girl had managed to get to the window, open it, and fall out. The distance from a ground-floor window to the dirt isn’t far but it winded her and she lay still.

Suit darted around the corner, turning from the back yard into the side, and dodging the many dogs that belonged to the house. They were all tied up on long leashes, but they wanted to play, and she was running. She tried to shush them and made it halfway through the front yard—which, alone, was about the width of a football field—and tripped on her fancy shoes, landing in the wet, soppy grass. She pulled herself up and saw a large playground structure in the distance, and decided she would wait on top of it until…. Something.

Rescue.

Being found.

Death.

Something.

My Pain is a Constant

Mon, 26 Nov 2012 18:26:01 -0800

My pain is a constant.

Of all the things in my life, discomfort, frustration, and an inability to function are all the most reliable.

Satisfying one twinge causes another cramp. Stretching one muscle pinches another nerve. I crack my back to let myself breathe, and my ribs stab me from within. I stretch my fingers so I can write to vent some of my anger, and my forearms feel like they’re on fire.

I can’t do anything without hurting.

I’m more than baffled that it’s taken anyone this long to recognize that I’m in pain. I’ve lived with it for almost four years, the beginning of which was all blamed on a “heavy backpack.” Then, several lies later, I was told I wasn’t in pain at all, and that if I was, it wasn’t that bad. It’s gotten worse and worse and now it’s spreading throughout my body. My ribcage is deformed, I’ve found out that there’s more in my back than just a cyst (“just”), and I feel like I’m falling apart and decomposing from the inside out. The amount of pain I put up with on a daily basis just to satisfy my basic needs—and I mean basic as in eating, pissing, and sleeping—would cripple anyone else. I’ve lived with it this long, and I legitimately don’t know how. I’ve broken down in tears from the pain, I’ve been unable to move without biting my tongue to not scream. And that’s on a moderately good day. This is when I’m not trying to do anything like, say, go to school consistantly, or do any of the physical things I used to; gymnastics, martial arts, dancing. I dabble in these now, but they used to be my life, my escape. Now my escape is finding a way to be so out of my mind that I don’t notice how much it hurts to lie down, with all my muscles relaxed. I function by completely blocking out the pain and internally reciting my mantra of “pain is relative, it could always be worse.” Sometimes that phrase is all I can let myself hear or it’ll ebb back, and once it ebbs, it becomes a flow, then a gush, then a full force slam of solid, unyielding pain, that doesn’t respond to any medication or treatment that I’ve ever had access too. If I slip up, if I let myself register how bad the pain really is, I can’t move. I can’t breathe. My ribs dig into my lungs and my spine twists itself into a linear black hole and I quite literally just want to die. It feels like I’m going to, but I never do, and I just wake up day after day to more pain. No matter what I want to do, no matter how badly I wish I could function and be productive or even just enjoy life, enjoy the simple things I used to do, I can’t.

I don’t cry anymore. Most of the time it just doesn’t happen. I’ll need it so bad that I’ll make myself as sad as I can. Watching sad movies, looking back on good relationships and bad breakups, remembering lost pets. We all know that desperation. But I’ve burned it so thoroughly into my skull that I can’t cry, that my body knows it’s not a good idea, and it won’t. Once in a while it all becomes too much—not just the pain, but everything—and I’m allowed a few tears. But I can’t give myself those great, heaving sobs, the screaming, the tearing your pillow apart, the throwing stuffed animals at the wall, the wiping your face every ten seconds, true, relieving crying. It hurts. It hurts to breathe, I can’t sob. It hurts to sit up, I can’t throw things. If I try and let the agonizing emotions out, the physical agony tags along, and it’s loud, obnoxious, and never, ever, shuts up for the ride.

I used to dance. I still do, when my pain is at the lowest it gets (about a 9 out of 10 on the typical doctor’s office “pain rating scale”), and the endorphins take it down to about an 8.5, but they’re quickly flushed away and I just curl back up for a few days, a week, a month.

But I used to dance.

I would get up, I would stretch, I would do at least two song’s worth of dancing before I left for school. I’d dance at the bus stop, I’d shuffle my feet around under the desk while taking notes. I’d find an alleyway behind the school where I could dance at lunch, because I had nothing else to do (or eat, most of the time). I’d dance when I got home, I’d dance and then stretch before bed.

Now I stretch just to get rid of the stiffness enough to go to the bathroom. I mentally brace myself for the flood of creaking and aching from standing up from a chair, or walking to the bus. If I have the time or energy I massage what parts of myself I can reach before I get as comfortable as I can and pass out, blissfully unconscious, until something demands I live through the pain yet another day.

I don’t just want relief. I desire it. I crave it.

I genuinely need it.

My Back, Dr. Alan Brown, My Records, and My MRI

Sun, 11 Nov 2012 02:37:00 -0800

This is a copy of the email I just sent to my parents regarding my back and the records I finally got from my appointments in May and June 2010 with Dr. Alan Brown at Bellevue Bone and Joint, and the MRI I had done in June 2010 at CDI in Bellevue.

“So I went to Dr. Brown ****wad’s office yesterday along with CDI, and got all my records and the actual images from my MRI. I looked them over, decoded half of the jargon with the help of The Internet and Stephen.

Also I’m noting up front that he did not sign either of his reports that were in my file, his name was just printed on. In addition he basically called me a liar on his reports, so that’s on my record. Although with all of the following, I don’t think anyone’s going to care about what he has to say for much longer after I take his medical license and set it on fire.

What he told us two and a half years ago: That I have an arachnoid cyst from T5 to L1 that is benign and is not causing me any pain, that I am not in pain at all, and referred me to muscle and bone specialists.

What I actually had two and a half years ago:

1. An arachnoid cyst from T5 to L1 that causes mild indentation of the ventral cord, without flattening or deviation. In the “findings” section: “… however, there is an intradural extramedullary CSF intensity mass measuring up to 19.2 mm creanicaudad by up to 2.3 mm AP by 10.8 mm RL centered at the T5-6 level anteriorly with slight indentation of the ventral cord.” Do you know how big 19.2 mm is? Almost an inch. That’s kinda big for a thing to be in my spine that isn’t supposed to be there.

2. A mid thoracic mild dextroconvex curve (which, evidently, is a form of scoliosis).
3. Mild L5-6 disk degeneration.

4. L4-5 and L5-6 mild facet Degenerative Joint Disease. (Yes, they actually wrote it as a DISEASE, and he failed to mention it to us or in his reports.)

5. “Transitional lumbosacral vertebra referred to as L6 with sacral-like left transverse process forming a pseudathrosis with the left sacral ala and rudimentary L6-S1 space with right posterolateral to far lateral shallow protrusion and endplate osteophyte contributing to right moderate foraminal narrowing in the craniocaudad dimension.” If you weren’t aware, pseudathrosis is “ a fracture that has not united in the stipulated time in which such fractures usually unite and has no chance of union without intervention.” The “posterolateral… protrusion”— the posterolateral tract “contains centrally projecting axons carrying discriminative pain and temperature information,” and as it’s protruding, that means the pain information is floating around and getting stimulated freely. Also, osteophytes are “bone spurs,” or, abnormal bone growths. Foraminal narrowing is a form of spinal stenosis, which, in the lumbar spine, causes pinched nerves in the lower back, which, obviously, cause pain. So not only is my ass fractured, a nerve exposed, and a bone spur that causes another nerve to be pinched, but he DIDN’T MENTION ANY OF THIS. And this is in ONE section of ONE impression.

If you look at my MRI images (which are SO FREAKING COOL BY THE WAY) you can actually SEE almost all of this, even with an untrained eye. Stephen job-shadowed at a vet, and has been trained to look for abnormalities on animals but the results will be similar, and he nearly freaked when I showed him the images.

Who is the best medical lawyer you know and how the hell do I pay for it because this guy is SUCH A ****WAD. And no I would not use that term in legal situations just oh my god I want to punch him.”

I thought my jacket was harboring an ember and I was on fire so I was swatting at my boob for a good...

Thu, 08 Nov 2012 02:12:38 -0800

I thought my jacket was harboring an ember and I was on fire so I was swatting at my boob for a good 10 seconds before I realized it was the orange light from the heather reflecting off the pocket snap.

I should probably start getting more than 3 hours of sleep a night. This sleep deprivation-induced delirium and hallucinations aren’t really doing me a lot of good.

Quitting smoking via self control: about as effective as going on a diet, but a lot better for your...

Thu, 08 Nov 2012 02:10:06 -0800

Quitting smoking via self control: about as effective as going on a diet, but a lot better for your body and ten times harder.

It’d be the same if salad made you chew off all your [finally/previously] long and healthy nails and start twitching.

Outrospection

Wed, 07 Nov 2012 20:01:56 -0800

My family disgusts me.

They know I’m homeless. They know I’m going to be sleeping on the streets in a matter of days. They refuse to help because they don’t like to look at my face. Because I’m too stressed and depressed to go to school. Because I have the BALLS to want enough respect in the form of using a name that won’t make me throw up, and that’s so WRONG and uncomfortable for THEM to call me a different name, let alone pronouns.

They are willing to let me starve or freeze to death because they don’t like me. It’s as simple as that. They don’t like the situation I am in, therefore, they refuse to get me out of it.

They act surprised when I say I can’t go succeed in school because I’m too depressed. They mock me for not being able to work because I can’t handle talking to people without breaking down, because I can’t stand for more than ten minutes without passing out or my back cyst making me spasm in pain. They tell me I’m making it all up. They say that I only think I have borderline because someone I used to know had it. That I’m only trans because I hate my mother. They tell me that if I get over myself and get a job, the satisfaction of working will make me stop being depressed, then tell me I’m not that depressed anyway because I’m functional enough to have a relationship and to be on the internet, and that means I’m fine. That if I were depressed I wouldn’t be able to look at all the “shit in my face” without hating myself. They pretend they never knew I was depressed, that I was always super outgoing and happy, that they never saw the lattice of scars on my arm. They pretend none of my problems are real, because I’m a teenager and it’s all just a phase, I’m just causing drama.

I was diagnosed with both depression and anxiety twice. I was diagnosed with mild bipolar AND borderline six years ago, and told last year that I had (but was not diagnosed with) a severe anxiety disorder. And it’s all gotten worse.

But none of it matters, because of the way I look. Because I can’t work. Because all of things have gotten me into this situation, and my family writes them off as fake, juvenile, or irrelevant, and tells me that I have to “just step it up and be an adult”.

And I’m not making a goddamn word of this up. Nothing about what I am, about what I feel, about what I have. And not about what they’ve f—-ing said.

My family disgusts me.

Cool Beans #18

Fri, 26 Oct 2012 20:13:29 -0700

Coming home after a really long day, putting down your heavy bags, taking off your five layers of clothing because it’s in the mid 30s outside, changing into your PJs and sitting in front of the heater with pizza and internet.

Aaahhhhhh.

Not Cool Beans #20

Fri, 26 Oct 2012 20:09:10 -0700

When something is so cold it feels wet.

This is less than ideal when it involves:

benches, wooden or metal

underwear

socks

any clothing, really

hair

grass

toilets

“What’s got your penis in a knot?” I’m gonna start using that one

Fri, 26 Oct 2012 19:59:30 -0700

“What’s got your penis in a knot?”

I’m gonna start using that one

New nails! I call this one “Lava” because I’m...

Sun, 21 Oct 2012 20:41:00 -0700

New nails! I call this one “Lava” because I’m brilliantly original.

You may remember me doing something similar to this way back when, on my old, OLD blog, pre-tumblr. I said in that post that it would have looked better with black crackle, and now that I finally had some, I decided to revisit the look.

I started with 5 coats of LA Colors Color Craze “shock.” Now, this polish looks NEON orange in the bottle, but it applies more… macaroni colored, and very, very thin and sheer. Even with the 5 coats I could still see my moons and the edge of my finger pretty clearly. However, this lends itself pretty well to layered looks; it dries fast, and even with that many coats, because of the sheerness, it doesn’t get soggy or stay tacky. It does cling to skin a bit though, so be careful when scrubbing it off that you don’t get any that’s on the nail. I covered this with one coat of SH’s “diamond strength” topcoat.

I did one coat of Jordana “red silk.” I used to swear by Jordana, before I had enough money to buy better brands, but it is still a good brand for, again, layered manicures. It only takes one or two coats for a solid, well pigmented color, it dries fast and wipes off of skin really well. This color I wiped off in places with a remover-soaked cotton swab.

Finally I covered it with one coat of SH’s Crackle in “ink”. For those of you who don’t own any crackle, GO GET SOME! China Glaze does their own line of shatter polishes but IMO, Sally Hansen’s is way better, but I’ll cover that in another post.

I cleaned up and finished with two coats of SH “diamond strenth” topcoat and called it done!

Overall I love this look, I’ve had several people, family, friends, and strangers alike, comment on it and really like it, and it’s fun. Also I think it fits in with the whole Halloween theme, too.

Not Cool Beans #19

Sun, 21 Oct 2012 20:27:05 -0700

Hiccups that aren’t really hiccups

When it’s like an inverse burp

When you inhale air with a closed throat

Freaking HURTS UGH

Now Active on Fiverr!

Wed, 17 Oct 2012 17:08:09 -0700

I have set up a Fiverr account! Right now I have an active gig for 1 minute voice clips, and I have one pending for photo manipulation.

Check out my homepage here, Eevee has one too here, and let me know if you have any suggestions for other gigs she or I can do!

Quitting smoking tip

Wed, 17 Oct 2012 00:13:11 -0700

Ok, for those of you who didn’t know, yes I smoke cigarettes, no I’m not happy with that, and no I do NOT recommend you ever start.

But. For those of you quitting (or not), here’s a tip.

If you save your snipes (cigarettes that you’ve put out part way through), you might notice they taste like shit when you go back to smoke them later. That’s because there’s still smoke sitting in it, and it’s gotten stale. Before you go to light it, instead of pulling in a breath, breathe out through it. It pushes out the stale smoke and it tastes fresh. For menthol cigs, having the stale smoke in when you go back also dulls the menthol taste, so doing this refreshes the minty-ness.

This is nice for a few reasons- you don’t find yourself with a pile of snipes you don’t end up smoking, so you end up buying less because you’re able to finish every full cigarette. Also you don’t end up with the thought process of “I don’t want a whole one, but they taste gross once they’re half finished, so I might as well finish it now,” which doesn’t exactly help you cut down. So, if you are trying to quit, you find yourself not “forced” to smoke a whole one if you don’t need it.

This also works when you’re getting to the end of one and it starts burning your fingers and your lips. It blows the fresh, hot smoke out and keeps you from getting that burnt butt taste until the very end.

So I finally got around to doing my nails, and I figured...

Fri, 05 Oct 2012 15:38:57 -0700

So I finally got around to doing my nails, and I figured I’d make a real post about it!

I started with two coats of Sally Hansen Insta Dry 430 “brisk blue” and one coat of SH “nailgrowth miracle”, which I let thoroughly dry. I put on one coat of Revlon 791 “midnight affair”. I carefully, partially wiped that away with a non-acetone soaked cotton swab, which revealed the brighter blue underneath. I finished off with a coat of SH “diamond strength/no chip” topcoat.

Ultimately I love the design this ended up with. It’s like a denim rendering of a Rorschach design. I love the blue, but I will definitely be trying this design out with other colors.

When I'm sad you know what cheers me up

Thu, 04 Oct 2012 15:06:42 -0700

Open my phone

Press “up” to make a new message

Turn predictive on

Press 6 a bunch of times

Moonmoonmoonnomnomnoommoon

WHY IS THAT SO FUNNY I DON’T GET IT

But it always makes me smile so it’s ok.